1. Vireth #3
The corpulent raindrops splattering my face begin to thicken into slushy sleet as a chill wind blows in.
More than cold, it’s unsettling—Ulfrid’s brow furrows and he shifts uneasily, as though he senses it, too.
His gaze lifts from mine in the direction of the storm blowing in from Moontide, concern written across his handsome, lined face.
Never one to lose with grace, I whistle to Nibblebones who’s been safely ensconced in my now-sodden mess of hair.
Immediately she surges forward, racing up Ulfrid’s outstretched blade and sinking her teeth into the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger.
With a hiss of pain, he pulls his hand back, allowing me the opportunity to strike his wrist and disarm one of his weapons. Nibblebones leaps to the side and dances to the edge of the training ring, watching our struggles with wide black eyes.
Ulfrid’s momentary surprise gives me the chance to rise to a crouch and throw my shoulder into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and bowling him backward two steps.
My second sword slashes at his ankle—yet another ages-old injury—and his legs finally give out beneath him.
He glares up at me for the briefest of moments when my main sword finds his throat.
“If I must admit my faults today, old dog—that of admiring my opponent’s gods-given form—so, too, must you,” I grin.
“My fault today was agreeing to spar with you when I shouldn’t have,” he grumbles.
I press the point of my wooden blade into his throat a little harder. It’s still too dull to draw blood, but the force will leave a bruise on his fine neck. A little love bite from the rot-tainted one.
“Mayhap it was underestimating me,” I murmur. “Or perhaps overestimating yourself.”
Challenge flashes in Ulfrid’s eyes, but finally his lips quirk into a conciliatory smile.
“Aye,” he capitulates. “Even the gray-muzzled wolf leans too hard on his pride now and then. Well fought, Lady Vireth.”
I raise my blades and extend a hand to him to help him up. Nibblebones scampers over and I stoop to pick her up, this time tucking her soaked, shivering body into my shirt. Ulfrid eyes the move and sucks at the pinpricks of blood beading on his hand.
“Hold a moment, Lady,” he says, gesturing me to follow him back into the smithy. Despite the exertion, cold seeps into my bones and I’m only too pleased to jog over to the overheated space with its stoked forges and metallic, mineral reek.
“Are you attending the feast tonight?” The hope in my voice is childish, especially as I know what his answer will be.
Ulfrid’s back is to me, but I see the tension gathering in his shoulders at my question. He’s rummaging around a small wooden cupboard and for a moment, I wonder if he’ll bother voicing his rejection out loud.
“I’m not invited, Lady Vireth. Humble blacksmiths are not allowed at the king’s table.”
“Oh, starving ravens, Ulfrid! You’re not a humble blacksmith.
You were the captain of the guard and have trained likely two-thirds of his army by now.
No one would object to you sharing in Sephia’s bloomday.
Gods, she’s one of the best archers in Hollowmire thanks to you.
Come to dine. Come as my guest,” I entreat.
“I no longer serve as Hand of the King. I walk a different path now.” He turns to face me again with a grim expression on his face. In the flickering firelight, I’m suddenly struck by a few new lines on his face—wrinkles I hadn’t noticed during our bout.
His stubborn refusal to accompany me stings, even though I’m prepared for it. I would’ve liked to have an ally around, especially because I have fond memories of Ulfrid in his ceremonial armor and no obnoxious court fop could compare in sheer, gods-favored beauty.
He pushes a finger into the deep wrinkles of my furrowed brow, smearing my forehead with mud anew. My heart thumps pathetically at the touch—at any touch.
“It’s not an indictment against your company, little toadstool,” he offers, reaching for the dusty charm of his irrepressible chivalry. “It’s just the way things are.”
“Things only are what they are because no one has changed them yet,” I return.
He tilts his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. Pregnant silence quickens in the interim, but as I turn to go, he thrusts a small bundle into my hands.
I unwrap the roll to find an exquisite dagger within.
“The handle is bone wrapped in gravemaw hide. The blade is folded steel with a gilt coating. It’s charmed to self-sharpen every time it tastes blood,” he explains in a low voice. “I daresay the blade will outlast even you.”
The gift is so unexpected, so precious, I’m unable to stem the black tears that gather in my eyes and threaten to spill over.
I can’t recall the last time I received a gift, but it was almost certainly as a child.
I gape, trying to summon words of thanks that will only fall short of something so fine.
Ulfrid shakes his head and waves me off, returning to the whetstone and his sharpening. I clutch the gift to my chest, careful to avoid the sleeping lump of corpse weasel in my shirt. Ulfrid’s soft voice carries over the sound of the whirring stone and the splattering, icy rain.
“Happy bloomday, little toadstool.”