Brandr grated, “The whelp probably had the pox.”

Pox? She’d just stifled a hiss at him when Aidan said, “Enough.” He rubbed the blond stubble on his chin. “Were you ill, then? Mayhap you haven’t the strength needed to wield that long blade—or to taunt men bigger than you.”

Regin’s eyes went wide. “Haven’t the strength?” She might only be twelve, and still vulnerable to harm, and ’twas true her blasted sword was far too big for her, but she could massacre all these mortals with tooth and claw if need be—

Brandr struck without warning, lunging for her. Before she could defend herself, he’d delivered two punishing blows to her wrist, knocking the sword from her grip.

When he straightened with a smirk, she gladly dismissed the weapon as her instincts took over. She leapt atop a table to her right, then bounded back to the left in front of him, raking her claws across his chest.

Gods, the feel of rending flesh … what need have I for a sword?

Landing softly, she hunched low, ready to spring again as the towering warrior bellowed, “He carries hidden daggers?” He gaped at the deep furrows in his skin, slashes that had severed even his leather scabbard. “Aidan, his death is mine! Any taller, and he’d have slit my throat.”

Regin said, “I chose not to slit your throat. Thank me with ale.”

Suddenly a huge palm closed over her nape. Another hand captured her wrists behind her. Hissing with fury, she twisted around and sank her small fangs into a brawny forearm.

’Twas the warlord! Aidan had her. How had he moved so quickly?

Lightning struck outside, thunderclaps rattling the hall. If only the bolt would hit me!

“Cease this!” He roughly jostled her until she had to release her bite. Before she could blink, he had her cloak clutched in his fist.