A great deal relied on which combatant let go of the hide first. The destiny of the entire eastern people, the lives of countless warriors were at stake-and a debt of honor nearly two centuries old. No onlooker could have said which of the warriors, his son or his champion, Morg favored.

Torki never made a sound. He did not appear to move at all-he might have been a marble statue. He had the marks of a reaver, black crosses tattooed on the shaved skin behind his ears. One for every season of pillaging he’d undertaken in the hills to the north. Enough crosses that they ran down the back of his neck. Not a drop of sweat showed yet on his brow.

Morget shifted his stance a hairbreadth and was nearly pulled into the fire. His teeth gnashed at the air as he fought to regain his posture.

Nearby, his sister Morgain, herself a chieftess of many clans, stood ready with a flagon of wine mulled with sweet gale. As was widely known, she hated her brother-had since infancy. No matter how hard she fought to prove herself, no matter what glory she won in battle, Morget had always overshadowed her accomplishments. Letting him win this contest now would be bitter as ashes in her mouth. Nor did she need to play the passive spectator here. She could end it in a moment by splashing wine across the boards at Morget’s feet. He would be unable to hold his ground on the slippery boards, and Torki would win for a certainty.

“Sister,” Morget howled, “set down that wine. Do you not thirst for western blood, instead?”

Morg raised one eyebrow, perhaps very much interested in learning the answer to that question.

The chieftess laughed bitterly and spat between Morget’s feet. But then she hurled her flagon at the wall, where it burst harmlessly, well clear of the contest. “I’ve tasted blood. I’d rather have the westerners alive, as my thralls.”