Battle Through the Nine Realms - Chapter 28 - Proving His Worth (Patreon)

“That was foolish, and you know it!”

Magnus nodded and did his best to look remorseful as Thora berated him again.  

“If you had died—”

“He wouldn’t have,” Valgard said, cutting her off again. “He is no longer our child.  He is a warrior, and death is always a possibility.  Do not dishonor what our son has done today.  Einar defeated another without lifting a hand.”

Thora snorted and groaned, wagging her finger at Valgard and Magnus before spinning on her heel and stomping away.

After she had gone and sat down at the table with Bolla, Valgard turned and sighed.

“I am going to suffer for what I said, but we both are right.  It might have been a little foolish, but I am not one to give you advice in this area.  You have brought great honor to our family and to our village.  Whatever is in you right now, let that rage sit somewhere else.  Ten of you are left.  Tomorrow, everyone fights.”

Valgard reached out and gave Magnus a gentle tap on the shoulder.  

“Rejoice.  Only Reinn has done what you have in a very long time from our area.”

Snorting, Magnus smirked and nodded.  He had been told before by Guat. 

“Thank you, Father.”

Rolling his eyes, Valgard gave him one last gentle punch and winked, moving to sit down with his wife, who did not appear happy at all.

“He is right,” Hrein said.  

The massive redhead warrior had not moved from his side at all since they left the dueling fields.

“Just knowing you brings honor to me, and perhaps now I might find you worthy of pursuing my daughter.”

Mangus started to laugh and turned to see the smile on the older man’s face.

“I’m sorry, but do you have something to offer me besides her? I mean, I have reached the top ten.”

A fat finger pressed against his chest while a mouth full of teeth, surrounded by red facial hair, got very close to his ear.

“You better hope to make it to the last two, or I might have to hurt you for disrespecting Avitue like that.”

The playful growl was there, but Magnus knew he had probably misjudged the amount of playing they were doing in that conversation.

“Well, I better sit down and rest.  I don’t want to suffer that.”

Seeking the safety of his bench, Magnus saw Osvif smiling and pointing at the two cups and large pitcher of mead.

“You better drink and settle down before he hurts you,” Osvif whispered. “What did you say that made his face go so red?”

“I might have messed up when talking about Avitue.”

The sound of air rushing through Osvif’s teeth was loud, and the pained look on his friend’s face proved he had misspoken.

A loud whistle came from the owner of the ale house.  Tiet motioned to the guards, who began letting people come in again.  

“You better get used to this if you keep winning,” Osvif said as the first people in line raced toward the area Magnus was sitting in. “You might be able to buy your own farm at this point.”

Magnus just smiled and said nothing.  If Osvif knew that Arngrim was having a hard time placing any more bets because the man had won over 200 gold in the last day, betting all the money he had received for winning as well as the gifts people gave like today.

***

Skardi cursed as his name was drawn, and two later, Magnus’s was also drawn.  They had been so close to fighting each other, and the giant was anxious to take the pain out on his opponent.

“You need to be smart.  Others are going to try and do what you did yesterday.  Most rarely offer the challenge of death,” Arngrim whispered.  “On a worse note, no one will give me odds worth wagering on you anymore.  Right now, I only have two bets still waiting to be completed, and both of those require you to make it to the last two.”

“And the one about me winning it?”

A gap appeared in the brown beard as the older man grinned.

“I had to turn the wager slip in with a local administrator.  It appears the establishment who accepted my bet has not wanted to consider honoring it,” the rune crafter replied.  “Apparently, my ten-gold wager seemed fine at the start, but the knowledge I might walk away with 300, well, that doesn’t sit well.  For now, don’t worry. I know whose hands to grease to make sure we get paid.  You just make sure to stay alive.”

Magnus nodded and motioned at the teen he was going to face.

“Tell me what Osvif told you about him.”

“This plays into your spear choice,” Arngrim replied. “Vott is either going to go shield and an axe or two axes.  He hasn’t shown any other weapon choices, and from what I have learned, it appears the teen prefers axes.  The real problem is he comes from Unnulf’s area.”

“Which means there is a lot of pressure on him and our match.” 

Nodding, the older man pointed to the tented area where they needed to wait.  

“Go and start stretching.  The matches are going to start soon, and you need to be ready.”

***

Every seat in the arena was filled. Along the circular expanse of tan dirt trampled by the feet of countless would-be warriors, onlookers buzzed with fervor about the special seats they got to watch from. 

They encircled the dueling grounds, their voices calling out their excitement and anticipation of what was about to take place. In the center stood Magnus, gripping his long two-handed spear, its tip glinting in the early afternoon sunlight. Opposite him, Vott shifted his weight between his feet, a battle-axe in each hand, their blades thirsting for glory.

Vott charged with a bellow that matched the crowd's roar as the horn sounded. Magnus gripped the shaft of his spear tightly, an extension of his will. Vott swung both axes simultaneously—one high and one low—in an attempt to overwhelm and close the distance, but Magnus danced back on his feet, the spear slicing through the air to deflect the high axe and parry the low with a twist of his wrists.

Vott was relentless, each swing of his axes a tempest. Yet for every furious assault the teen attempted, Magnus had an answer—a parry, a dodge, or a thrust that forced Vott to give ground.

A minute had passed, and Vott had not managed to get closer to his opponent. Everything seemed to be stacked against him as the blond-haired teen he was supposed to defeat kept him at bay.  The brown-haired Viking grunted with exertion, his attacks growing more desperate as he sought to breach Magnus's defense somehow.

Sweat glistened on their brows as they traded attacks. Magnus used the length of his spear to keep Vott at bay, having managed to land two small nicks against both arms but found it increasingly difficult as Vott adapted, closing distance with cunning footwork. His axes constantly arced in deadly loops, trying to find flesh to satisfy their thirst. 

Vott managed to hook the spear, shifting it to the side. Magnus tried to retreat backward and regain the weapon’s position.  Spinning the spear in his hand, Magnus was able to use the back end to push Vott away just as an axe nicked his tunic, slicing through and drawing blood.

The crowd's cheers crescendoed with each near strike, their bloodlust palpable in the charged air. But Magnus remained calm amid the storm. He read Vott's movements now, like runes etched in battle—the feints, the fury, all telegraphed in muscle and sinew.

One attack had made it through, and it came when he fell for Vott’s feint.  The teen had saved that trick for later in the fight, and it had almost won him the battle.

Then came the moment: Vott swung wide with his right axe, a move too bold in his tired state, and Magnus saw his opening. With precision honed by countless hours of training, he sidestepped and drove his spear forward. The weapon's point slipped past Vott's guard and pierced the boy's chest just, impaling his right lung.

Vott froze, axes dropping slightly as he looked down at the spearhead that could have spelled his end had it been just a few more inches to the left. The arena fell silent for a heartbeat before erupting into a cacophony of cheers and shouts for Einar, the warrior who had conquered yet another challenge within the dusty ring.

Magnus didn’t move as the judge ran toward them, and Vott had enough sense left to stand there, not yanking back from the tip that was inside.

Dark brown eyes stared down the length of the wood shaft, seeing blue ones that didn’t look away.

When the healers arrived, they quickly went to work, their tattoos glowing as they pulled Vott free from the metal tip and worked to stop the blood that had waited for that moment to escape.

A simple nod was all that Magnus gave the boy before turning and walking to where Arngrim stood, laughing as he always did, the sound of bleating filling the air.

“I must admit, I had hoped for more of a fight, but you’ve come a long way with the spear,” the rune crafter said as he let Hragnelf start the process of healing Magnus’s chest.  “Though for a moment, I almost thought you might have cost me a fair bit of money.”

“Arngrim, will you ever stop thinking about gold and focus on helping Einar live another day?” their healer asked, giving a glare that could almost curdle milk.

“I could, but even young Einar knows that this is his chance to provide for his family, village, and himself.  Even now, he will have enough money to buy at least one rune worthy of him.  When all this is said and done, he may find himself on the cusp of greatness before you and I lose another tooth.”

Groaning, the healer ignored Arngrim and studied Magnus, who stood there, grinning and waving slowly to the crowd in the stands.  

“Don’t think gold will solve everything.  There is much more to worry about.  Has Reinn mentioned the choices that will come if you make it to the last two days?”

Bobbing his head, Magnus continued waving to the crowd and smiling as he felt his skin growing together.  The cut had only been about a quarter inch deep, but it burned as the sweat had gotten in.  Now it felt like tons of tiny legs from some bug walking across his flesh as the magic of the healer flowed through him.

“I know there are four active warbands searching for new recruits from here.  Reinn mentioned this morning that two had inquired about Guat’s intentions last night.  A few reached out about me, but until all this ends, I’m not going to make any decisions.”

Hragnelf chuckled and glanced at Arngrim, who was still grinning.

“Can you imagine being this young and this sure of yourself?” the healer asked.

“I was just like him.  Now, the only difference is I’m not old,” replied the rune crafter, winking at Magnus.

Having finished up fixing Magnus’s chest, the healer stretched and groaned before flashing a smile and patting his patient's shoulder.

“I’m done for right now.  I’ll be headed back to our rooms.  This day will be over quickly, and I want to beat the rush to wish you congratulations.”

Magnus nodded and watched as the older man moved away, glad that Arngrim had taken the spear from him.

“Are you going to watch the fight between Skardi and Ufi?”

Nodding, Magnus pointed at the bench in the shade.  

“Might as well see how the boy does.  Rumor is his odds aren’t very good.”

“Rumor is, Skardi may call for a fight to the death.  Seems someone beat him to it, and that didn’t sit well with him.”

“How bad of an enemy am I making? Is Jarl Unnulf that petty, or is it just his son?”

Frowning, Arngrim chewed on his lip and beard for a moment while they walked.

“Mainly his son, but getting on the jarl’s bad side wouldn’t be good.  It may be one of the reasons most of the warbands will wait till everything is over.  The game of politics impacts them as well.”

Different world, same old shit.  Always someone causing problems and protected from the top.