Page 2 of Warrior of the Wild
I throw my ax up just in time.
It would seem that Havard isn’t done with me yet.
“Something is different about you,” Havard says, looking me up and down. The motion makes me feel dirty.
But then his eyes fix on my hair.
He laughs once. “You’ve cut your hair. Were you trying to make yourself uglier? Or does Torrin prefer it this way?”
I shove at our joined axes, sending Havard back a step. He has a knack for finding just the right ways to bring me down low. My eyes sting, but I have long since learned to control tears.
My father cut my hair last night. It used to flow down to my waist in blond waves. I loved my hair, despite the fact that it’s more white than golden, like my mother’s and sisters’. But now itbarely reaches my shoulders, just like the rest of the men wear their hair.
I know that if my father could somehow force me to grow a beard, he’d do that, too.
My knuckles whiten where they grip my ax.
Havard notices. “You’re going to strike me?”
“I’m considering it.”
He snorts. “How would it look if the village leader’s daughter started a fight the day before her trial?”
“Like she got pissed off by the village idiot.”
His eyes sharpen. “You want to be very careful of what you say to me, Rat.”
Rat—his charming nickname for me. Havard has been using it since I was eight. He said I scurried like one every time I tried to find my feet after he’d knock me down in training.
And when I would come home covered in bruises from my shins to my cheeks, Father began training me at home, too. For the last ten years, I have learned very little other than how to handle an ax.
But that is why I’m the best.
Because I know he’s not expecting it, I fling my fist at Havard. His eyes were trained on my ax, not my free hand. The blow catches him on the chin, and I’m pleased by the way my knuckles smart. It must mean I hit him hard.
Havard cannot keep challenging me. I have to put him in his place. For one day, I will be his ruler, and if I cannot keep one bully in line, I’ll never be able to look after a whole village.
When he sends a returning fist my way, I move to block it with my ax.
But he uncurls his fingers, wraps them around the shaft, and traps my ax in place. After dropping his own weapon, he sends his now-free hand toward my face. I feel my skin split across my cheekbone as my face wrenches backward.
Burkin notices.
“Havard! No fists! You will apologize to Rasmira.”
Havard is furious at being caught when I wasn’t. Rage fuels him now—he’s past the point of listening. Past the point of being sensible, which is right where I want him.
He picks his weapon back up and flies at me, ax, legs, and arms swinging intermittently. I block each attack one after the next, just waiting, waiting, waiting.
There.
After a sweeping move meant to cleave me in two from head to toe, Havard’s ax nicks into the dirt floor.
I’ve already sidestepped it, and now I sweep his legs out from under him, landing him on his ass for the whole room to see.
“Quicker on the recovery!” Burkin barks out. “By the goddess, do none of you listen?”
Some of the trainees laugh, but I barely hear it. My entire focus is latched onto Havard lying on the ground.
