‘With honour or not at all,’ grunted Leo. He thought Casamir the Steadfast might have said it in a storybook once. ‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’
‘Yours.’ Jurand looked a little hurt by the question. ‘Always. We all are. That’s why I won’t enjoy seeing him choke you unconscious.’
Leo narrowed his eyes. ‘What I need from my second is belief.’
Sinew popped from Glaward’s arms as he raised his fists. Leo couldn’t deny it was a majestic sight. Like some piece of exaggerated statuary. Even his teeth looked muscular. ‘I’m going to squeeze you out like a lemon,’ he growled.
‘The Young Lemon!’ barked Barniva, to much merriment from the onlookers.
Jurand leaned close. ‘If you die, can I have your horse?’
‘Belief,’ growled Leo, and dashed forward. Attack, always attack. Especially when the odds are against you.
He caught Glaward off guard, ducked under a wild fist, the wind of it catching his hair, and gave the big man the heaviest punches to the body he could. No doubt Glaward was carrying a little fat, but any hope he was soft underneath was long gone. Leo felt as if he’d punched a tree.
‘Shit,’ he hissed through his fixed smile, shaking out his throbbing fingers.
‘I’m going to make you eat this hillside,’ growled Glaward, and the growing audience whooped and laughed.
The dead knew Leo needed to watch Glaward’s fists, but his eye kept being drawn to two of the oddest-looking women among the spectators. The older had a sharp, expressionless face, mouth twisted by a scar, trouser-leg slit open showing bandages underneath. The younger had a wide, almost over-expressive face, a thick gold ring through her broad, freckled nose and a tangle of red-brown hair so wild those behind had to lean around it to see.
‘This is manly,’ she said, propping a muddy boot on the rail of the fence, its tongue flopping from bodged laces. ‘Do they charge for the spectacle?’
‘Far as I can tell,’ mused the old one, ‘they take their clothes off for free.’
The young one spread her arms and gave a huge smile. ‘What a public-spirited thing to do!’
Glaward was in no mood to give anything away. He kept pressing forward, one big fist flicking out in lethal-looking jabs. Leo dodged one, and another, but the third glanced his cheek and sent him staggering. He slipped on the wet grass, luckily, since Glaward’s other fist lashed the air where his head had just been. He slid around the big man, gave him a petulant tap in the ribs as he passed to no effect at all.
Glaward gave a scornful snort. ‘Are we fighting or dancing?’
Over his heavy shoulder, Leo caught sight of the girl again, staring cross-eyed at a strand of hair in her face. She stuck her bottom lip out to blow it away, and it flopped straight back in her eyes along with three others. There was something familiar about her, like a name on the tip of his tongue.
‘We’re fighting!’ he snarled, and ducked in with a flurry of punches, teeth bared and spit flying.
‘That’s it!’ he heard Jurand shout. ‘Give him hell!’
But Leo’s best efforts slapped harmlessly against Glaward’s big arms, scuffed the top of his head, bounced from his sides. Then a heavy fist came from nowhere, caught Leo under the chin and sent him tottering. He whooped helplessly as he was hauled into the air by his belt.
Dark land and bright sky reeled, he flailed wildly, then the ground struck him hard in the side, rattled his teeth, tumbled him over and over and onto his face.
He gave a long groan as he dragged himself up and saw Glaward’s great boot already rushing to meet him. He gasped as he rolled away, the big heel digging a great divot from the turf. He scrambled to his feet, lost his balance and fell against the fence.
‘This blond one is pretty,’ the older woman was saying.
‘I have eyes.’ The young one was watching him with her chin propped on her hands, head bouncing as she chewed something. She certainly did have eyes. Big, and very pale, and very piercing.
‘He’s like a hunting dog, all fierce and frisky.’
Leo didn’t feel too frisky as Glaward’s fists came at him again. He covered up but the force in them was fearsome. A punch in the side slammed him against the fence and drove his breath out, a knuckle caught his jaw and turned his mouth salty.
‘Get out of there!’ he heard Jurand shout over his own gurgling, rasping breath.
He only just ducked a blow that would’ve knocked him right over the fence and shoved Glaward away with all his strength. The big man barely moved, but Leo bounced off at least, staggering clear of the fence with his face throbbing, lungs burning, knees wobbling.
Glaward could’ve knocked him down with a pointed finger. But he was fixed on milking his moment, throwing his great fists in the air, strutting like a cock in his own farmyard.
‘Hit him!’ Jurand hooted over the crowd. ‘Bloody hit him!’
But it was clear Leo would never beat Glaward with his fists. He had to beat him with his head. He thought, through the fog, of what his mother would’ve said. Less courage, more judgement. Putting their worst troops on show in the valley, marching as badly as they could. Even as his head cleared, he shook it as if he could hardly see straight, clutched at his ribs as if he could hardly get a breath. Even as the strength returned to his legs, he put on a drunken stagger.
‘Are we fight?’ he gurgled, showing his bloody teeth. ‘Or dance?’
He’d have won no laurels for his acting but Glaward was blessed with more muscle than imagination. He charged in with no caution at all, readying a punch they’d be talking about for years. But Leo had his wits back. He dropped under it, rolled smoothly, caught Glaward’s big calf on the way past and sprang up, pulling the leg with him.
Glaward grunted with surprise, hopped once, waving his arms for balance, then his other foot slid from under him and he came crashing down on his face.
‘Now who’s eating the hillside?’ crowed Leo. Glaward clawed helplessly at the turf, snapping and snarling, but Leo had Glaward’s huge boot in a lock against his chest and wasn’t letting go. ‘How does it taste?’
Leo twisted harder and the big man slapped at the ground. ‘All right! I’m done! I’m done!’
Leo let the boot fall and tottered back. He felt Jurand catch his wrist and lift his arm high.
‘A victory for reasonably sized men everywhere!’ he shouted, draping Leo’s shirt over his shoulder.
‘Don’t get dressed on our account,’ called the older woman, and the younger threw her head back and gave a gurgling laugh.
‘Leo!’ someone shouted. One of the few optimistic enough to bet on him, probably. He tried to grin through the considerable pain. Was one of his teeth loose? ‘The Young Lion!’
The girl was frowning straight at him. ‘You’re Leo dan Brock?’
‘None other,’ said Jurand, clapping him proudly on the shoulder.
‘Ha!’ She sprang down from the fence and strutted towards him with a huge grin. ‘It’s little Leo!’
Jurand raised his brows. ‘Little Leo?’
She looked him up and down. ‘Well, he has grown.’ And much to his surprise, she threw her arms around him, gripped him behind the head and pressed his face into her shoulder.
And that was when he saw, among a rattling mass of charms, bones, runes and necklaces she wore, a wooden dowel on a thong, all dented with tooth marks.
‘Rikke?’ He broke away to stare at her, looking for some trace of the sickly little girl he used to mock in her father’s hall in Uffrith. ‘I heard you were lost!’
She threw her fists in the air. ‘I’m found!’ Then she let them drop, and scratched at the back of her head. ‘To be fair, I was a little lost, but Isern-i-Phail knows all the ways. She steered me home.’
‘As a great sea captain steers a leaky skiff, d’you see?’ The older woman’s scar twisted the corner of her mouth and made her look like she had a constant frown. Or maybe she was constantly frowning. ‘I’m quite the hero, but let’s not make too much of it.’