Not looking forward to that, I quickly brush, counting out the supplies piled beneath and atop the table. There’s boxes of protein bars, a bag of oranges, a cooler, honey sodas, and bottles of wine. Toilet paper. I rub at the flaking salt still clinging to my skin from my swim, wondering if we’ll be here long enough that I have to worry about tampons. I grab some of the toilet paper and head out of the fort, down the creaky boardwalk to the facilities. Outside the fort, the sun glares off the white sand and tightens the salt on my skin. I’ve got to change out of these clothes.
When I return, I use my tank top and the hanging water bottle to scrub my face, then ask where my stuff is. Soren points to one of the guardhouses. “You’re in there, and Rathi and I are sharing the other. Unferth is still tied up in that powder magazine. The Mad Eagles set tents up in the casemates with Red Stripe.”
It’s a good thing he points to the low black arch leading down off the parade grass when he mentions powder magazine and to the proud brick arches that completely surround the rest of the parade when he says casemates.
I thank him and head into the casemates: the hallway of linked chambers underneath the circle of cannon mounts. Green slime stains the corners of their vaulted brick ceilings, and a thin white layer of sand and salt streaks everything, even the slate floor. In the cool shadows Red Stripe is hunkered down, back to the bright parade ground. His spine and shoulders are calcified, but I see his arm moving slowly as he traces the cracks between the bricks. His eyes turn to me when I approach and scratch behind his ear. “There, Red Stripe,” I say. He grunts contentedly.
The guardhouse walls where I find my suitcase and sleeping bag were whitewashed at some point; a naked wooden checkout counter and a few sagging shelves mark how it was a bookstore once. I strip and dig out jeans and one of the Mad Eagles T-shirts that have become a staple of my wardrobe.
When I emerge back into the sun the Mad Eagles have circled up into a complicated battle-ring, and there’s Soren still drinking coffee. No sign of Rathi.
I pick my way barefoot across the meadow and then pad down the concrete stairs into the blackness of the powder magazine. Ned lounges against the crumbling wall with his hands tied together. He eyes the berserker logo just visible on my shirt. “Do as the Romans do?” he asks lightly.
“I can find one for you, if you’re jealous.”
He shrugs one shoulder as if it matters not at all, wincing at the light behind me. “Am I free to leave this cage, Signy?”
I crouch to untie his hands. “Unless you’d rather I bring you a chamber pot. We’ve got toothbrushes and water and TP at the mess.” As I turn away, I toss back over my shoulder, “Probably no hot chocolate, though.”
Sun and humidity curl the wisps of hair escaping from my messy braids. I join Soren, accept a tin mug of hideous camp coffee, and pretend not to watch Unferth harvest morning necessities from the table and stroll out the fort. His limp is bad, likely from being bound on a cold stone floor all night. But his shoulders seem relaxed, and just before he vanishes I see him glance up at the sky. Maybe he’s relieved to have told his story. He held on to it for so long.
I undo my braids and use my fingers to untangle them, thinking of Ned’s fingers on my scalp, and I watch Soren watch the Mad Eagles move through a complicated series of defensive postures. “Why don’t you join them?”
“I’m not one of them.”
“Neither am I, but I’ve worked out with them.”
“It’s different.”
“Sharkman makes it different, you mean.”
“No.” He glances at them again, not bothering to hide the confused longing. “I’ve never been good with other berserkers. And now that I denied Odin, most of them hold it against me. You saw, back at the base. He didn’t even want to let me in the gate.”
Abandoning my hair, I smack his shoulder. “Let’s go, then.”
He hesitates for only a moment.
We warm up quickly, with the system he showed me in empty hotel weight rooms, and by the time Unferth is rooting around in the mess to make more coffee, we’re sparring with two of the Mad Eagles’ practice spears.
Though I know Soren goes easy on me, I sink into the rhythm and feel I’m doing well, until the Mad Eagles gather to watch. Darius folds his arms over his chest and Thebes crouches like a mountain beside him. Sharkman glares hot daggers at Soren, and Ned brings his tin cup of coffee nearer. I try to ignore the audience, but the moment Unferth drinks he sneers and spits coffee onto the ground, then overturns his cup. I laugh and Soren disarms me, shaking his head at my lack of attention.
In the ensuing quiet, tension draws us all together as Unferth stands there, free and casual.
I grab up my spear from the ground and toss it at him. He drops his cup to catch it, and I take Soren’s spear, lifting it in challenge. Unferth lowers his chin and smiles. I rush to find my footing, forgetting everything else.
I attack wildly. He slows me down with careful blocks, wielding his weapon like a troll-spear. The jar of spears colliding shakes up my arms and I use my feet to hold the butt in place, dodge, place the spear again, dive through his defense, and shove instead of whipping it about to get in a lighter hit. Unferth staggers but goes low and pushes me back with a hard angle against my waist.
The sun beats down. It’s been two months since I fought in this style, and Unferth knocks me down again and again, but I turn fast and am on my feet before he can pin me. Little flashes of surprise on his face fill me with satisfaction, no matter how often I hit dirt. Practicing with Soren has helped tremendously.
Finally, when he knocks me to the ground, I stay there, breathe hard, and stretch my hands and feet out as far as I can. My shirt sticks to me and my scalp itches, my head spins and the tips of my fingers throb with my pulse. But the air rushing in and out of my lungs is clean, dragging all the darkness out of me. It finds each crevice, every fold inside where doubts hide, and tears it out.
Unferth crouches over me, the spear tilted against his shoulder, and says, “Have you gone soft while I was away?”
“Away?” I sneer at him, but it turns into a laugh.
His annoyance melts as he watches me smile, and my insides seem to evaporate in a burst of bubbles. He holds down his hand and I take it, letting him pull me up against him. We part slowly, as friends, and I know the Mad Eagles will see it, will understand as far as I’m concerned he’s part of our team.
Darius begins to speak, but Sharkman turns fast and gets right in Soren’s face. “Our turn, berserker.”
He makes the word into an insult.
As if he’s been spring-loaded, Soren throws immediately into Sharkman.
My guts knot as Unferth and I back up out of the way. Unlike our spar, this is vicious and fast. Like dogs, Soren and Sharkman dart in to engage, punch, and grapple, then fling apart. They circle and leap back in with jabs and grunting. Sharkman knocks Soren’s head to the side, and Soren connects with Sharkman’s stomach in a heavy blow. They break apart again and Sharkman shakes his shoulders, then strips off his shirt. The column of horizontal spear tattoos ripples as his chest heaves.
Soren pauses, and I’m about to insert myself when he slowly removes his T-shirt, too, and sinks back into his boxing stance. Sharkman growls and bares his teeth, face flushed.
The meadow is silent but for the smack of flesh and hard grunts and the occasional explosion of breath. Soren takes a few hard hits, then goes on the defensive; he dodges and blocks, occasionally knocking back, while Sharkman pounds harder and faster, and my throat is closing up. I think I have to throw in myself to get this to stop, if Darius won’t, and all the gods curse them.