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“Sterlingson, huh?”
Morgan shifted. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“But not Chad Sterlingson,” the person before him said, tipping their chin up slightly. They weren’t small, but still shorter than Morgan had expected.
“No,” he said. “That’s my brother.”
“And isn’t he the one who killed two of my crewmen?”
“Sure. But you challenged our whole family to a duel, not specifically Chad.”
The raider scoffed. “I guess. So what, you decided to be the hero and save your brother?”
“Nah.” Morgan shrugged. “More like my folks decided which kid they’d rather keep.”
The other fell strangely still. “Ah. I see.”
“I mean, wasn’t a hard choice,” Morgan said. “One son’s gone abroad, has the acclaim of a couple foreign kings… he’s an idiot, yeah, but a good fighter and a well-respected drengr. Not much of a skald, but he does our family name some good, I guess.”
“And you don’t?” Alex Stewartson asked.
Morgan shrugged. “I guess not.”
“So they sent you off to die for your brother’s blunder.” Alex wore fine pelts and leather; several gold pieces hung about their neck and wrists and waist, undoubtedly spoils of conquest. Their shield was deeply scarred, but sound. Their hair, silvery gray, brushed their shoulders in loose braids. They wore nothing to conceal the knot of scar tissue where one eye used to be. “How very honorable of them.”
“Well, they did try to pay you compensation, first,” Morgan said, with a trace of defiance.
“I don’t want coin for my dead!” Alex retorted. “I have enough of that to last a dozen lives. I want a fight! A good, old-fashioned duel to the death!”
“Right. Yeah, that figures.” Morgan shifted, all the stories he’d heard about this fearsome víkingr frothing like the storm-addled sea in his mind. He placed one hand on the hilt of his sword, although generally resigned, and gestured with the other. “Did you, ah… sacrifice it to a god?”
Alex touched their face below the missing eye. “Yeah, and I hung upside down from a tree for seven days, too.” When Morgan just stared, they gave a disbelieving laugh. “That’s.. that’s a joke. Gods, the rumors haven’t gotten that out of hand, have they? No wonder no one’ll fight me these days!”
Morgan relaxed slightly. More than Alex’s words of denial, they didn’t behave like Morgan thought that the Father of the Slain would. Those rumors, at least, did seem exaggerated.
“Sorry, but yeah. Just had to check.”
Alex laughed again, a surprisingly warm sound. “And you showed up to fight me, even though it’s not your debt to pay.”
Morgan frowned. “It’s my family’s.”
Alex drew their sword. “So it is. Shall we, then?”
Morgan gathered himself, digging worn-out boots into the snow. He drew his sword. It felt weighty, reassuring in his hands, and he thought it would be a good companion in death.
Alex circled, then struck; Morgan didn’t dodge but caught the blow on his shield, feeling its power reverberate through his while body. Alex’s one blue eye seemed to catch fire, an eerie and entrancing sight.
Morgan wrenched his gaze away, twisting out from under Alex’s sword and staggering, recovering. Alex came at him again, fast, too fast—! and Morgan flung himself forward, rolling over one shoulder and then regaining his feet. His sword was up to block as Alex spun and struck, then again, and Morgan ducked a swing meant to take his head. He lunged forward, blade angled for Alex’s stomach, but Alex stabbed downwards, their hilt catching on Morgan’s and stalling both blades. Morgan swung with his shield, which Alex blocked with one forearm before it could strike them in the head.
Their faces so close, the steam of their breaths mingled in the brief stillness. Morgan jerked at his sword, trying to free it, not daring to let up the pressure on his shield.
“Where did you learn to fight like this, little drengr?” Alex asked, and Morgan felt a thrill up his spine. He wretched his blade loose and they sprang apart, falling to a steady circling of one another.
Alex twirled their blade—a weapon that seemed too heavy for such a move. They waited, death-blue eye locked on Morgan.
Morgan took the unspoken invitation, leaping forward with a shout. Alex parried, then caught Morgan shoulder and swept out their foot, knocking Morgan’s legs out from under him. Morgan pitched forward, caught himself on one hand in the freezing snow, then spun and got his shield up in time to catch Alex’s downward swing. He grunted, sliding one foot back for any amount of stability, and then pushed forward with everything he had. Alex’s sword sliced deep through his shield, scored it clean across the center, and it’s tip caught Morgan’s cheek as he passed. He hissed, vision blurring scarlet on that side, and hit the snow in a scarcely-controlled tumble. He scrambled up, shield and sword held defensively, but no follow-up came.
Alex stood where they had pinned Morgan moments before, grinning, their Hel-blue eye bright and fixed on him. Morgan gasped in frosty breaths, readying himself for whatever would come next; to his confusion, Alex approached him with their sword swinging loosely at their side, the tip notching the snowy ground with each step.
“I’ll tell you what, Morgan Sterlingson,” they said, their voice full and warm, faintly amused. They stopped less than a foot from him. “Come sail with me.”
“What?” Morgan choked, the coughed when he didn’t have the breath.
“I’d say you’re more than adequate compensation for the two flunkies your brother killed,” Alex said, and let their shield—though not their sword—fall to the ground. They offered their hand. “Did you notice: You never once backed away from me that entire fight?”
Morgan regarded their hand—powerful, weather-roughened. “What about my family?”
“What about them?” Alex asked, with a trace of annoyance. “They didn’t expect you to live. You didn’t expect to live. And you’re still satisfying their debt, their honor, if you really need to think about it that way.”
Sailing… And raiding with the most feared víkingr in the North, no less. He smiled. It would be a slightly different sort of life than looking after the farmland in his brother’s absence. He took Alex’s cue, letting his shield drop but keeping his sword, and then clasped Alex’s hand. Alex pulled him up, their feet scuffing in the snow until they both regained their balance.
“I’ll expect a rematch, sometime,” Alex informed him, with a laugh.
“Sure,” Morgan said, still a bit breathless. “Just maybe not to the death, this time.”
“We’ll see about that.”