Sharp Iron
Ylva was on him like a wolf on its prey. She threw all her weight against him, pushing him backwards off the stool. Any difficulty she had being close to other people was forgotten as she grabbed his head with both hands and hit it once, twice, against the floor.
Everything inside the stable was in chaos. The horses huffed and stamped their hooves, Bron struggled with the flame-haired woman, and by the stalls, Freki leapt up to strain at his leash, and bark as best as he could.
The whites of the three-fingered man’s eyes were now red, burnt by the boiling stew, and they rolled in confusion and pain. But he was as strong as a bear, and no stranger to battle. Ylva was no match for his strength. When she turned to stretch for her axe lying close by, he came to his senses and reached up with both hands to grab her around the neck. He pushed her back with all his strength, squeezing his hands together, trying to crush the life from her.
Ylva twisted from side to side, hammering one fist against the three-fingered man, hitting his chest, scratching at his face and eyes as she scrabbled blindly with her other hand, trying to lay her fingers on the axe. But the three-fingered man had a grip like Fenrir’s jaws. With his hands still around her neck, he lifted her off his chest and threw her sideways to land on her back with a bone-jarring thump.
The impact knocked the breath out of her, but she reached out again, desperate as her fingertips brushed against the leather binding on the lower part of the handle. There it was. Her axe. The same axe she had used to defeat the bear. She would use it now, to split the three-fingered man’s skull. All she had to do was take hold of it and—
The three-fingered man sat up and grabbed Ylva by the arm, dragging her towards him, out of reach of the axe. As soon as she was close, he got to his knees and lifted her so she was sitting with her back against his chest, then he wrapped both arms around her neck. ‘I’ll break it if I have to,’ he said in her ear. ‘But don’t make me kill you. You’re a brave one, and I’ll get a good price for you.’
The pressure on her neck constricted her throat and made her head pound. She heard the blood thumping in her veins and her face grew numb as everything darkened. He was squeezing the breath out of her, but all she could think of was avenging Mother. Of killing the three-fingered man. Of killing the woman and taking back the locket. She had a duty. The gods expected it of her. And if she were to fail, she would die trying. It was too late to give up now.
As her vision began to fade, Ylva frantically reached out sideways with both hands, running her fingers through the straw, searching for a weapon. Searching and hoping and searching until her fingers brushed against something hard and she shifted her eyes to see one of Bron’s arrows lying in the dirt. Without thinking, she took it in her fist and thrust it backwards with all the strength she had left in her, driving it hard into the three-fingered man’s side.
The three-fingered man cried out in pain and let go, giving Ylva the chance to shuffle forward and turn around to face him.
His was on his knees looking down in confusion at the arrow sticking out beneath his ribs. ‘How did you—?’
Ylva put both hands around the shaft of the arrow and pushed as hard as she could.