"Up," Freydis snapped. "You won't defeat anyone on your knees, skjaldmær. If you want to stay there, I suggest you put that skill to use in a different arena."

I gritted my teeth against a sharp reply. The Celtic people groups made insults an art form, sometimes devolving into poetic verse to trash talk the enemy. Flyting was one of the great-granddaddies of modern battle rap. The more you knew. The quip was fairly weak, all things considered, which would make rising to the bait all the more humiliating, especially if she beat me again. It wasn't the first time someone had implied I was a whore, and it wouldn't be the last. It was Skaldi's go-to when we sparred. I'd paid him back by breaking his nose.

I climbed to my feet, wincing. I'd been aching before I stepped foot in the ring, and I'd come out worse than I went in. It was unfortunate but couldn't really be helped. If I stopped to baby every injury, I'd never fight. I'd slather on some Tiger Balm after a shower, sleep for an hour or two, eat, and then get back to my rounds. Nothing was broken. I'd live. Unfortunately.

This was only my fifth session training with a one-handed sword, and Freydis had handed me my ass every single time. Not only was she my size, which negated most of the good my height and build lent me in a fight, but she was also faster and had more experience in this sort of combat. Even sparring with Murphy was difficult. I had the reach, but she had skill. I felt like a fumbling novice again, under the patient (or in this case not-so-patient) guidance of an elder. I'd learned from Lasciel first, then Nicodemus, and finally the Sidhe of Summer. I'd gotten a few basic, one-handed forms down, but in a serious fight, I was pretty much fucked. I'd always prefer two-handed, instead of the sword and shield gig. Hell, we hadn't even started with the latter. This was all about learning to adapt.

But there was one lesson I had learned from Nicodemus specifically, and it was a doozy.

Fight dirty. Always. There were rules of engagement with the Valkyrie and Einherjar, but it didn't mean I couldn't weasel my around them with enough creativity.

I brought my sword up to guard position and eyed her center of mass warily. It was generally the best measure of when and how the enemy was going to move. It also gave me a very good look at how well she filled out her armor, something she never failed to tease me about. Freydis bruised me and sometimes broke my bones, then invited me out for coffee afterward. It was something of a tradition between us now. She was interested, but I couldn't go there. Wasn't sure if I wanted to really. I'd only looked at a few women that way. Lasciel, Hannah, and Lara, and all three had some kind of mind whammy going on at the time. Best not to ruin our friendship unless I was sure we'd work out in the end.

I felt a steady stare on my back and fought not to turn to meet it. A moment later Dad's voice rang out, calm and authoritative.

"Begin."

Freydis moved so quickly that I could barely track her attack. She came in with a solid middle cut, getting inside my guard. I had to dance back a few steps, almost hitting the edge of the practice mat in my haste. I turned sideways before she could press her advantage, batting her next stride away with a flick of my wrist. Catching the flat of it on my vambrace hurt but not as badly as it would have without it. The modified suit of armor had saved my life a few times over, and no amount of thank you notes would be able to cover the gift she'd given me. If Dad's oversight was the price, I'd take it and be grateful. There was something soothing about his presence in Castle Marcone, even if it was embarrassing to have him watch me lose over and over.

The milling einherjar gathered at the edges of the ring, watching with interest as we sparred. A few of them took bets on the outcome. I wasn't favored to win, but a few suckers still pitched in some of their paychecks in hopes they'd make bank. If all went well, this would be their lucky day.

In movies, pitched battle could last a while. There were a lot of sweeping shots and sweaty close-ups as a pair of warriors fought to the death. The soundtrack swelled and clanging sounds echoed over the open field. In reality, that was a load of crap. Fights between experienced swordsmen might take a minute, at most, and to a complete rookie, it could be over in seconds. The sounds of swords clanging made for great TV, but a badly damaged blade in practice. Mom could always forge me new weapons (and had over the course of the last month) but I didn't like the necessity of it. It took time and energy that could be better spent on the Jawas.

I feinted right, goading Freydis into what looked like an easy victory when she took a jab at my flank. If she got the tip in the chinks of my armor, the fight was over. She'd won that way three out of the five times we'd fought. But this time I'd come prepared.

I tightened my grip on the strap I'd slid over my palm. It probably looked like a boxing knuckle pad from the outside. In reality, it was one of my newest focus, something I'd cooked up with Bob when I had custody of his skull. I'd gotten tired of having my ass kicked, and this was the result. A rune-carved length of leather that fastened over my hand.

I slammed my will into the strap, and the runes sprung to violent life, drawing Freydis' eye, making her pause for a crucial half-second. It was all I needed. I twisted my hips, projecting a half-dome f blue-white light from my outstretched palm. It ballooned outward to form a round shield as solid and unyielding as a brick wall. I put my shoulder behind the move, and drove the shield into her gut, knocking the wind from her and sending her sprawling. A swept her feet out from under her and she went down on her back. By the time she'd recovered, my blade was hovering over her throat. It scraped along her skin when she swallowed.

"Yield," I said.

"You're not supposed to use magic," she said. Well gasped, really. She was still trying to catch her breath. "You cheated."

"We said no illusions or speed-enhancing footwear," I countered. "You didn't say anything about shields. If you're too incompetent to lay down proper ground rules, that's on you."

Her lips twitched up at the corners. "It's still a cheat."

"If you think battle is clear-cut and honorable, you don't deserve to enter the field. You always take the cheap shot, the ambush. Find a chink in the armor and exploit it." I paused, a little horrified that Nicodemus' words had come out of my mouth. I continued in a lighter tone, trying to hide the slip-up. "If you're going to bitch about it, you can forget a date. I don't go out for coffee with whiners. Yield."

Freydis actually grinned at that, inclining her head in acknowledgment. "I yield. Well done, skjaldmær."

"We've been working out together three days out of every week, Freydis," I said, sheathing my blade, and offering her a hand up. "You can call me Molly."

"I think I'll keep on with the nicknames if it's all the same to you." She reached up and smoothed the lines between my brows. "A muscle starts twitching in your forehead. It's cute."

Freydis bowed a little at the waist and then stepped past me, moving toward the crowd with her head high. Some patted her on the back, while others hurled good-natured insults. They'd lost the bet. Sore losers. At least Freydis had taken it well.

"Molly," another, deeper voice called. "A word, please?"

I cringed a little at the sound of Dad's voice. I'd almost forgotten that he was watching. I was probably in for it now. Nothing for it, though. It was done, and I'd won. It felt good.

It was worth a scolding. So I turned to face my father, a small, triumphant smile still on my lips.