“If we must.”
Varda stepped closer. Dahrima’s knuckles itched. She longed to pull her axe and cleave the witch’s skull. “Listen to me,” said Varda. “Vireon is done with you. Take your sisters and go now, or lose the honor that is all you have left.”
Dahrima gritted her teeth. Her breath came heavy and loudly. For a moment, she could not speak.
“I know what you are doing,” she told the witch. “You seek to rule Vireon’s mind as you ruled that of Angrid. I will not allow it.”
Varda laughed in her face. “You are mad and hopeless, Axe. Vireon has made his choice. Go now, or risk my anger.” She turned her back to Dahrima and walked toward the bed of furs. The crown of iron and sapphire glittered there, waiting for its King to return and set it upon his head. It was Varda’s tool, the keystone of her spell.
“First you steal our mates,” breathed Dahrima, “and now you try to steal our King.”
The witch whirled about and waved her blue flame. A blast of wind and ice caught Dahrima in the chest, encasing her in a thin layer of frost that burned like fire. Dahrima grimaced and slammed the haft of her spear against her breastplate, knocking the frost loose.
“Witch!” she cried, moving closer to Varda. “Poisonous harlot!”
Varda’s staff moved again, knocking the spear from Dahrima’s grip.
Another blast of cobalt flame sent Dahrima clattering to the ground. A thick and heavy sheath of ice engulfed her chest and upper legs. Varda stood above her now, staff raised as if for a killing blow.
“Beg my forgiveness,” said the witch. “Or die.”
Dahrima swept her leg across Varda’s knees. She shattered the ice about her middle with spear and fist as the witch fell upon the carpet. Dahrima rolled into a standing crouch and pulled the great axe from her belt.
Varda screeched like a bird of prey, pulling herself upward with the black staff. Dahrima kicked it across the tent. The blue flame extinguished itself. Varda leaped upon the furs and pulled Vireon’s greatsword from its scabbard. The blade gleamed silver-blue as the two Giantesses faced one another. Rain pelted hard against the canvas ceiling.
“I do not need the cold flame to take your life,” said Varda. “I will cut out your heart and feed it to the wolves.”
“You would cut out the heart of Vireon,” said Dahrima. “But I will not let you.”
Varda lunged forward. The greatsword clanged against the axe’s double blade. Purple sparks flew across the tent.
Someone pulled back the tent flap and Dahrima saw the faces of the Udvorg guards peering at her. One of them shouted something. Varda sprang forward again, blue flames streaming from her open mouth.
The sword would have taken off Dahrima’s head if she hadn’t ducked below its arc. She raised the axe to counter a downward slash and kicked at the witch’s flat belly. Varda flew backwards across the tent and the canvas tore from its moorings. The shamaness lay in the mud with the demolished pavilion wrapped about her body. Dahrima could have rushed in and finished her at that moment, but she stood fuming instead. The witch used Vireon’s blade to cut herself free of the canvas, then stood to face Dahrima.
A ring of grinning Udvorg surrounded them now. The blue-skins clapped their hands, stomped in the mud, and shouted to their fellows. This was a fine sport for them, watching two Uduri–the blue-skin and the pale-skin–battle in the rain. Where was Vireon? Dahrima could not see the Sword King’s pavilion; a wall of grunting, drooling Giants closed her off from everything except her foe and the driving rain. Thunder shook the High Realm.
Varda rushed her with the big sword raised high. Dahrima side-stepped the blow and brought her axe down instinctively. She felt the shock of a meaty impact before she realized what she had done. The world seemed to slow in that moment, as if time itself were frozen beneath the witch’s ice. The greatsword splattered into the mud, followed by Varda’s limp body. Her head, sliced cleanly from her spouting shoulders, rolled across the ground to rest at the toe of Dahrima’s boot. The bloody eyes stared up at her. A whisper of blue flame died inside the open mouth.
Varda’s blood was the deep purple of Udurum cloaks. It mingled with the brown mud, turning it black. A swathe of violet spray stained Dahrima’s legs, but already the hard rain was washing them clean. The Udvorg looked on in shocked silence. The sound of the storm filled Dahrima’s ears until a familiar voice cried out from beyond the ring of gawkers.
Vireon came shoving his way through the blue-skins, his black tunic and hair drenched by the rain. His crownless head lowered to examine Varda’s corpse, then rose to meet Dahrima’s gaze. He looked upon her with a wordless sorrow.