made a noise.
Sigurd kept the point of his sword touching his half-brother’s neck. For many years he had anticipated the pleasure he’d have when he killed this man, but now that it came to it, he found the desire vanished. Something deep within him revolted at the thought of killing his brother, even though he knew Thorbin would not have had the slightest hesitation.
‘Louder, so all can hear. I am wise to your tricks.’
‘I surrender.’ His face showed real fear. ‘I can’t rise, Brother.’
‘Louder!’
‘You have won, Sigurd!’ Thorbin screamed. ‘You have defeated me!’
The silence was deafening. Sigurd knew the majority of the crowd expected him to drive the sword home. He was well within his rights.
‘Let Ketil decide what to do with you!’ He tossed the sword aside as he motioned to Hring who stood next to Liddy. The warrior had obeyed him in his fashion.
The colour had rapidly returned to her face. He hated that something twisted in his gut, a reminder to keep people at a distance. Allowing them to become too close risked losing everything that he’d worked for. He’d seen it before.
After he dealt with Thorbin, they would say their goodbyes. It was how it had to be. He kept no one close. Beyla had taught him that lesson. Women were self-interested and their protestations of love meant nothing in the clear light of day.
The big man came forward, withdrawing the chains from the pouch he carried. Sigurd clamped the irons on to Thorbin’s wrists and then shackled his ankles.
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