Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) by Erik Scott de Bie

“And besides, all women of Tar Vangr fight, do they not?”
    The answer seemed to please Regel. “I’ll get practice blades.”
    Waiting at the rail for him to return, Ovelia watched the crew haul lines, mend sails, and perform the countless other tasks required of a ship at sea. Morning wind and spray caught at her cropped hair, and her weather-cloak pressed tight against her wiry frame. Idly, she ran her fingers through a curl of her hair. The crimson roots had shown in the mirror just that morn: she could conceal her mingled heritage, but the Blood of Summer would never truly leave her. Dracaris was a southern blood, so its folk had red hair, sun-kissed skin, and hazel eyes, though her mingled blood left Ovelia paler than most southerners.
    The only other feature Ovelia bore of the winterlands—her sharp nose—came from her northern mother, a lowly maid in the winter palace, unnamed and unmarked. To hear Norlest speak of her, on one of the rare occasions he’d done so, she’d had an unbreakable spirit, which had attracted him with irresistible force. The honorable Norlest had named the maid—Aniset—and wanted to tie her to his Blood, but the Old Gods of the Nar did not give him the chance. The newly named Aniset had died bringing their child into the world, and Ruin had made Ovelia a murderer from her birth: a Bloodbreaker too, if Aniset (the first and only of her name) could be called the last of her own Blood.
    A cursed child, marked by ill fortune—was it any surprise she sowed Ruin in her wake?
    Ovelia had loved her father dearly, and she remembered many nights crying herself to sleep after seeing the wistful way he looked at her. Ovelia thought of Orbrin the Winter King, his own sad look and his blood on her hands. She remembered what she had done to Lenalin’s son Darak the day of his birth, and what she had done in Lenalin’s own bed that tenth anniversary of her passing. And lastly, she thought of Regel, and how badly she had hurt him. Was she doomed to betray everyone she ever loved?
    She sensed Regel and had more than enough time to settle herself before he offered her a practice sword. He held up a wooden shield. “Do you still hide behind one of these?”
    “A swordsman has to be an idiot not to, unless he wishes to die.” Ovelia seized the shield and strapped it to her left arm. “What’s your excuse?”
    “Confidence.” Regel tested the balance of his blunt sword: straight, unlike his favored falcat.
    More of the crew were watching them, suspicious and expectant. Half of them suspected “Lady Aniset” was more than she seemed, and half only wanted to leer. Ovelia would give them a show.
    Ovelia stepped away and loosed the ties of her weathercloak. The bulky garment slid from her shoulders to the deck. Beneath, she wore a red vest laced over a half-shirt that left her shoulders bare. It was one of Serris’s outfits, and far less modest than anything Ovelia might have chosen for herself.
    Regel nodded approvingly. “Serris has such... dramatic taste.”
    Ovelia rolled her eyes. “It will serve well enough.”
    Too well, Ovelia thought, by the looks of one sailor who threw her an obscene gesture. In another lifetime, she might have taken the offending fingers for his insolence, but this was not Tar Vangr where such things were not tolerated. And she was the Bloodbreaker now—she had no honor left.
    Ovelia saluted and took a defensive stance, sword low.
    Regel held his sword high, hanging toward Ovelia like a spear.
    “You still take a high guard?” Ovelia asked.
    Regel considered her coolly. “Fight low only when you have a shield. When you are a coward.”
    “Trying to rattle me already?” Ovelia turned her buckler slightly, both to emphasize it and to prepare her move. “You can surrender now if you’re so scared.”
    “Hmm.” Regel stood still as a statue, practice sword in hand.
    “Well?” Ovelia pursed her lips. “What stays you?”
    The first attack came fast. One