Daughter of Rage and Beauty (Berserker Academy Book 1)

by Amy Pennza

  Maya held my gaze a moment, then raised her voice. “All right. Positions, everyone.”

  The trainees peeled away from her and jogged to the middle of the field. As if by some unspoken arrangement, they split into two rows and paired off, each set of trainees facing each other.

  “Ready,” Maja called.

  As one, they sank into a sparring position—swords raised, legs in a slight lunge.

  Maja looked at Olaf, who still lingered on the side of the field. He nodded and ran to the center, where he faced the other female trainee and fell into the ready position.

  A horrible suspicion crept over me. With Olaf on the field, that left just Maja and—

  “You and and I will partner off,” she told me.

  My stomach clenched. Had she planned this? Although, maybe I was just being paranoid. As Provens, she and Olaf were obviously in charge of the training session. And I was new to the academy. She probably just wanted to get an idea of my skill level before assigning me to spar with someone else.

  I gave my sword a playful swing and smiled at her. “I’ll try to take it easy on you.”

  She said nothing. Just pulled her sword from the grass, flicked dirt off the tip, and stalked toward the field.

  Tough crowd.

  I bit my lip and followed.

  She walked down the line of trainees, her gaze assessing as she took in each pair. I felt a little like a baby duck toddling in her wake. As for the trainees, they remained perfectly still, swords frozen in the air. I winced in sympathy for their triceps.

  “Remember,” Maja called, “this is sparring only. No power allowed.”

  Relief swept me. This was just regular sword training, then. I didn’t have to worry about keeping my rage from spiraling out of control.

  We reached the end of the line and faced each other. Moving in the same graceful manner as before, she sank onto her back foot and brought her sword up.

  I did the same. My old swordmaster’s voice echoed through my head. Feet apart. Weight on the balls of your feet. Chin up, but not too far up. Breathe normally. Watch your opponent’s face, not their hands.

  Maja’s face was stern, her eyes two narrow, purple slits. Her features were delicate, her skin clear and glowing. She was really quite pretty—could be beautiful if she ever got a handle on her resting bitch face. The sun reflected off her blade, shining along the dull edge.

  At least the swords were blunted. They wouldn’t break the skin, but they could still inflict damage.

  “Berserkers, ready!” Maja called.

  As one, the trainees let out a deep, militaristic grunt.

  I jumped and gripped my sword’s hilt more tightly, the metal guard brushing my knuckles.

  “Engage!” Maja lunged toward me, her sword swinging down in an arc toward my neck.

  My arms moved before my brain registered what happened. I whipped my blade down and to the side, blocking her blow. Metal clanged, and vibrations rattled down my arms.

  Maja shoved off, quickly stepping back.

  Smart. She didn’t dance or bounce on her feet. She kept her boots flat on the ground, her blade angled in front of her body once more. The bob and weave might work great for boxing, but it was a terrible strategy in a sword fight. A good swordsman moved as little as possible, conserving his energy and maintaining his balance.

  Around us, the other pairs of fighters crossed swords. Clangs rang out, followed by grunts and the occasional shout.

  It was all a distant blur. I couldn’t afford to pay any attention to the others. I faced straight ahead, my eyes on Maja.

  She came at me again, her black hair flying.

  I stepped forward to parry—

  —and caught only air.

  Maja spun, moved behind me, and struck me low in the back with the flat of her blade.

  The force of the blow shoved me forward. Pain was a red-hot flash in my brain. I stumbled and fell to one knee, one palm striking the ground. A moment later, cold steel touched my nape.

  “Dead,” Maja said above me.

  Anger flared in my gut. I flung a hand back, knocking away the blade as I surged to my feet and faced Maja.

  She tilted her head. “You want more?”

  Ignoring the throbbing in my back, I went to my original position on the field and fell into a ready lunge.

  Something flashed in her eyes. It wasn’t triumph. More like a nasty anticipation.

  The others continued sparring around us, but their matches were different. They thrusted and blocked in a methodical rhythm, clearly running through drills designed to improve skill and hone muscle memory. Like Tai Chi but with medieval weapons.

  Maja stationed herself opposite me. She waited a second, then came at me, blade raised high.

  I shuffled back. What the fuck? What was her problem?

  Her shoulders bunched.

  I swung my blade up, anticipating a downward strike.

  She feinted, then went low. Her blade struck my upper thigh.

  Fire shot through my quad. I sidestepped, lifting my sword so I could strike before she recovered.

  In a blur, she ducked under my sword, spun, and came up swinging.

  Our blades clashed. Metal screamed against metal. The muscles in my upper arms trembled. I clenched my teeth. Somewhere, in the dim parts of my consciousness, I became aware that the fighting around us had stopped.

  Maja jerked her arms back, abruptly removing the force of her sword against mine.

  Already leaning forward, I couldn’t counter. My momentum carried me forward.

  She tripped me as I stumbled past her, sending me to the ground once more. Again, steel touched my neck.

  Again, she spoke. “Dead.”

  My back was on fire. My leg shook, the muscle spasming. Sweat dripped from my forehead and ran down my back. My ponytail dangled over my shoulder, the end touching the grass. We must have kicked up some of the turf during our fight, because a big chunk was missing, exposing the dirt.

  Above me, Maja leaned down. Her shadow fell over me, and she lowered her voice. “You don’t belong here. Daddy might have bought your way in, but his money can’t make you a fighter.”

  Her words slid into my mind like poison, soaking into the little hollows of anxiety and self-doubt. I took a shuddering breath.

  “Save yourself some embarrassment and run back to the forest. Or seduce some rich man like your slut of a mother.”

  It was as if she’d lit a match and tossed it on the simmering anger in my gut. Rage whooshed through me, spinning into a tight, seething ball. It settled in my chest, its pulsing energy like a heartbeat. In one motion, I snatched a handful of dirt from the ground, shot to my feet, and tossed it in her eyes.

  She clapped a hand to her face and staggered back.

  Lightning forked across the sky. Nearby, someone shouted. Thunder boomed. A sharp crack split the air. I struggled to turn my head toward the source, but my muscles were locked.

  My hand gripping the sword heated up. The ball spiraled into itself, gathering power. All the little hairs on my body stood up.

  “Grab her sword!”

  Olaf. That was Olaf. In some corner of my mind, an alarm sounded. If he tried to knock the weapon from my hand, the bundle of power inside me would most likely leap into the steel. Or it could burst from me in an uncontrolled wave and kill him.

  Or me.

  Energy coursed through my veins, making my jaw hurt and my mouth water. In my chest, the ball jerked once, twice. Power sizzled halfway down my sword arm, then stopped—as if it hit a barrier.

  Lightning struck the far side of the field. A second later, thunder split the air. The smell of ozone grew thick.

  Let go. I had to let go of the sword. Even as I thought it, my palm heated up, as if the sword was determined to get to the power stuck in my chest. A scream built in my throat. My vision blurred.

  Light flashed. Thunder boomed so loud my ears rang. Gasps. Pounding feet.

  Olaf spoke again. “Get
the sword from her!”

  Shadows moved in the edges of my vision.

  Protests jumbled together in my brain. I struggled to speak.

  A deep voice cut through the chaos.

  “Everyone step back.”

  There were gasps, then the shuffling of feet. One of the shadows moved toward me. It grew larger, then formed into the tall outline of a man. A brown cloak covered his head, obscuring his features. Or maybe it was a robe, since it had sleeves. Whatever it was, the material had seen better days. Dark stains marred the front, and a tattered hem was splattered with mud. The man didn’t speak, he just strode up to me and, without a moment’s hesitation, took the sword from my hand.

  The power in my chest snapped—the loss so abrupt I stumbled backwards and fell on my ass. The impact forced a grunt from my lungs.

  Fortunately, everyone was too busy looking at the cloaked man to notice me. In his hand, the sword glowed an eerie blue. Every few seconds, tiny currents of lightning licked around the blade and disappeared. He held the weapon away from his body and gave it a considering look.

  Or at least that’s what I guessed. With the cloak’s hood covering half his face, it was hard to gauge his expression. I strained to get a better glimpse of his features.

  He turned the blade this way and that, as if he was examining it. Around him, the trainees watched in hushed anticipation. Even Maja stood back, her expression a mixture of curiosity and respect.

  What was he doing? More importantly, how had he taken that blade, and seemingly with no consequences? There was a reason berserkers always worked with a sword. Raw power—especially the kind borne of rage—was too much for the body to absorb. That kind of energy needed a place to go. The very skilled could channel it into various types of weapons. But it was easiest to use steel, which conducted electricity with no problem.

  Skin, however, did not. It was one thing to channel rage into metal, quite another to grab hold of a charged weapon with bare hands. Berserker power didn’t like to flow that way. The rules of magic dictated the man’s hand should have caught fire as soon as he grabbed my sword.

  But he just stood there, looking over the sword like a man browsing the sporting goods section at a department store. His shoulders rose and fell, almost as if he let out a great sigh. Then he gave the blade a small flick. Just like that, the power snuffed out.

  As if it had never been.

  What the . . . Where had all that energy gone?

  Without warning, he looked straight at me.

  I sucked in a breath.

  His eyes were silver, the pupils tiny pinpricks of black. The power swirled there, in irises forked with miniature lightning. He walked toward me, his cloak floating out from his body.

  Instinct urged me to scoot backwards, but I stayed put, my butt still smarting from my graceless crash to the ground. I curled the fingers of my sword hand over the burn across my palm.

  Even with the hood covering his head, I should have been able to make out most of his face. But every time I tried to get a better look, it was as if his features shifted somehow. The best I got were glimpses—moments of clarity in which I could see his forehead or his nose. As he reached me, his irises cleared, the lightning flickering out. His long shadow fell over me, his body blocking the light from the rising sun. Booted feet stopped just before mine, and deep blue eyes peered from his hood. The strange, shifting pattern continued, making it impossible for me to tell if he was young or old, ugly or handsome. The only features I could be certain of were those penetrating blue eyes and a dark blond beard.

  Norseman.

  Viking.

  Berserker.

  He could have been any of those things. Somehow, even without anyone telling me, I knew he was all of them.

  “Elin Berregaard?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “Come with me.” Sword still in hand, he turned on his heel and strode away, the brown cape fluttering after him.

  My stubborn streak kicked in before I could muzzle it, and I blurted, “Stop!”

  The assembled trainees let out a collective groan. To my right, Olaf put a hand over his eyes.

  The cloaked man stopped and looked over his shoulder, one blue eye pinning me in place. “Yes?”

  Heat crept up the back of my neck. Why was everyone acting like that? I’d never seen this guy before, and now he just expected me to follow him who knows where?

  I licked my lips. “Who are you?”

  More groans. Maja looked ill.

  But the man lifted a hand, silencing the trainees. He spoke in the same deep rumble, only now there was an undercurrent of some indefinable quality in his voice. Something I couldn’t quite place.

  “I’m Hauk Sigridsson.”

  My stomach dropped.

  He turned and walked away, and the fleeting emotion in his tone was no longer important.

  Because I’d just met the headmaster of Bjørneskalle.

  And I was most definitely getting expelled.

  4

  It took me a couple seconds to realize the headmaster wasn’t going to wait for me. As he continued toward the castle, I scrambled to my feet. A dull ache in my back almost made me double over, but I caught myself before I could show any weakness in front of the others.

  Not that it mattered. My hours at Bjørneskalle were obviously numbered.

  The crowd stared as I walked forward. A couple people muttered to each other. Maja shot them dirty looks, and they quickly shut up. Now that I was on my way out, she probably thought she didn’t need to bully me anymore.

  Mission accomplished.

  Ahead, the headmaster’s silhouette grew smaller. I gritted my teeth and increased my pace, clenching my jaw against the pain in my back, thigh, and hand. By the time I reached the other side of the practice field, he was already at the castle. Still carrying my sword, he entered a small wooden door set in the base of a tower.

  I cursed under my breath and hauled ass, managing to duck inside the door before it slammed.

  Booted footsteps let me know he’d turned left, so I followed the sound until I rounded a corner and saw him stop in front of a pair of statues.

  Familiar statutes. The Norsemen from yesterday.

  Of course. Olaf said they guarded the headmaster’s tower.

  I hesitated a moment, then made my way to the headmaster’s side. As I approached, the statue on the right looked at me, its eyes lit with an otherworldly blue.

  “Elin-who-calls-herself-Haraldsdóttir.” The statue’s voice was like rocks grinding against each other. Its lips didn’t move, but the blue brightened and dimmed as it spoke.

  It seemed to be waiting for me to acknowledge it, so I lifted a hand. “Uh . . . hi.”

  “Are you worthy to enter?”

  It was asking me? The headmaster was silent at my side, his hood still pulled over his head—the whole ensemble giving him a strong Ewan-McGregor-as-Obi-Wan vibe.

  Clearly, the statue’s question-and-answer game was a prerequisite for getting into the tower. Except this visit wasn’t exactly voluntary. In the past hour, I’d been whacked with a sword and humiliated in front of a dozen strangers. If I had my way, I’d just grab my duffel and call an Uber to take me away from the castle.

  That didn’t seem like an option, though, so I shrugged. “Probably not.”

  If statues could be taken aback, this one managed it. Maybe it wasn’t expecting me to announce my unworthiness. It seemed to peer at me from its perch on the pillar, as if trying to get a better look at me. Just when I thought it was going to hoist its sword and take a swing at my neck, it straightened and settled back into place.

  “You may pass.”

  Well, then.

  The headmaster looked at me, winked, and extended an arm toward the stone steps. “Shall we?”

  It took me a second to stop reeling from the force of that wink. Somehow, I regained my composure enough to nod and follow him through the arch.

  I replayed it in my mind as we climbed th
e stone steps that spiraled around the inside of the tower. Had he really just winked at me? Was it a trick of the light? Most importantly, why did the headmaster suddenly look a lot younger than I thought?

  I spent so much time turning these questions over and over in my mind, I didn’t even realize we reached the top of the tower until he stopped at an ancient-looking wooden door. He tucked my sword under his arm and withdrew a skeleton key from his pocket. He started to insert it into the lock, then paused and looked at me over his shoulder.

  “My apologies for the mess inside. I’ve been away for a while.”

  “Oh.” I waved a hand. “No worries.”

  He opened the door and stood back, gesturing me inside.

  I brushed past him and caught my breath. The walls were covered in books. From ceiling to floor, wooden bookcases curved around the circular room. Sunlight from a huge window spilled over the spines, making the gold lettering shimmer. There had to be thousands of volumes—each one bound in brightly colored leather decorated with runes.

  “Sagas of the warriors,” the headmaster said beside me, drawing my attention. He rested the tip of my sword on the ground in front of him, his hands on top of the pommel. “Every time a berserker does something notable, it—”

  “Gets written down in the sagas,” I said. “My father told me about these books. Only the most remarkable warriors get included.”

  “Warriors and assassins.” The headmaster ran his gaze over the bookshelves. “What a noble bunch we are.”

  Something in his voice made me take a closer look at him. His tone had been friendly—almost amused—but there was also a sigh in it.

  Before I could reply, he strode to a huge desk I hadn’t noticed before. He tossed my sword on the surface, which was scattered with loose papers and scrolls. Then he rounded the corner, tugging his hood off as he went. He shrugged out of the cloak, flapping his arms a bit when it got stuck on his shoulders.

  And, wow, those were some impressive shoulders. Instead of a jerkin, he wore a plain black T-shirt that stretched across his back like it had been tailored to his dimensions. His pants were leather, though—and they, too, looked custom-made to hug his long legs and muscular ass—