The year, according to the followers of Christ, is 8970 AD and I, Halla Steinarsdottir, am lamenting my life.
Sure, the wind through my hair is nice and, yes, the grass-filled hills near my home are quite beautiful this time of year, but neither changes the fact that I lack a weapon. While my knife does dangle from a necklace of leather cordage, I wouldn''t exactly call that a weapon. A weapon is meant for battle, for killing. Work-knives, on the other hand, are meant for work.
Twelve whole winters old and not a single weapon to be found. What a damn shame.
It''s just not fair, you know? Eric—Eric of all people!—got a spear when he turned twelve, so where''s my weapon, huh? Why can''t I have a spear or a sax or even just a normal axe? It''s not like I''ll hurt myself with it, that''s what my enemies are for!
But no, I''m ''a woman’. That means I don''t get to have a weapon. The reason why is completely beyond me, it''s not like the world will treat me any gentler just because of what''s between my legs! What was the point of teaching me to wrestle if I wouldn''t be allowed to use it?
I heave a sigh as the wind picks up again. Wind-carried strands of deep-red hair tickle my nose as I muster every ounce of will I have to stifle a sneeze. The sweet summer scent of freshly flowering fields doesn''t help matters much as, despite how pleasant and idyllic it may seem, it only serves to set my eyes to watering and my nose to itching.
Even with my teeth grinding and fists clenching, try as hard as I might, I can''t hold back the inevitable. Like the howling winds high up on the mountains surrounding the Hading Valley, I sneeze.
The wave of sound echoes across the hills as the closest sheep baa and shuffle away. I scowl and wipe at my nose, growling a quiet curse under my breath at the chain of events that lead to me in this condition, "These damn allergies..."
I nearly leap from my skin as a hand larger than my entire head lands on my shoulder. It''s not painful—the hand''s owner would never willingly harm me—I just didn''t expect it. Only barely managing to suppress a cry of fear, I round on the culprit with full intention to give him a piece of my mind.
Unfortunately, Dad makes a good point.
"With summer thaw comes raiding tides, Halla," Dad''s steel-gray eyes—the same color as the pair in me and my siblings'' heads—are as red and puffy as my own, "so this is work that needs to be done else they get a free, easy meal—even if we have to muddle through allergies to do it. Besides," he laughs heartily as he releases the hold on my shoulder, "would you rather be inside, with your mother and Asva?"
A full-body cringe ripples across my body as I hop back in reflexive revulsion. While allergies may suck, anything is better than learning damn needle-binding! I don''t want to make hats for heads, I want to make heads into homes for an axe!
"You think we''re gonna get raided?" Of course Eric, my wilting flower of an older brother, latches onto that with a worried grimace. He nervously runs his fingers up and down his spear as he casts a glance towards the sea. If a weapon in hand doesn''t soothe his nerves, then he should just give it to me!
...He''s not all that bad, honestly. Eric''s brave enough when it counts and if I wouldn''t say it out loud, then I shouldn''t think it of him. Words, even unvoiced, have power—that''s what Dad says, anyway.
"It''s a possibility," Dad grunts as he adjusts the hat covering his deep-red hair—the same spiky, unruly hair that crowns the heads of almost all his children. "It has been some time since a serious raid left Asvir''s shores. Any curious foe may take that as a sign that we''ve gone soft."
My hands find my hips as I puff my chest out. The wind picks up once again and sends my hair fluttering as a bold and bloody grin stretches across my face. "If a raid does threaten our shores, then I''ll drive them back to the sea with fire and sword!"
Dad arches a brow and shakes his head, a fond smile on his face. His arm snaps out faster than I can follow and playful fingers ruffle my hair. I scowl and smack the hand away, though it lacks any real heat.
Eric, on the other hand, scoffs. "You''ll meet them with ''fire and sword''? Dad''ll do that while you hide with Mom and Asva and Randi."
...You know what? I don''t feel bad about thinking him a coward anymore. In fact, I''ll tell him exactly what I think!
Spit flies as my fists ball and I really let him have it, "Yeah, you would say that! Not that there''s any wonder what you’d be doing!"
The moment those words leave my mouth, I know I''ve made a mistake.
The nid—the shame—of those words'' implication hangs in the air like a malignant odor clings to a good day. You don''t give voice to words without meaning them and you definitely don''t speak words of nid without being willing to accept the consequences, whatever they may be.
When all you''ve built can be torn down by a simple string of insulting syllables, who wouldn''t do whatever it takes to avoid it?
"Halla," Dad lengthens my name, the warning tone as clear as the day is long—but it''s too late to take back my words. No matter the circumstances, a good and honorable man stands by his words. That''s what he taught me and that''s what I''ll do.
…Even if that excuse rings hollow to my own ears.
"But it''s true!" Dad sighs as I refuse to let it drop, "Lori and Osborn Burisson came by and were saying that you were washed up, that you went soft! I called him a liar but Eric just stood by doing nothing! If I had a weapon, I would have buried it in their faces!" And probably started a feud over it, but then at least the Valley would be free of the likes of Buri and his sons. No great loss there.
"Dad doesn''t need you or me or anyone to fight his battles, Halla. He''s strong, stronger than the both of us combined, ten-times-over." Eric shrugs, refusing to acknowledge the nid threatening his already meager ordstirr reserves, "Osborn also had Lori with him and that guy''s not exactly a pushover."
I snort. What a poor excuse! If only I had Eric''s weapon, then I could''ve really taken them down a peg...
Despite the enticing daydream, I still have an argument to win, "But what about what Osborn was saying? About how Dad''s gone soft? He said that he hadn''t fought anything in eight years!"
Dad''s lips pull back in a grimace as the mention of ''eight years'' floats through the air. I don''t remember much from back then, other than there being a war or something? That was about the time that Sten left for Finland, too.
Dad chooses that moment to step in, "What Buri''s children have to say about me holds little weight, Halla. Their words are like lukewarm bathwater—utterly worthless."
"But–"
"But nothing." Dad''s voice is flat and stern, allowing no room to argue. "If you keep this up, I''ll send you back to your mother." My mouth clicks shut as the threat nearly knocks me off my feet. Dad doesn''t make light threats, "Now, go apologize to your brother and let''s move on with our lives, shall we?"
Swallowing, I share a grimace with Eric—neither of us are all that pleased by this turn of events, "I, um, I''m sorry, Eric. You''re not a coward."
He blows a puff of warm air as he sighs and waves it off, "It''s whatever, but thanks anyways."
The invisible nid fades away as my apology does its work, leaving an awkward stain in its wake. As easy as nid is to lay upon someone''s shoulders, it''s just as easy to take it back. All it takes for either is a couple of words. A handful of syllables can lead to triumph or tragedy.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
As Dad is so fond of quoting, ''Such is the way of things.''
Silence rules with an awkward fist. The occasional bleat of sheep is the sole hole in the quiet cloak, a hole soon widened by Dad coughing into his fist.
"We''re down a lamb," he says after a quick count of the flock. I grimace, an expression shared with Eric. Sheep are very stupid, and their young even more so. If you covered their eyes with their own wool, they''d think it was time to sleep! "Halla," the sound of my name yanks me from my thoughts as Dad points a finger to the nearby hillcrest, "search the hill for tracks. Eric," the finger travels down the hill, towards the long-dried stream bed, "do the same down there. I''ll stay here in case it comes back."
"Right!" I call as I make towards the crest, eager to escape the ever-awkward aftermath. Making sure to stay in sight of Dad and Eric, I keep one eye on the ground and the other on my immediate surroundings. The lamb couldn''t have gone far, my only worry is if something finds it before us. Monsters like wolves and bears can be a serious threat to the unlucky farm. The loss of a milk cow in summer can mean suffering starvation over winter.
Just like a roaring fire needs wood to stay burning, a strong body needs food to both keep and grow that strength. Deprived of fuel, the body starts to consume both itself and any progress made. With the body''s defenses weakened by hunger, sickness easily takes root.
There was a lean year a few years back and, well...
...Disease always takes the infirm and infant first.
Stopping to catch my breath—and to banish the unwanted memories of a curious voice silenced forever—a curious glint in the grass catches my eye. Bending over, I spy the shine of silver.
Half-buried by an errant foot-press, a silver penny lays in the dirt. Plucking it from its earthen barrow, I polish it clean with my belt-borne cloth before bringing it up to the light. The sun''s glow illuminates the uncolored runes decorating both coin-faces. One side declares it a coin of Guthrum, King and Steelfather, while the other declares that it had been minted in some place called ''Colchester''. Both faces bear a coiling snake around the edge.
While I can''t place either of those names—the only other Steelfather I know of is Jarl Erikaer Corpsemaker, who rules the Hading Valley from his fortress-town of Jurgdby—it doesn''t matter all that much to me. After all, silver is silver!
...Even if it isn''t exactly a lot of silver. Just from eyeballing it, I reckon that this weighs... maybe a quarter-ounce at most? Probably less. A spear head—not even including the haft!—costs an ounce-and-a-half while a good sword is many, many times that. While this is a lucky find, it''s not something that''s going to change my life.
"You find something?" I nearly leap from my skin as Dad''s voice almost startles me—I did not scream and anyone who says I did is a damned liar! His eyes narrow as he lays them upon the coin in my hands, "That''s... Odd. Can I have a look?"
"It''s from someplace called ''Colchester''," I mention as he gingerly examines the coin. "You know a ''King Guthrum''?"
"Guthrum is King of East Anglia, in England, which is where I imagine Colchester can be found." Dad''s been to a lot of places and seen a lot of things, so it''s no surprise that he recognizes the names on my coin. His eyes drift to the side, past my penny and to the ground as he continues his impromptu lesson, "He''s also the Hlakkamen''s Steelfather, nasty pieces of work that they are."
Returning the silver to me—which I quickly pocket—Dad adjusts his sword and kneels down. Carefully eyeing the ground, his lips crease in a light frown as he runs thumb and forefinger across chin and jaw respectively.
"See anything?" I ask as I stroke the silver hidden away in my pocket.
"Wolf tracks, singular," he points out the tracks with a finger as his frown deepens further. "He''s chasing a set of boots, and they''re recent. Quarter-day at most."
Boots? But, but only men wear those! A certain sick feeling settles in the pit of my stomach as I swallow a gulp, "Do you think he could be hunting..."
"A man?" Dad finishes for me as he shakes his head, a sigh on his lips. "That''s what it''s looking like." As he claps his hands clean and rises to his feet, he suddenly pins me with a stare, "Tell me, Halla, why would a wolf hunt a man?"
I rock back and forth on my heels as I consider the question. "This winter was pretty hard," I begin more than a little uncertain, "could he just be hungry?"
"Could be," Dad nods, his hand never straying far from his weapons, "could also be his frenzy got out of hand."
A shudder runs up and down my spine as Dad runs fingers across his sword. Hopefully it isn''t frenzied, those are always the most dangerous creatures. In the heart of all living things lies a ferocity belonging more to wild animals than civilized man. Tapping into that frenzy is what makes a man a berserk, and certain animals like wolves have an overabundance of such might.
They attack at random, caring not for injury or for friends, and lay waste to all they see.
"Dad!" Eric calls from the bottom of the hill, his shoulders stained red from a mauled wooly mess, "I-I found the lamb, but something else did first!"
Dad freezes, eyes locking to the lamb''s limp form. He unshackles the sheath from his hip and lets the fall draw his shining iron. Crowfeeder sings as its eternally sharp edge gleams free in the light of the sun. Just as his sword slips free of its sheath, so too does a curse slip past his lips—a curse he''s certainly not supposed to utter in the presence of a woman, which I eagerly memorize for future use.
"Eric," Dad''s voice is deathly serious, killing my glee in its cradle, "where did you find it?"
"J-just up the stream," Eric struggles through his words, fear gripping him as it does me. My eyes widen, the reality of the situation hitting harder than a longship''s dragon-prow. The mauled corpse, the wolf tracks, the conversation about frenzy... If one recognizes the signs and hints the Nornir leave for the canny eye and sharpened ear, he can predict the events of the future.
"There''s a frenzied wolf in the area," the sheep start to bleat, panic rising as they lay eyes on their mutilated kin. Dad curses, his words harsh enough to draw a blush to Eric and I''s faces, "Eric, take your sister hom-"
"No!"
For a moment, confusion rules my mind as I wonder how I spoke without moving my lips, only to realize that it was not I who refused Dad, but Eric.
Eric grips his spear as he summons his ordstirr to his side, crimson light gathering around his being. Moving like oil across a smooth surface, his spearhead gleams with heart''s glory as winds swirl about his shoulders, waiting for his command.. "If I take Halla, nobody will watch the sheep! Besides," he continues, finding his courage, "you always say to never fight alone."
Dad opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it with a sigh, "Alright, but I''m leaving my fylgja here with you."
Wind howls, grass sways, and the sheep huddle tight as Dad''s shadow flickers. From the depths hidden from sight by tree trunk-thick limbs comes the form of a four-legged beast. Rock spikes sprout from armor-thick fur as golden eyes gleam with magma-like heat. A broad, gray-flecked tongue lulls, steam-trailing spit hardening to stone where it splashes against the ground.
Dad''s craghund, the shape his guardian spirit takes, stands at rib cage height, its oft-friendly face replaced with cold focus as it turns its eyes to the hills. With claw-tipped paws bigger than some shields and hand-length teeth sharper than most swords, Dad''s fylgja is a force to be reckoned with.
"But, but Dad!" Eric starts, taking a step towards Dad, "What if you find the wolf?"
Dad smiles, lightning-fast fingers ruffling Eric''s crimson hair, "If I find the wolf," the fingers withdraw just as fast, leaving Eric groping at empty air, "then it will not trouble us anymore." He sighs, the hints of levity fading as he turns steel-gray eyes on his children, "I''m worried about you two, especially Halla. Eric," he ignores my bristling, "you''re almost a man, so I will respect your decision to stay. Halla is only twelve, she lacks your strength, so I will take action to protect my daughter."
"I''m old enough to be a judge, Dad!" I stomp my foot as I give him my fiercest glare, a look strong enough to set mountains a-quaking!
Dad withstands my assault with a simple smile, a short snort dispelling my might in its entirety. "Look after your sister, Eric."
"I will," Eric says, drawing himself up to his full height of fifteen winters, "I promise it."
Dad nods, adjusts the grip on his sword, and sets off down the hill. Soon disappearing beyond sight, he leaves Eric and I with the bleating of sheep to keep us company. A chill passes through the air, sending shivers up my spine.
The craghund promptly flops on the ground, its molten eyes lulling shut as it rests its head on crossed paws. I run my fingers through its thick fur, careful to avoid the sharp points of its spikes. Simple repetition has always helped my nerves, especially when rewarded with happy wags of the tail.
"Halla," Eric breaks the silence as he slings his shield off his back. Faced with oiled leather and with a strong iron rim, the shield was a Yuletide gift from Uncle Torsten. I scowl, knowing his next words, "if the wolf appears, I want you to–"
"Run?" I finish for him with a flat-lidded stare.
Eric tries a smile, "Exactly," it falls flat.
I hop to my feet, hands on my hips, "If the wolf shows its mangy face, I''m going to–"
–Be cut off by the low rumble of a craghund''s growl. Like the thunder of a rockslide, the noise thumps hard against the chest as the craghund lifts its head while its ears perk up, molten eyes fixed to the hill crest.
The acrid stench of fear fills the air as lightning crackles in a foam-filled mouth. Yellow, hateful eyes glare with a bloodlusted fury as black storm clouds gather about a dark-furred coat. The earth drinks deep of blood leaking from a dozen open wounds.
The wolf stands silent, completely motionless save for the subtle shifting of its storm cloud mane. Foam falls from the corners of its lightning-filled maw, revealing the true depths of its madness.
I swallow, Eric gulps, and the craghund climbs to its feet.
The wolf lowers its head, preparing to charge.
Thor, lend us your might.