"Is the Seeress even in town?" The breeze carries Mother''s words to my ears and I halt my work. The ox I''m leading slows to a stop at my side, ignoring the sudden pause in favor of chewing on grass stalks. "Solrun always arrives a few weeks after the thaw, no?"


    Dad hums, likely running thumb and forefinger across chin and jaw respectively. I see the motion perfectly, my mind''s eye doing me no wrong. Eventually, he speaks, "I won''t have my son rot under my roof, Asveig."


    Mother harrumphs, probably folding her arms as she tilts her head forward and to the side, "Trust your wife''s magics, Steinarr! Do you really think so little of me that I wouldn''t preserve my baby boy''s body?"


    "I have no doubt in your skills, my dear wife," Dad replies, perhaps while cupping Mother''s cheeks. She''d probably blush and look away at that point, her icy glare melting away in the warmth of Dad''s love, "I merely wish for my son to return to me as quickly as he can."


    Mother sighs, likely leaning into Dad''s touch, "Just..." She might even press her hand to his, "I just don''t want anyone to say anything, not when Eric can''t defend himself."


    "Should any man prove fool enough to speak ill of my son in my presence," Dad probably bends down at this point, perhaps even taking a knee to give Mother the height advantage, "He will learn the truth of Crowfeeder''s name."


    "Thank you, Steinarr," Mother says after a moment''s silence, probably blinking away tears.


    "Always and forever," Dad replies before adding, "Besides, I need to report the wolf to Dorri anyways. A Hersir ought to be well-informed of the goings-ons of the lands he oversees."


    Mother chuckles, finding humor in good wisdom, "I suppose you have some good sense after all."


    "I try," Dad likely smiles, "Now, once Halla gets here with the ox, we can set out."


    Ah, that''s my cue! Tugging the ox into motion, I crest the hill and set eyes on my parents.


    Dad and Mother embrace by the back of a sledge laden with Eric''s cloth-wrapped body and a bundle of wolf organs. The organs should be enough to pay for Eric''s revival, but sometimes such things run expensive. At the front of the sledge is a freshly untangled mess of leather and ropes, which attaches the sledge to the ox.


    Mother frowns and untangles herself from her husband''s grasp before pinning him with a narrow, suspicious glare, "''We?'' You speak as if Halla is going with."


    My eyes widen, sparks of hope rising. Oh, Gods, please let it be so! I''ve only been to Asvir twice and neither were very pleasant. Well, I suppose this time isn''t very nice either, but at least it''s not for a stranger''s funeral or saying goodbye to Sten.


    Still, Asvir, like any town, is full of opportunity for a promising young warrior like myself! I could enlist into the Hersir''s hird or find work as a mercenary. I could even join a ship''s crew and sail around the world, raiding and trading wherever we go! Maybe I could even find new lands entirely, wouldn''t that be a treat?


    Dad''s lips press thin, a narrow quarter-smile on his face, "I..." He pauses, eyes flicking to me. The next he opens his mouth, his words emerge as a garbled mess of syllables spoken in a smooth, familiar manner.


    Mother tilts her head, frown deepening, but she sighs as her eyes flick to me. The words that leave her lips are rough and stilted, but clearly still of the same language: Greek.


    I scowl, hands on hips. They''re talking about me, it couldn''t be more obvious. Well, I guess it would be more obvious if they were speaking a real language, as I could actually understand them; but, I suppose that me not understanding them is the whole point, no? Otherwise they wouldn''t be using an outlaw-tongue.


    ...Is Greek an outlaw-tongue? The Great King of Miklagard speaks Greek, no? And Dad said that the Varangians count members of all the many tribes of the children of ash and elm among their ranks; of which, of course, we Norse are the most prestigious.


    Regardless, the Great King of Miklagard has Norsemen and Danes and Swedes and all the others in his employ, right? They swear oaths and everything. Obviously, they swear those oaths in the law-tongue—wouldn''t be right, otherwise—so the Great King probably learned the law-tongue as well, if only to make sure they were swearing the oath properly.


    So, yes, Greek is an outlaw-tongue. If you can''t swear an oath, it can''t be part of the law.


    I smile, quite pleased I reasoned out that little conundrum, only to remember that I''m not exactly alone.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Dad and Mother blink in tandem, brows lifting ever higher on their heads. "Halla," Dad begins, lifting brows transitioning into a shallow furrow, "what are you mumbling about?"


    "Oh, um," fire burns on my cheeks as I look off to the side, a hand rubbing at the back of my neck. Mustering what strength I can, I squeak out, "I-is Greek an outlaw-tongue?"


    Dad blinks as Mother snorts, patting him on the shoulder as she turns away. "She is her father''s daughter. That, at least, is for sure."


    A flicker of something imperceptible passes across Dad''s face, but he shakes his head and banishes it to the depths as he turns his attention on me, "I... I''m not sure, really, if Greek is an outlaw-tongue or not. That''s a question for the Lawspeaker, I reckon." He shrugs as he nods towards the sledge, now fastened to the ox, "Who you can ask at Asvir."


    I smile. Asvir awaits!


    The smile dims as I remember the circumstances.


    Three for three, dammit.


    <hr>


    The road from Einhollstad, Dad''s farm, the easternmost farm in the Valley, to Asvir is a winding route that follows a river serving as the boundary of the Hading. As we travel, the path grows ever more defined as it''s joined by well over a dozen trails of trampled-down dirt leading to the other farms in the Valley.


    When travelling westwards, to Asvir, the sword-hand view is a thick wall of dense trees and hardy underbrush. It''s full of monsters and beasts of wicked nature, though the Hading herself is said to be kind to humans. As long as they don''t seek out the Heart of the Hading, of course.


    The shield-hand view, however, is of gently sloping grasslands dotted with the faint smoke-trails of farms at work. If one were to turn south at any point on the road, they would be traveling downhill all the way to the coast.


    The bleating of goats fills the air long before we round a bend, revealing a scratchy-cloaked goatherd and his herd. Surrounded by a dozen goats of varying ages, the young-eyed man leans on a spear as he offers a respectful nod to Dad and I. He stays silent, as is only right for a man as low status as a goatherd to do in the presence of a landowner.


    "How goes the goats?" Dad greets the young goatherd with a smile and a shallow wave, signaling the ox to stop with a tug on the lead.


    The goatherd grumbles for a moment, scratching at his patchy-bearded cheeks. He''s quite young, maybe a year or two older than Eric at most, but I don''t recognize him. He must be a recent arrival, then, and probably grabbed the first opportunity that came his way to obtain legal status. "Goes as well as it can, stubborn beasts."


    Dad hums, nodding his head in solidarity, "Goats, cursed be their name. Poor cloth, worse attitudes."


    The goatherd snickers, his tongue loosening up, "Well, these goats in particular aren''t so bad."


    "Oh?" Dad tilts his head to the side in a rather dog-like manner, eyes glimmering with genuine curiosity, "Do tell."


    I sigh, slumping forward as I rock on my heels. If there''s anything I''ve learned in my twelve years, it''s that adults love nothing more than gossip. Still, if nobody ever gossiped, then how could ordstirr be earned?


    The goatherd swells with pride, "These goats are of a divine lineage! See, look at their horns," he gestures at the closest of the herd. Dad leans in, as do I, "You can see the gold, no?"


    Dad''s brows lift as he whistles, the sunlight revealing the gleam of gold. Not much, not much at all, but the glimmer of gold shines regardless. Each goat seems to have a trio of triangles cut out from the left ear, marking the goats as belonging to Einarr Blurryblade, one of Hersir Dorri''s Hirdmen.


    "Impressive!" Dad says as he turns to the goatherd, "Tell me, herdsman, what is your name? Any man trusted enough to look after such treasures is a man I wish to know!"


    The goatherd smiles wide, his chest swelling even further. The faintest traces of ordstirr, gained by the praise of a social superior, settles about his shoulders. It soon joins with his gathered glory, fading away as it adds further heights to his strength. "I am Salgrun, Gundruk Highjumper''s son, of Clan Gundriving."


    "Well met, Salgrun Gundruksson," Dad answers as he extends his hand, which Salgrun takes, "I am Steinarr Freedfire, son of Hallr Blackhand, of Clan Volsung."


    Salgrun''s jaw drops, his hand shaking as he stumbles away from Dad. I don''t bother hiding my smile as the spear clatters to the ground. Dad has quite the illustrious lineage, after all, and it would be a tragic shame to hide it away.


    "A-a V-Volsung?!" Salgrun squeaks out between rapid breaths, eyes wider than any meal-bowl, "D-do I stand in the presence of a K-King?!"


    Dad laughs, lifting his hands in a calming gesture, "Fear not, Salgrun, for I hail from a branch of less-than Kingly luster."


    Salgrun''s knees stop shaking with such incredible intensity, though he still looks as though he might pass out at any moment. Once, a foreign man of means came knocking at our door, demanding to speak with the master of the house. When he learned who he barged in on, he actually did faint, but not until after throwing up all over his own clothes. That was a good day.


    "S-still," Salgrun forces out as he silences his chattering teeth, "that a Volsung would speak with a lowly goatherd like myself, you do me a great honor." He bows, both out of respect and also to pick up his fallen spear.


    "Think nothing of it," Dad replies as he urges the ox on once more, "though, before I depart, allow me to offer words of wisdom as a parting gift," clearing his throat, Dad lifts his head and says, "Keep your spear close, for, while the beast I encountered is dead, where there is one frenzied wolf, there are often more."


    Salgrun swallows, tightening his grip on his spear, but nods regardless, "Thank you for your wisdom, Steinarr Freedfire."


    "And thank you for the conversation, Salgrun Goldgoat," Dad replies, bestowing a kenning on the stunned young man.


    Dad smiles as he leads the way and I smile as I walk close behind.