The sun rises on the following day, the taste of the Hersir''s morning meal still fresh on my tongue as Dad, Eric, and I set out once more.


    The ox groans, grumpy when woken, but moves once urged with promises of grain and grub. Eric, revived by the Seeress, lies back on the sledge with a blanket covering his lower body.


    "I still don''t see why I have to ride in the sledge," Eric says, arms folded while he grumbles. He winces as the sled-runners ride over a rough patch, "My legs are fine, I can walk!"


    "Your legs are fine, brother-mine!" I reply with a laugh, a certain sense of giddiness rising within. Eric''s back, he''s back! My shame is gone, the slate wiped clean with his revival. "But with your spine, the problem lies."


    "Gods save me, send me back to the soul-sleep," Eric sighs with head in hands, "Halla''s started rhyming."


    Dad chuckles, a hand resting on the sled at all times, "She has the makings of a skald."


    "Why so blue? Our father''s words are true!" I grin as Eric groans, head never leaving his hands.


    Hm, how true are Dad''s words actually? Do I really have the makings of a skald? Making poetry never really interested me much and I''m not sure I fancy being forced to speak in meter. And aren''t skalds prohibited from fighting or something? I remember hearing about a king or something somewhere not letting their skalds fight, but is that true?


    "Dad?" My curiosity gets the best of me as I drop the rhyming, much to Eric''s pleasure, "Aren''t skalds not allowed to fight?"


    Dad blinks, cocking his head to the side as he turns a squint on me, "Not allowed to fight?" I shift under his stare, warmth rising to my cheeks. "Just where on Midgard did you get that idea from?"


    "I, well," I mumble as I play with the hemline of my dress, "I heard that a King didn''t let his skalds fight?"


    Dad''s stare holds its strength, his brows digging deeper as his jaw slackens ever-so-slightly, "I, what?" He shakes his head and takes a breath, centering himself before continuing, "I''m not sure where you heard that, but it isn''t true. Some Jarls and Kings keep skalds in their employ to watch and record feats of battle, but that''s a fair bit different to not being allowed to fight, of all things."


    I purse my lips and file that information away. If that isn''t true, then maybe I''m wrong about other parts of being a skald too? "Do skalds have to speak in meter?"


    Dad nods, "Real ones do, yeah. Anybody can make a poem," he waves a hand alongside a shrug, "but that doesn''t make them a skald."


    "Like how Mom knows magic but that doesn''t make her a seeress," Eric adds from the sled.


    "Well, if making poetry doesn''t make you a skald and doing magic doesn''t make you a seeress," I frown, brows furrowing, "then what does?"


    Eric blinks, a blank look on his face. Dad shrugs, but at least he has a few words on the matter, "Knowledge of certain secrets is my guess."


    "What kind of secrets?"


    Dad shrugs again, "Wouldn''t be much of a secret if everyone knew, would it?"


    I hum, "I guess you''re right." Kicking at the ground, a certain thought comes to mind, "Dad, do you know any secrets?"


    Dad snorts, "I know plenty of secrets, Halla," he chuckles, eyes creasing with humor as he lifts his canteen to his lips, "but most cannot, or should not, be shared."


    I scowl as Eric snickers. He probably knows secrets too, the bastard. Well, I know something that he doesn''t!


    "Hey, Eric! Guess what secret I know!" I draw myself to my full height as I fix him with a prideful grin, "I know the true secrets of the Stoker State!"


    Dad erupts into a sudden coughing fit as he staggers off to the side, water spraying from his nostrils as he wheezes, "W-what?!"


    I blink, that wasn''t quite the person I was expecting to have that reaction. "I... I know the secrets of the Stoker State?" Dad''s eyes narrow, doubt sparking behind his gaze, "...Because I unlocked it? So I know the secrets now... Right?"


    Eric''s jaw drops, "Wait, you have the Stoker State? How?! When?"


    ''Why didn''t you use it with the wolf?''


    It goes unsaid, but it''s clear in Eric''s voice all the same.


    "I..." I swallow, wisps of unwarranted shame rising within, "I only unlocked it when you, um."


    "When I died," he finishes for me, rising ire falling as he sighs, "Fair enough, I guess. It needs a lot of stress to trigger."


    Dad frowns, heavy wrinkles lining his weary eyes, "That... would explain why you were so out of it when I got there. I had to use an Aspect to put you right," I blink, my memories of the immediate aftermath of the wolf are a jumbled mess of blurring motion and blank spots, "I''d thought that Eric had manifested his heated heart and that you had finished the wolf off, but..." He shakes his head and reaches into the sled, "I wanted to save this for Yule, but I think its more fitting now."


    Dad''s hand emerges with a foot-long bundle wrapped in wool. He offers it my way and I gingerly take the gift, carefully unwrapping it to reveal...


    My eyes widen, "Is that–"


    "A double-sized work-knife," Dad interrupts me with a grin and a knowing wink, "and nothing more."


    I snort. He can call it a work-knife all he likes, but I know a sax when I see one. If knives are the little brother of the sword, then saxes are the middle-child. Sure, it''s a little on the smaller side of things, only about eight or so thumbs long compared to the usual twelve-to-fourteen, but that''s fine by me.


    With a handle of wood and a thick blade of good, strong iron, the sax fits well to my hand. The broken-back blade gleams in the light, my grin reflecting in its polished surface.


    Dad rests a hand on my shoulder, a smile on his face, "When we get home, I''ll help you make a sheath for it." The smile fades as he lets loose a breath, "Halla, I want you to promise me you won''t go around saying you have a weapon."


    "Dad, I–"


    "I''m serious, Halla," he continues, voice firm and eyes stern, "It''s against the Law for you to wield a weapon, and comes with a fine. While the money isn''t an issue, it would give my enemies ammunition to hurt us with."


    I scowl, eyes drifting to where Eric rests, quiet as a mouse. His spear sits next to him, close by in case he might need it; while he''s crippled.


    "So why even give me it, then? If I''m not allowed to carry it, then what''s even the point?"


    "I didn''t say that, Halla," Dad''s voice turns calm, gentle, a flicker of humor in his gaze, "I said for you to not go around saying you have a weapon."This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    "But," my eyes snap wide as realization dawns. A double-sized work-knife, of course! Why am I so stupid? I should have put that together as soon as he said it. "But, Dad," I grin, "I don''t have a weapon, I have a double-sized work-knife."


    Dad smiles, "That''s my girl."


    "And if anyone doubts me, then they just need to take a closer look!" My grin widens, "One right between the eyes!"


    Dad chokes down a snort, his hands darting faster than my eyes can see. Fingers fall on my head, ruffling my hair as I scowl and stomp my foot.


    My falling foot finds a shallow puddle, splashing my dress with crimson red. Levity dies in its cradle, strangled by the grisly sight now before our eyes.


    Flies buzz as carrion-feeders feast, their cries filling the air with mockery. Perched upon the half-devoured corpses of gold-horned goats, the crows and ravens stuff their bellies with strips of flesh. A foul, charnel stench clogs our noses, forcing its way down our throats.


    "Halla," Dad says as he steps forward, a hand falling to Crowfeeder, "guard the sled. Eric," Dad''s voice takes on a commanding tone as his back straightens and a certain gravitas clings to his words, the air of a man used to being obeyed by warriors both loyal and not, "ready your wind, focus on keeping enemies off Halla."


    Dad doesn''t make it five steps before a voice calls out from off the road, "Steinarr? Is that you?"


    That voice! It''s– "Salgrun?" Dad finishes my thought, his eyes scanning for the voice''s source.


    "Yes, yes it''s me!" Salgrun answers as an arm peeks out from a ditch''s depth. His arm is a mangled mess of bone and blood; it''s an outright miracle that it remains attached let alone lift-able. "I''m here, in this hole!"


    Dad exchanges a look with Eric and I before taking his hand away from Crowfeeder. He gestures my way while moving towards Salgrun, "Halla, bring water."


    Eric quickly digs a canteen from the sled and hands it to me, which I bring to Dad and Salgrun. Stepping next to Dad, I''m met by the sight of a familiar face pinned by a large, heavy rock. Salgrun is stuck beneath said rock, which keeps him trapped at the bottom of a ditch.


    "What happened to you?" Dad asks as he takes a knee, hands exploring the stone for good holds.


    "Bandits," Salgrun winces as Dad gives the boulder an experimental push, "Outlaws, really," Dad pauses at that, as do I.


    "Outlaws?" I ask, casting a look across the killing grounds. I don''t remember anybody being outlawed recently in the Hading, but maybe someone was in Jurgdby? Or even in the whole of Agder Kingdom?


    "Yeah, outlaws," Salgrun says with a nod—well, as much of a nod as he can muster, what with his head''s movement being blocked by the rock, "At least, I''m pretty sure they were outlaws. Didn''t recognize any of them, but they were long in tooth and had sickly yellow eyes."


    Dad frowns, eyes lingering on a dead goat, "This is the work of beastly men."


    "No arguments here," Salgrun coughs, "Four, maybe five of them came at me from the woods. Happened yesterday, soon after you left. So soon that, for a moment, I thought that you''d come back for one reason or another."


    "Caught you by surprise," Dad mutters as he finds a grip, "No warning, no challenge of ambush, the work of cowards."


    "Three of the bastards cornered me while the others grabbed a pair of goats," I quickly count the bodies while listening to Salgrun''s tale. Ten in total, meaning two are missing, "I got one of the rat fuckers before they pinned me, but was powerless to stop them from carrying off what they could and killing what they couldn''t. They even took my spear!"


    "Bastards," I find myself muttering, hand tightening around my newfound sax.


    "My thoughts exac–" Salgrun''s words shift into a horrid scream as Dad''s fingers dig through rock and stone. Muscles flex, great slabs of might bulging on his back as he hefts hundreds of pounds of hardened earth and tosses it to the side. Beneath the boulder, Salgrun''s body is a broken mess of crumbled bones and collapsed flesh. Frankly, he should be dead.


    I quickly hop into the pit, unscrewing the cap on the canteen and bringing it to Salgrun''s lips. He drinks eagerly and deep, life returning with every gulp of soothing water''s kiss.


    By the time Salgrun finishes drinking and I replace the canteen''s cap, I lift my head to find that Dad''s taken to examining the goats and fighting ground. He picks up half of an axe-haft before frowning and tossing it aside, the rest nowhere to be seen.


    "Their weapons are poorly cared for," he idly mentions after a while, "their footwork is sloppy and their battle-strokes lack control." Catching my confused look, Dad elaborates, “Look at how many strikes it took to kill this goat,” with extended index finger travelling one-by-one, Dad points out each of the half-dozen blows, “Six, five too many, sloppy work.” Crouching, he prods one of the wounds in particular, “When you make a swing, you align the blade’s edge so that it hits straight on, otherwise it won’t bite or, worse, it’ll get stuck.”


    Leaning in close, I cast careful eye on the goat’s body. It’s as Dad suggests, the edges of the wound are ragged, roughly hewn. One of the strikes in particular catches my eye, one square on the goat’s skull; which prompts a question of my own, “Which blow hit first?”


    Dad taps the head, “Noticed that too, did you?” He smiles when I nod, “Good eye. The first blow killed the goat, but they gave it five more regardless. What does that tell you?”


    I frown, answers on my lips, “They might have a taste for blood,” I slowly begin, working my way through my thoughts. “They might be in a rush, or can’t tell if the goat’s alive or not.” My frown deepens as my eyes narrow, an idea coming to mind, “Or maybe they had a reason for hitting so many times? Six is two threes, a strong number.”


    Dad snorts, twin jets of thin smoke billowing free, “Not impossible, but I reckon it’s a bit unlikely. Especially since each goat bears a different number of strikes. Besides,” he adds after a moment’s thought, “why stop at six and not the stronger nine?” Lips twisting, he rises from his crouch and turns eyes on Salgrun, “Salgrun, what can you say of your attackers?”


    "They were desperate," Salgrun says before he takes a deep breath and hauls himself to his feet. Despite the broken, shattered state of his body, he retains enough strength in his limbs to stand regardless. I whistle, impressed by his fortitude. "Their clothes were ragged and through the holes I saw infected wounds and visible ribs."


    Wait… Salgrun still has his clothes. Unless the Outlaws were so far gone to no longer care for the state of their clothing, then surely they would have stripped Salgrun of his garb, no? They don’t seem to care about the condition of their weapons, if the broken axe haft is anything to go off of, but they still retain enough good sense to loot weapons. But why stop there?


    “If their clothes were so ragged,” I begin as Dad helps Salgrun from the hole, “then why didn’t they take yours?”


    My question casts a spell of silence across Dad and Salgrun, their own brows furrowing in contemplation.


    Dad’s eyes narrow, darting towards Salgrun, “They took your weapon, did they not?”


    Salgrun nods, “Aye, they did, but not before I nailed one of the bastards with a Spearcast Sunder. Scum-sucker didn’t get up from that one, I sent him to his fate.”


    “And how many did you say there were?”


    Salgrun blinks, “Five, well, four after I killed the one.”


    “Four men,” Dad mutters as I frown, thoughts twisting in knots. I eye the goats; they don’t seem large enough to warrant two hands, but maybe the outlaws were weak with hunger? “Two to carry off their dead, two to carry off a goat each.”


    “It’s odd for outlaws to care about their dead, right?” I ask with tilting head.


    Dad wiggles a hand back and forth, “Depends on how far gone they are, I’d suppose. Outlaws rarely travel in groups, makes it harder to avoid hunters, so there isn’t much precedent.”


    “I see,” I frown and rock back and forth on my heels, “This is very strange.”


    Dad snorts, “From the mouth of babes,” his hand flashes out, fingers primed for a hair-rustling that I’m utterly helpless against.


    “I’m not a babe…” I mutter as I nobly weather the storm.


    Dad chuckles before stepping away, his smile dropping as he stands to his full height. Shoulders squared, steel-gray eyes grow dark and dull as they turn on Salgrun. Clouds gather in the distance, a strange reverberation in the air.


    "What do you intend to do now, Salgrun Gundruksson?"


    Salgrun grimaces, letting his head droop, "I... I was hired to do a job and I failed in it." He scowls, teeth grinding as his eyes screw shut, "I feel such shame... Should I... Should I flee? I, I fear what Einarr Blurryblade will do to me when he discovers my failure."


    Dad stays silent, listening to Salgrun''s words, before giving voice to his thoughts, "You are right to feel shame and you are right to fear your failure, for it will bring you nid." Dad''s voice lowers, tone turning stern, "But to flee the consequences is to brand yourself nidingr. No man in the Hading would do business with you. Be a man, be a dreng, and face the results of your actions with head held high and pride in your heart."


    Salgrun swallows and takes a deep breath, "I... I understand, thank you for your words," he nods and lifts his head, eyes fierce and unyielding, "I will face my failure head on, I will find those bandits, and I will clear my good name."


    Dad smiles, "Good man!" He claps Salgrun on the shoulder, “Come with me to my house. Once Eric is safe and secure, you and I will go to Einarr together and I will lend my aid in the hunt.”


    Salgrun matches Dad’s smile, “Though you say you are not of Kingly lineage, your actions would have me believe otherwise, my friend.”


    I roll my eyes as the men embrace. Dad just can’t help himself, can he? Can’t go a year without finding a new ‘fixer-upper’ to forge into a strong man.