The wool-padded shield rim cracks against my brow, snapping my head back and nearly taking me clear off my feet. The wooden tip of a mock-sax pokes against my stomach; had this not been training, my guts would now be decorating the floor.


    Sweat flies from my brow as I laugh, a great big smile on my face. Breaking the weapon-grapple and dancing back, I resume position across the training grounds—a remote patch of poor, rocky soil at the edge of the Valley.


    "That''s a good trick, Dad!" I shout with glee as I raise sax and shield for another bout—the tenth one this session. I’m hoping to make twelve, but I suppose I’ll settle for eleven if that’s how things play out.


    "Works better when you can hook the shield around their head," Dad says as he adjusts his grip on his training weapons, "gives you more time to stab them."


    "Or throw them to the ground!" I add, thinking about how to best take advantage of such a move. I’ve been doing a lot of that recently, thinking about how I’d handle different circumstances in a fight. It’s good practice, I reckon, especially since I can only get Dad alone for training once a week if I’m lucky.


    Still, the planting season swiftly approaches and, after that, Dad and I will have all the time in the world to train! At least until harvest comes, but that’s still many months away.


    "If you do something like that," Dad explains as his eyes narrow, something catching his attention, "keep in mind your limited range. The weakness of the sax is its length, meaning that you need to stay close and maintain control over your opponent''s weapons to land felling blows. Throwing someone to the ground is a very good way of doing that, but all that movement gives the canny fighter a chance to free their weapons." He tilts his head to the side, tapping a finger against his brow, "Halla, you''re bleeding."


    Am I? I send a pair of fingers on a northern expedition, receiving reports of warmth and wet. Once they return, I find them covered in blood. A trickle spills down after them, coming into contact with one of my eyes in the process and forcing quarantine on the whole port.


    I chuckle, my thoughts bringing a smile to my face—one that seems to cause some uncertainty to pass across Dad''s gaze.


    "I''m fine," I say, wiping my eye with the back of my hand, only for more blood to come take its place, "Really, I am!"


    He doesn''t believe me, "Why don''t we take a break, eh?"


    "I''m not going to be able to take a break on the battlefield," I retort, hands finding my hips, "Besides, I''m not going to bleed out or anything."


    "I''ve been on more battlefields than you''ve seen years and the only time I couldn''t take a break was Crete," Dad grimaces, shaking his head, "and you bleeding out isn''t what I''m worried for."


    "Then what is?" I tilt my head.


    Dad goes to say something but clearly thinks better of it. With a shake of the head, he instead says, "Alright, sure, let''s go again."


    I grin and lift my weapons, a motion mirrored by Dad. Alright! Now we''re talking. While I quite enjoy the discussions about how to best use a trick, I much prefer the practical demonstrations, I must confess.


    The best way to learn is by doing, as far as I''m concerned, so it''s time to do!


    Boots pound against the ground as I throw myself into the fray. Laughter leaving my lips, I take a sharp swing at Dad; only a little one, just to probe the waters a little bit.


    Dad sways back, feet staying planted as his shield swings up and– Oh, I can''t see out of that eye very well, because of the blood. Yeah, yeah... I really should''ve seen this one coming. But hey, that''s what training is for!


    The shield slips free of his hands and I''m forced to dodge to the side, only for Dad to follow my movements perfectly. He twists around my left, his newly-freed hand hooking around the rim of my shield and dragging it in his wake while his sax-hand swings around my back; its wood-carved blade soon finds a rest by my neck.


    "Believe it or not, this trick is actually a weapon-lock," he idly comments as the forefinger of his sax-hand directs my gaze. "Why is that?"


    A weapon-lock without locking my weapon? I frown as I consider the circumstances. What is a weapon-lock, really? It''s a technique that locks down your opponent''s weapon, stopping them from using it at all or at least to its fullest extent.


    With Dad grabbing my shield like he has, he''s managed to use my own shield against me. I can''t exactly attack through it and I don''t have enough reach to swing over or under, not in this position. I can''t swing around my back, either; my shoulders simply don''t bend that way.


    So, yeah, he''s right. Without even touching my weapon, Dad''s locked it down. The best I can do is attack the arm at my neck, but if he targeted anywhere else I wouldn''t have even that.


    Dad nods as I explain my reasoning, "Good." The praise puts a smile on my face. Releasing his hold, he steps back and over to the fallen log serving as a resting point. Taking a seat, he untwists the cap on his canteen and takes a long swig before patting the space at his side, "Come, let''s have a chat."If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I sigh and let my arms drop. Returning my sax to my belt, I drop the flimsy training shield before plopping down next to Dad. Dad says that people who train with real shields are dumb, because shields often break in battle while going unscathed in training. Thus, you should use weak shields so you understand what a shield can and cannot take.


    Dad offers his canteen to me, which I take. Cool water wets my lips as he leans back and stretches his arms high above his head, a weary groan fleeing between widening jaws.


    "You''re improving quickly," Dad says as I nurse the canteen, "You close distance well and stay light on your feet. You react swiftly and move with purpose, but your strikes need a great deal of work." He sighs and he shakes his head, "You''re not putting enough force behind your blows."


    "But," I frown, "but I''m giving it everything I''ve got! How can that not be enough?"


    A wry smile curls the corners of his lips as he prods my bicep with a fingertip, "You''re not strong enough to swing properly." He snorts, "I''m not sure you''d even cut my arm off if you caught me on the elbow."


    "But I split wood in a single swing!"


    "And you have excellent wood-splitting skills," a gleam rises in his gaze as I fume, "What I mean by you not being strong enough," he explains as he leans in, "is that you wouldn''t be able to kill a man in a single strike, even with your best. Every time you swing your sax, it should be enough to kill if it lands square." Dad pantomimes swinging a weapon down, hewing an invisible man from shoulder to hip, "But you can''t manage that, not as you are now."


    My brows furrow, "Then how do I?"


    He smiles, "By getting stronger, by improving your hamr."


    Hamr; mastery over one''s body with all that entails. One''s ability to strike hard, heal fast, and to weather wounds all depends on their level of hamr. Normally, women like myself don’t devote much in the way towards refining their hamr, usually preferring the more mental side of things, but that’s about to change.


    I nod, jaw firm, "And how do I do that?"


    "Lift heavy objects, run great distances, and eat lots of food," Dad speaks words to live by, words I take to heart.


    "So..." I begin, smoothing out my skirts, "When can I start?"


    “Right now,” Dad’s eyes twinkle as I cheer.


    Moths would sooner flock to my beaming smile than the sun itself.


    <hr>


    At the end of every month—so about three or four weeks or so since I started my training—my friends and I always have something of a meet up. We chat, share the going-ons at our respective farms alongside the various rumors we''ve picked up, and then we go find a way to get into trouble.


    Unfortunately, the Hading is a relatively quiet place in terms of trouble, so we really have to work to find it. Anything that could give us a chance at ordstirr is too much for warriors as young as us; the forests hold beasts of brutal might while the hills and fields lack much in the way of anything of note.


    If we''re lucky, one of the rumors is something we can actually act upon, like finding a missing item, but, as is often the case, we''re just left to make our own trouble; like today.


    Today, Stigandr Kersson leads Abjorn Vidsson and I through the Hading outskirts, towards an ''interesting find'', as he put it. The trees in this part of the Hading are young but fast growing and are often felled for lumber or firewood, so it isn''t especially dangerous yet. Still, the deeper one goes, the harder it is to progress—and the more things might find you.


    Stigandr prods a patch of underbrush with his spear, glimmering green eyes turning my way with a cheeky smile creasing his cheeks, "Watch out, Sparks, with how short you are you''d probably get swallowed whole by these bushes!"


    I roll my eyes and draw my sax, a single swipe all it takes to cleave through the flimsy undergrowth, "There, Sticks," I announce as we''re showered in a spray of leaf and branch, "the way is clear and you need no longer fear losing sight of my glory."


    Stigandr laughs as he walks through the cleared opening, bits of leaf sticking in his hair. He has something of a swagger to his stride, each lengthy leg adding a little extra flair to his step.


    "How deep are we going?" Abjorn speaks his first words since we started on this little adventure, a meaty hand resting on his belt-borne sax. Though as large or larger even than most men grown, Abjorn is often quieter than a mouse and tends to hold his tongue until he''s certain he has his thoughts straight. It''s a good thing he does, too, for he''s so big and strong that Sticks and I would never get any recognition if Abjorn were the talkative type!


    "Yeah," I add, nodding along with Abjorn''s words as I pick leafy twigs from my hair, "and why all this secrecy? It''s unlike you to hold your tongue this well, Sticks," I crack a smirk as I wink, flicking a twig his way, "though the Gods know how I wish it were so!"


    Stigandr bats the twig from the air, his tongue sticking out in retort. "If you must know," he begins with an extra-large stride that seamlessly slips into an exaggerated pose with his arms-spreading-wide, "I feel it best to keep my silence as I fear you''d never believe me otherwise."


    Abjorn snorts, voice rumbling out skin-scalding words, "We don''t believe you now, Sticks."


    "Oh, shut it, Bear!" Sticks mocks an arrow through his chest, his own sheaf of them bouncing at his side, "What your obsession is with calling me that I shall never know!"


    I lift a brow, "So quickly you forget the weapons you keep," I do him the service of pointing them out, "In one hand you wield a pointy stick and on your back is nothing more than a pointy-stick launcher!"


    "So I should be called ''pointy sticks'', then," Sticks answers with a sullen tone.


    "Too long and too wordy," Bear says with solemn finality, "Sticks is better."


    "Agreed," I nod while Sticks scoffs.


    "Yeah, you two would say that," Sticks says with wiggling fingers that find homes in both Bear and my directions, "you''re called Bear and Sparks!"


    "Bear''s as big as a bear," I point out while we keep walking deeper, "so Bear fits him well."


    "And Sparks is small and bright," Bear''s words nearly knock me over. Sticks I expect such things from, but Bear?


    I round on him, fire in my eyes, "I am not small!"


    "You are small," Bear and Sticks say in unison, their heads nodding in time.


    I''m powerless in the face of a unified front. "I''m not small," I grumble as I kick at a rock, the snickers of my friends following in its wake.


    "We''re getting close, now," Sticks says, "and I reckon it''s about time I tell you what I found."


    "An outlaw''s hideout."