"An outlaw''s hideout?" I repeat Sticks'' words back to him, my brows furrowing in confusion.


    "That''s right," Sticks nods, pride in his voice, "an outlaw''s hideout!"


    I blink, long and slow, and stop dead in my tracks. Anger sparks in my heart, a wasted day''s irritation mounting. "Stigandr Kersson," he twitches as I speak his full name, "you expect me to believe that you found the outlaws'' hideout when all the trackers of Einarr Blurryblade couldn''t do the same?"


    He scowls, "See? This is why I didn''t want to tell you!" He huffs, folding his arms, "Besides, I never said that I found the outlaws'' hideout, just that I found an outlaw''s hideout."


    I narrow my eyes, "You and your wordplay..." A sigh slips my lips as I shake my head, "Fine, fine, show us this hideout you''re so proud of, then."


    Bear picks that moment to speak up as Stick resumes leading the way, "How did you even find this hideout?" He eyes the encroaching shadows warily, his hand never straying far from his weapons. He holds his shield at the ready, painted blue and green and eager for a battle its master would rather avoid. "Monsters prowl these parts."


    "Dad said Snowy and I needed to get out of the house more," Sticks says as he pushes aside a set of low-hanging branches, "so I figured I''d show him how to hunt."


    "Stigulf is eight years your senior," I level a flat stare at Sticks, "I''m sure he knows how to hunt."


    "You''d think!" He laughs, shaking his head, "But I''m not sure I''d call obliterating rabbits with icicles ''hunting''."


    My brows lift, "Stigulf Snowbeard really did that? Doesn''t he have an ice kunna?" Well, he must have an ice kunna if he’s blasting icicles. I chuckle, head tilting to the side, "What, does he not know how to adjust ambient temperature or something?"


    Sticks shrugs, "I guess not!" He pauses before scratching at the back of his head, "Well, I might have pissed him off a bit by saying I''d teach him how to hunt."


    "Few are better at drawing out ire than you, Sticks," Bear adds with a final nod.


    "And don''t you ever forget it!" Sticks cries, a proud smile on his face, "I''m the best there is!"


    "Alas," I say with a mocking sway of the head, "if only you were as good at getting out of trouble as you are at getting into it."


    "You''re one to talk, little miss ''lets go beat someone up''," Sticks crooks a brow as he smirks, "If we always did what you wanted, we''d be swimming in enemies!"


    "And in ordstirr!" I retort with truthful words.


    While it ultimately isn''t all that much compared to grown men, most of the ordstirr we''ve gained over the years has come from our feats of battle against the neighboring boys. Course, with people growing up and getting actual weapons, it''s been a bit since we last showed everyone who''s boss. A shame, really, I''ve been itching to practice my Knee-Groin Trick—Dad won''t let me practice it on him, it’s not like it would be permanent!


    "Anyways," Bear interjects, putting a stop to the brewing argument while nodding towards Sticks, "you said you discovered this hideout while hunting with your brother? What possessed you to go this deep?"Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    "Well," Sticks kicks at a rock, sending it spiraling off into the woods, "you know how Snowy can get, yeah? Wants to be a Berserk and all that."


    "How''s that going for him, anyways?" I ask, curiosity spiking, "Wasn''t he planning on going to Jurgdby when the thaw came?"


    "He decided to help Dad with the planting first," Sticks says and I nod, comprehension dawning. Planting and harvest are the two busiest times of the year, all hands are needed to see it through, "but the Kyrsvikingar did say that they would accept him into the lodge if he braved the Meinvaldfjord."


    "The Meinvaldfjord? Isn''t that a bit much to expect from him?" I frown at that. In the southern parts of Norway, in Agder Kingdom especially, fjords are relatively rare. What we lack in numbers, however, we make up for in intensity.


    The Meinvaldfjord is one such fjord; though its mouth is open wide for the ocean, no water may enter its space, forcing would-be travelers to brave it without a drop of water. Lying a ways to the west and separating the Hading from its Jurgdby-seated master, the Meinvaldfjord is known to keep those foolish enough to enter its domain trapped in its depths for days on end, often releasing them only when they ride the limits of thirst.


    "It''s stupid is what it is!" Sticks grumbles, growling all the way, "You know Sterkerr Longnose''s eldest, Roggi? He didn''t have to do anything to join, the Kyrsvikingar just let him in!"


    "Roggi didn''t want to join as a Berserk, though," Bear points out with thoughtful words. His reasoning is sound, I reckon, as Berserks tend to play vital roles in a Warband’s martial endeavors. Makes sense that they’d want only the best—or maybe it would make more sense to get as many Berserks as you can no matter the quality?


    Hmm, something to think about.


    "Yeah, yeah, whatever," Sticks waves off Bear''s words, returning to the task at hand, "Anyways, Stigulf was getting bored and so was I, so we went deeper in search of bigger prey. We got separated and I wound up," he pushes through a section of bushes, disappearing into a leafy embrace, "here!"


    Sharing a look with Bear, we shrug and venture forth.


    Passing through the bushes, we''re treated to the sight of a shallow, dried-up stream-bed. Roots dive in and out of earthen walls, keeping the long-dead stream-bed from collapsing inwards and filling up the gap in the ground. A patch of leafy branches cling to their earth-bound kindred, giving it a sort of overgrown feeling.


    All in all, it''s not much to look at. Certainly undeserving of the broad smile Sticks wears.


    I open my mouth to give Sticks a piece of my mind. He brought us all this way to show us this? It''s nothing! Just some leaves and dir-


    Wait, leaves? What kind of plant grows leaves on their roots? None, that''s what, which means that someone put them there; someone wants to hide something.


    Well, actually, Dad would probably be able to come up with a plant that grows leaves on their roots. He was part of the Constantinople Gardeners’ Society, after all.


    Regardless, this isn''t Miklagard. This is Norway, thousands of miles away. Here, roots don''t have leaves. They just don''t.


    "So, yeah," Sticks says as he hops down, "I found this while I was separated from Stigulf. It''s empty, don''t worry, I''ve been keeping an eye on it for the past few weeks," he pulls aside the leafy branches and loose roots, revealing a very much not empty dugout.


    A bedroll decorates the ground, little more than a pile of leaves and a bit of furs—goat furs, I belatedly realize—but enough to provide warmth and comfort at night. A soapstone cooking pot, battered and beaten over years of hardship, sits in a smokeless fire pit dug in the corner of the hideaway. The smell of rabbit stew fills the air, a stew that’s not quite done cooking just yet.


    The fire needs to be tended, it’s running on embers, which means its master must be nearby collecting more firewood.


    “Stigandr!” I hiss, drawing sax and shield while he reverses his spear-grip, “We’re not alo-”


    A twig snap stops me dead in my tracks, searing itself into my mind’s eye as my thoughts finish my words.


    We''re not alone.