Harvest comes to a close just as the first whispers of winter reach our ears. Gray skies cloud the heavens as they drift heavy with rain and snow. The sun dims as it too readies for the coming slumber, the only time the light-chasing wolf draws back for rest.


    Winter is the time of rest, where men and women alike dine on the food stockpiled over the long summer months. It is a time of feasting, of gathering together to celebrate the changing of the seasons. It is a time of relative safety, where men can let down their guard if only for a short while.


    Winter is also the time of death, when the oldest and youngest alike succumb to spirits of disease and decay. It is a time of fear, both of the cold and of the other as you sit and stew in your own thoughts, cooped up inside for weeks at a time. It is a time of desperation, where once friends meet in bloody battle out of a desire to see their families survive.


    When winter comes, those with wisdom go to their house and herds and select the finest from their possessions. Silver, cows, and gold alike are sacrificed to the Gods but the best is always held in reserve and promised to the Gods only as long as they see the wise men through winter unharmed.


    The spirits too must be thanked with sacrifices lest they grow unhappy. Bowls of butter and porridge are left out at night, thick cloth serves to keep the spirits warm through winter, and an offering of fragrant herbs dangle from the doorway to signal that this home welcomes any and all guests.


    A great deal of work goes into making sure that all the spirits of the land and all the helpful creatures receive their just desserts. Otherwise, great strife could befall a family and their farm.


    So there is little wonder in the sight of a plump cow bearing the marks of sacrifice as it''s led along to its fate.


    The biggest cow of the herd placidly chews her cud as I tug her along by a length of wolf''s gut cord. A light blanket of snow muffles the last crunch of autumn''s leaves as the heavy furs around my shoulders keep me safe from the bite of winter''s chill. The warm hat Mom made me last year still covers my ears and keeps the snow from my eyes, though I''ll probably need to get it resized soon. Hopefully, anyways.


    ...I''ll be so damn mad if I don''t grow anymore. I swear to the Gods that I''ll... That I''ll... Well, somebody will have to pay!


    Regardless, Dad and Eric wait for me at the bottom of the hill, dressed in a similar manner to myself. Dad, however, has something that neither Eric or I could ever afford—not at this point in our lives, anyways.


    The glint of shining mail gleams beneath Dad''s furs as he holds a helmet of strong iron in his hands. I can only catch slight glimpses of the fine pattern of interlocking iron rings from between the swaying of his cloak, but what I see is more than enough for my imagination to run wild.


    I''d long known that Dad had mail hidden away in a chest beneath his sleeping cabinet, I''d snuck enough peeks to know that for sure, but empty mail in a chest is a far different sight to mail worn for battle.


    Armor is expensive, extremely so. A suit of mail can easily eclipse the average farm in cost and so is rightfully rare. The most a man might be able to afford is a helmet if he''s lucky, nothing if he''s not. Some men might wear shirts specially thickened to protect against the bite of a blade, but it is far from iron''s equal.


    With how expensive mail is to procure, the typical man is quite reasonably wary of it being damaged. If a man wears mail, he is certain he will have need of it. Weapons and shields are carried by any self-respecting man as both a sign of status and a means to defend oneself, even if they aren''t certain they''ll be needed. Not so with mail.


    By all rights, a farm like Dad''s shouldn''t be able to afford a set of mail, let alone ever wear it out, and yet here Dad stands like nothing is amiss.


    "Dad, you''re," I begin as I come into speaking range, "that''s mail!"


    Dad nods, his face grim yet determined, "The Hading will test us as only the untamed wilderness can. If we do not face her with all our might, we will never reach her Heart."


    "Or ever leave," Eric mutters with a grimace as he shifts back and forth on his feet, wishing very much that he could escape to the sea. Eric wasn''t always in love with the ocean waves, he once had a fascination with the forest.


    Dad frowns, his eyes softening as he looks upon his son, "Eric, you..." He takes a deep breath, "You don''t need to come with us."


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    Eric almost flinches away in shock, steel-gray eyes snapping wide as jaw flies open, "D-Dad!" He nearly stumbles over the word as he shouts, honest offensive in his gaze, "What kind of son, what kind of brother, do you think I am?"


    Dad''s grim mien cracks as a smile splits his face, "Sometimes I forget how fine of a man you''re growing into, Eric, so please forgive this old man his lapse of judgement."


    "You didn''t forget shit, ''old man''," Eric snorts a grumble as he waves the whole thing off.


    Something sticks out in my mind, catching my attention like a hook does a fish. Eric stopped shifting on the spot, stopped running fingers over his spear, and stopped casting fearful glances at the woods in the distance. There''s no fear anymore, no worries of the future.


    That was calculated; Dad did that on purpose, didn''t he?


    Dad catches my glance and offers a slight nod as he gestures at the mural-like cow, "Good to see that Asveig didn''t skimp out on the paint."


    "You''re lucky that Mom''s not here, else she''d smack you upside the head!" I snort and shake my head. Sure, Mom can be pretty frugal—anytime Dad wants to give a gift to someone he has to run it past her first, after all—but she knows better than to risk angering the spirits or the Gods.


    ...Right?


    Dad merely cracks a grin, fond memories playing out behind his eye as he chuckles, "It''s a story I''ll tell you later, for now, though," his smile flattens as his brows furrow and his jaw stiffens, "there is work to be done."


    <hr>


    Traveling to the meeting point—a spot midway between Kerr''s, Vidar''s, and Dad''s farms—was easy enough. Unfortunately, the cow seems to be developing something of a stubborn streak which left us the last to arrive.


    Three ash trees stand alone tall atop a small hill, each ancient and weathered by time. Beneath their boughs are a trio of flat boulders carried there by the men now resting atop them. Strings laden with strips of colorful cloth stretch between each tree, connecting them together and turning this place sacred.


    "This is a holy place," Dad says as we draw near, his voice laden in caution, "No iron may be bared and no blood can be spilled on this ground."


    "We understand," Eric says before I can. I shoot him a playful poke and he answers with a teasing tongue.


    "Good," Dad says just as we arrive at the place of meeting. A sea of armed men greet our presence with waves and smiles as we proceed up the hill.


    A low whistle leaves my lips as I lay eyes on all the heads gathered here, "That''s... Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five men?"


    "Thirty-one," Dad says with unusual certainty, "nine came with Vidarr, twenty-two came with Kerr."


    "That''s a lot of men," Eric says with slight unease, an unease I share as I recall the glimmer of mail. Thirty-one Norsemen is a force to be reckoned with no matter who you are, but Dad feels the need to wear his mail with even such a collection of power at his back?


    "It might be enough," Dad mumbles beneath his breath as he unties Crowfeeder from his belt and hands it, sheath and all, off to Eric, "Stay here, don''t wander off too far."


    He disappears into the trio of trees to meet with his blood-brothers, leaving Eric and I alone with the cow. We don''t stay alone for long, though, as we''re soon greeted by the presence of friends.


    "Halla!" Sticks calls my name as he and Bear climb to meet me. Stigmar offers Eric a warm wave as they begin talking about a ship Kerr is said to have his eye on, leaving Sticks, Bear, and I to talk as we will. "What took you so long?" He chuckles, "I was thinking of taking bets on how long we''d be here for!"


    "Damned cow," I flick a sharp hand at the beast in question, who now placidly chews on the sparse shoots of grass still poking out from the snow, "refused to take more than a few steps at a time."


    Sticks snorts, "What, can the great and mighty Halla not get a simple cow to obey her will?"


    "I''d like to see you do better!"


    "Oh yeah? Then you will! When we set out, give me the lead and we''ll see how things play out!"


    "Why are we here?" Bear speaks up for the first time, "Dad didn''t tell me anything other than to gather the men."


    "You don''t know?" Sticks grins as he swaggers up to Bear, "Sparks'' pops went and pissed off the Hading! Why he did such a fool thing I don''t know, but it must have be–"


    "Watch it, Sticks," I growl, brows furrowed tight.


    Sticks snorts, his mouth running faster than his sensibilities can keep up with, "Oh yeah? What''re you gonna do about it, huh? Can''t spill blood on sacred ground!"


    "I don''t need to spill blood to teach you a lesson!" I retort with a heavy scowl, my fists twisting tight as I make to step closer, only for the sudden presence of Bear to put a stop to any burgeoning violence.


    "No," Bear speaks a single word as he plants a heavy hand on both of our shoulders.


    "No?" Sticks and I ask at the same time, an event that doesn''t go unnoticed by either of us.


    "No." Bear nods, happy to have such understanding friends.


    Well, there''s nothing to do now but wai–


    "We make for the Hading''s Heart!" Vidar Smash''s roar of command rattles the land and shakes birds from the sky.