ã€ŠHallusaga: A Norse Xianxiaã€‹


 Prologue

    There is no escaping death. There is no running, no hiding, no bargaining, and certainly no fighting its embrace. By the taking of the very first breath, the day of death was already carved in stone. It haunts us for each and every step thereafter, shadowing every action and judging each choice.

    All men die; this is a simple truth, an inevitable fact of life. Some men refuse it, claiming they will achieve immortality. Some, like the cursed Steelfathers, even manage to stave it off for a time. But all roads end eventually. Nothing lasts forever, not even thrice-damned Steel.

    When a man dies is carved in stone; there is nothing that can change or alter that fact. What is not so immutable is the how and why of your death. That is up to you and you alone.

    Rain falls in heavy sheets, turning the blasted, war-torn hellscape of a once verdant island into a muddy, blood-soaked mire home to nothing but the dead, the dying, and those too stubborn to know better.

    Men sing their death songs as blades rise and fall, cleaving life from limb with every stroke. Corpses and fallen bodies litter the earth, filling craters with the dead and dying, as stone-faced men meet their fates.

    One man stands alone, surrounded by nothing but the bodies of those who would ravage his homeland. With one hand, he wields the hilted remains of his ancestral weapon, Twice-Forged Gram. With the other, he calls upon a flame most ancient, a fire found only in the birthplace of all existence.

    Nine men approach this lonely specter of death; nine Fathers of Steel approach a man they have sworn to kill. Rain falls as storms call, yet these nine men have not the slightest difficulty in crossing such treacherous terrain.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    "Hallr Blackhand, Slayer of Men, Master of Flame, and Warlord of Gotland!" The leader of the band calls out, his hands laden with lightning as his voice booms like thunder, "Face the truth and know that you have failed!"

    "It is not too late for our mercy!" Another of the band steps forward, a heavy axe slung across a shoulder. "Lay down your arms and we shall grant you a swift death!"

    "You know you have no chance!" A third Steelfather now lends his voice, "We Jomsvikings are more than your match! Bow your head in surrender and we shall spare your home your fate!"

    "That you think I would ever surrender to the likes of you and your ilk speaks poorly of your sanity," the one called Blackhand answers, his voice giving hope to his homeland as his ash-blackened soul surges with strength renewed, "As long as I stand, as long as I have strength in my bones, you and your Master will never be rid of me!"

    "This I Swear"

    Valkyries circle on high as men go to meet their fates, each more eager than the last to collect the soul of a man as legendary as the Blackhand. They know well that Blackhand is to die this day, and yet...

    They pause as something changes.

    High above the world, in the branches of a tree called Yggdrasil, an old, one-eyed man considers the board as his opponent, his Enemy, takes a fire-blackened piece out of play.

    A sly, toothy smile curls across his face as a raven whispers in his ear. A hand reaches out to right the now-fallen playing piece, its weathered surface charred by countless flames. A single tap and the blackened token shatters as nine fragments scatter to the winds.

    The Enemy frowns.

 Chapter 1

    The year, according to the followers of Christ, is 8970 AD and I, Halla Steinarsdottir, am lamenting my life.

    Sure, the wind through my hair is nice and, yes, the grass-filled hills near my home are quite beautiful this time of year, but neither changes the fact that I lack a weapon. While my knife does dangle from a necklace of leather cordage, I wouldn''t exactly call that a weapon. A weapon is meant for battle, for killing. Work-knives, on the other hand, are meant for work.

    Twelve whole winters old and not a single weapon to be found. What a damn shame.

    It''s just not fair, you know? Eric¡ªEric of all people!¡ªgot a spear when he turned twelve, so where''s my weapon, huh? Why can''t I have a spear or a sax or even just a normal axe? It''s not like I''ll hurt myself with it, that''s what my enemies are for!

    But no, I''m ''a woman¡¯. That means I don''t get to have a weapon. The reason why is completely beyond me, it''s not like the world will treat me any gentler just because of what''s between my legs! What was the point of teaching me to wrestle if I wouldn''t be allowed to use it?

    I heave a sigh as the wind picks up again. Wind-carried strands of deep-red hair tickle my nose as I muster every ounce of will I have to stifle a sneeze. The sweet summer scent of freshly flowering fields doesn''t help matters much as, despite how pleasant and idyllic it may seem, it only serves to set my eyes to watering and my nose to itching.

    Even with my teeth grinding and fists clenching, try as hard as I might, I can''t hold back the inevitable. Like the howling winds high up on the mountains surrounding the Hading Valley, I sneeze.

    The wave of sound echoes across the hills as the closest sheep baa and shuffle away. I scowl and wipe at my nose, growling a quiet curse under my breath at the chain of events that lead to me in this condition, "These damn allergies..."

    I nearly leap from my skin as a hand larger than my entire head lands on my shoulder. It''s not painful¡ªthe hand''s owner would never willingly harm me¡ªI just didn''t expect it. Only barely managing to suppress a cry of fear, I round on the culprit with full intention to give him a piece of my mind.

    Unfortunately, Dad makes a good point.

    "With summer thaw comes raiding tides, Halla," Dad''s steel-gray eyes¡ªthe same color as the pair in me and my siblings'' heads¡ªare as red and puffy as my own, "so this is work that needs to be done else they get a free, easy meal¡ªeven if we have to muddle through allergies to do it. Besides," he laughs heartily as he releases the hold on my shoulder, "would you rather be inside, with your mother and Asva?"

    A full-body cringe ripples across my body as I hop back in reflexive revulsion. While allergies may suck, anything is better than learning damn needle-binding! I don''t want to make hats for heads, I want to make heads into homes for an axe!

    "You think we''re gonna get raided?" Of course Eric, my wilting flower of an older brother, latches onto that with a worried grimace. He nervously runs his fingers up and down his spear as he casts a glance towards the sea. If a weapon in hand doesn''t soothe his nerves, then he should just give it to me!

    ...He''s not all that bad, honestly. Eric''s brave enough when it counts and if I wouldn''t say it out loud, then I shouldn''t think it of him. Words, even unvoiced, have power¡ªthat''s what Dad says, anyway.

    "It''s a possibility," Dad grunts as he adjusts the hat covering his deep-red hair¡ªthe same spiky, unruly hair that crowns the heads of almost all his children. "It has been some time since a serious raid left Asvir''s shores. Any curious foe may take that as a sign that we''ve gone soft."

    My hands find my hips as I puff my chest out. The wind picks up once again and sends my hair fluttering as a bold and bloody grin stretches across my face. "If a raid does threaten our shores, then I''ll drive them back to the sea with fire and sword!"

    Dad arches a brow and shakes his head, a fond smile on his face. His arm snaps out faster than I can follow and playful fingers ruffle my hair. I scowl and smack the hand away, though it lacks any real heat.

    Eric, on the other hand, scoffs. "You''ll meet them with ''fire and sword''? Dad''ll do that while you hide with Mom and Asva and Randi."

    ...You know what? I don''t feel bad about thinking him a coward anymore. In fact, I''ll tell him exactly what I think!

    Spit flies as my fists ball and I really let him have it, "Yeah, you would say that! Not that there''s any wonder what you¡¯d be doing!"

    The moment those words leave my mouth, I know I''ve made a mistake.

    The nid¡ªthe shame¡ªof those words'' implication hangs in the air like a malignant odor clings to a good day. You don''t give voice to words without meaning them and you definitely don''t speak words of nid without being willing to accept the consequences, whatever they may be.

    When all you''ve built can be torn down by a simple string of insulting syllables, who wouldn''t do whatever it takes to avoid it?

    "Halla," Dad lengthens my name, the warning tone as clear as the day is long¡ªbut it''s too late to take back my words. No matter the circumstances, a good and honorable man stands by his words. That''s what he taught me and that''s what I''ll do.

    ¡­Even if that excuse rings hollow to my own ears.

    "But it''s true!" Dad sighs as I refuse to let it drop, "Lori and Osborn Burisson came by and were saying that you were washed up, that you went soft! I called him a liar but Eric just stood by doing nothing! If I had a weapon, I would have buried it in their faces!" And probably started a feud over it, but then at least the Valley would be free of the likes of Buri and his sons. No great loss there.

    "Dad doesn''t need you or me or anyone to fight his battles, Halla. He''s strong, stronger than the both of us combined, ten-times-over." Eric shrugs, refusing to acknowledge the nid threatening his already meager ordstirr reserves, "Osborn also had Lori with him and that guy''s not exactly a pushover."

    I snort. What a poor excuse! If only I had Eric''s weapon, then I could''ve really taken them down a peg...

    Despite the enticing daydream, I still have an argument to win, "But what about what Osborn was saying? About how Dad''s gone soft? He said that he hadn''t fought anything in eight years!"

    Dad''s lips pull back in a grimace as the mention of ''eight years'' floats through the air. I don''t remember much from back then, other than there being a war or something? That was about the time that Sten left for Finland, too.

    Dad chooses that moment to step in, "What Buri''s children have to say about me holds little weight, Halla. Their words are like lukewarm bathwater¡ªutterly worthless."

    "But¨C"

    "But nothing." Dad''s voice is flat and stern, allowing no room to argue. "If you keep this up, I''ll send you back to your mother." My mouth clicks shut as the threat nearly knocks me off my feet. Dad doesn''t make light threats, "Now, go apologize to your brother and let''s move on with our lives, shall we?"

    Swallowing, I share a grimace with Eric¡ªneither of us are all that pleased by this turn of events, "I, um, I''m sorry, Eric. You''re not a coward."

    He blows a puff of warm air as he sighs and waves it off, "It''s whatever, but thanks anyways."

    The invisible nid fades away as my apology does its work, leaving an awkward stain in its wake. As easy as nid is to lay upon someone''s shoulders, it''s just as easy to take it back. All it takes for either is a couple of words. A handful of syllables can lead to triumph or tragedy.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    As Dad is so fond of quoting, ''Such is the way of things.''

    Silence rules with an awkward fist. The occasional bleat of sheep is the sole hole in the quiet cloak, a hole soon widened by Dad coughing into his fist.

    "We''re down a lamb," he says after a quick count of the flock. I grimace, an expression shared with Eric. Sheep are very stupid, and their young even more so. If you covered their eyes with their own wool, they''d think it was time to sleep! "Halla," the sound of my name yanks me from my thoughts as Dad points a finger to the nearby hillcrest, "search the hill for tracks. Eric," the finger travels down the hill, towards the long-dried stream bed, "do the same down there. I''ll stay here in case it comes back."

    "Right!" I call as I make towards the crest, eager to escape the ever-awkward aftermath. Making sure to stay in sight of Dad and Eric, I keep one eye on the ground and the other on my immediate surroundings. The lamb couldn''t have gone far, my only worry is if something finds it before us. Monsters like wolves and bears can be a serious threat to the unlucky farm. The loss of a milk cow in summer can mean suffering starvation over winter.

    Just like a roaring fire needs wood to stay burning, a strong body needs food to both keep and grow that strength. Deprived of fuel, the body starts to consume both itself and any progress made. With the body''s defenses weakened by hunger, sickness easily takes root.

    There was a lean year a few years back and, well...

    ...Disease always takes the infirm and infant first.

    Stopping to catch my breath¡ªand to banish the unwanted memories of a curious voice silenced forever¡ªa curious glint in the grass catches my eye. Bending over, I spy the shine of silver.

    Half-buried by an errant foot-press, a silver penny lays in the dirt. Plucking it from its earthen barrow, I polish it clean with my belt-borne cloth before bringing it up to the light. The sun''s glow illuminates the uncolored runes decorating both coin-faces. One side declares it a coin of Guthrum, King and Steelfather, while the other declares that it had been minted in some place called ''Colchester''. Both faces bear a coiling snake around the edge.

    While I can''t place either of those names¡ªthe only other Steelfather I know of is Jarl Erikaer Corpsemaker, who rules the Hading Valley from his fortress-town of Jurgdby¡ªit doesn''t matter all that much to me. After all, silver is silver!

    ...Even if it isn''t exactly a lot of silver. Just from eyeballing it, I reckon that this weighs... maybe a quarter-ounce at most? Probably less. A spear head¡ªnot even including the haft!¡ªcosts an ounce-and-a-half while a good sword is many, many times that. While this is a lucky find, it''s not something that''s going to change my life.

    "You find something?" I nearly leap from my skin as Dad''s voice almost startles me¡ªI did not scream and anyone who says I did is a damned liar! His eyes narrow as he lays them upon the coin in my hands, "That''s... Odd. Can I have a look?"

    "It''s from someplace called ''Colchester''," I mention as he gingerly examines the coin. "You know a ''King Guthrum''?"

    "Guthrum is King of East Anglia, in England, which is where I imagine Colchester can be found." Dad''s been to a lot of places and seen a lot of things, so it''s no surprise that he recognizes the names on my coin. His eyes drift to the side, past my penny and to the ground as he continues his impromptu lesson, "He''s also the Hlakkamen''s Steelfather, nasty pieces of work that they are."

    Returning the silver to me¡ªwhich I quickly pocket¡ªDad adjusts his sword and kneels down. Carefully eyeing the ground, his lips crease in a light frown as he runs thumb and forefinger across chin and jaw respectively.

    "See anything?" I ask as I stroke the silver hidden away in my pocket.

    "Wolf tracks, singular," he points out the tracks with a finger as his frown deepens further. "He''s chasing a set of boots, and they''re recent. Quarter-day at most."

    Boots? But, but only men wear those! A certain sick feeling settles in the pit of my stomach as I swallow a gulp, "Do you think he could be hunting..."

    "A man?" Dad finishes for me as he shakes his head, a sigh on his lips. "That''s what it''s looking like." As he claps his hands clean and rises to his feet, he suddenly pins me with a stare, "Tell me, Halla, why would a wolf hunt a man?"

    I rock back and forth on my heels as I consider the question. "This winter was pretty hard," I begin more than a little uncertain, "could he just be hungry?"

    "Could be," Dad nods, his hand never straying far from his weapons, "could also be his frenzy got out of hand."

    A shudder runs up and down my spine as Dad runs fingers across his sword. Hopefully it isn''t frenzied, those are always the most dangerous creatures. In the heart of all living things lies a ferocity belonging more to wild animals than civilized man. Tapping into that frenzy is what makes a man a berserk, and certain animals like wolves have an overabundance of such might.

    They attack at random, caring not for injury or for friends, and lay waste to all they see.

    "Dad!" Eric calls from the bottom of the hill, his shoulders stained red from a mauled wooly mess, "I-I found the lamb, but something else did first!"

    Dad freezes, eyes locking to the lamb''s limp form. He unshackles the sheath from his hip and lets the fall draw his shining iron. Crowfeeder sings as its eternally sharp edge gleams free in the light of the sun. Just as his sword slips free of its sheath, so too does a curse slip past his lips¡ªa curse he''s certainly not supposed to utter in the presence of a woman, which I eagerly memorize for future use.

    "Eric," Dad''s voice is deathly serious, killing my glee in its cradle, "where did you find it?"

    "J-just up the stream," Eric struggles through his words, fear gripping him as it does me. My eyes widen, the reality of the situation hitting harder than a longship''s dragon-prow. The mauled corpse, the wolf tracks, the conversation about frenzy... If one recognizes the signs and hints the Nornir leave for the canny eye and sharpened ear, he can predict the events of the future.

    "There''s a frenzied wolf in the area," the sheep start to bleat, panic rising as they lay eyes on their mutilated kin. Dad curses, his words harsh enough to draw a blush to Eric and I''s faces, "Eric, take your sister hom-"

    "No!"

    For a moment, confusion rules my mind as I wonder how I spoke without moving my lips, only to realize that it was not I who refused Dad, but Eric.

    Eric grips his spear as he summons his ordstirr to his side, crimson light gathering around his being. Moving like oil across a smooth surface, his spearhead gleams with heart''s glory as winds swirl about his shoulders, waiting for his command.. "If I take Halla, nobody will watch the sheep! Besides," he continues, finding his courage, "you always say to never fight alone."

    Dad opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it with a sigh, "Alright, but I''m leaving my fylgja here with you."

    Wind howls, grass sways, and the sheep huddle tight as Dad''s shadow flickers. From the depths hidden from sight by tree trunk-thick limbs comes the form of a four-legged beast. Rock spikes sprout from armor-thick fur as golden eyes gleam with magma-like heat. A broad, gray-flecked tongue lulls, steam-trailing spit hardening to stone where it splashes against the ground.

    Dad''s craghund, the shape his guardian spirit takes, stands at rib cage height, its oft-friendly face replaced with cold focus as it turns its eyes to the hills. With claw-tipped paws bigger than some shields and hand-length teeth sharper than most swords, Dad''s fylgja is a force to be reckoned with.

    "But, but Dad!" Eric starts, taking a step towards Dad, "What if you find the wolf?"

    Dad smiles, lightning-fast fingers ruffling Eric''s crimson hair, "If I find the wolf," the fingers withdraw just as fast, leaving Eric groping at empty air, "then it will not trouble us anymore." He sighs, the hints of levity fading as he turns steel-gray eyes on his children, "I''m worried about you two, especially Halla. Eric," he ignores my bristling, "you''re almost a man, so I will respect your decision to stay. Halla is only twelve, she lacks your strength, so I will take action to protect my daughter."

    "I''m old enough to be a judge, Dad!" I stomp my foot as I give him my fiercest glare, a look strong enough to set mountains a-quaking!

    Dad withstands my assault with a simple smile, a short snort dispelling my might in its entirety. "Look after your sister, Eric."

    "I will," Eric says, drawing himself up to his full height of fifteen winters, "I promise it."

    Dad nods, adjusts the grip on his sword, and sets off down the hill. Soon disappearing beyond sight, he leaves Eric and I with the bleating of sheep to keep us company. A chill passes through the air, sending shivers up my spine.

    The craghund promptly flops on the ground, its molten eyes lulling shut as it rests its head on crossed paws. I run my fingers through its thick fur, careful to avoid the sharp points of its spikes. Simple repetition has always helped my nerves, especially when rewarded with happy wags of the tail.

    "Halla," Eric breaks the silence as he slings his shield off his back. Faced with oiled leather and with a strong iron rim, the shield was a Yuletide gift from Uncle Torsten. I scowl, knowing his next words, "if the wolf appears, I want you to¨C"

    "Run?" I finish for him with a flat-lidded stare.

    Eric tries a smile, "Exactly," it falls flat.

    I hop to my feet, hands on my hips, "If the wolf shows its mangy face, I''m going to¨C"

    ¨CBe cut off by the low rumble of a craghund''s growl. Like the thunder of a rockslide, the noise thumps hard against the chest as the craghund lifts its head while its ears perk up, molten eyes fixed to the hill crest.

    The acrid stench of fear fills the air as lightning crackles in a foam-filled mouth. Yellow, hateful eyes glare with a bloodlusted fury as black storm clouds gather about a dark-furred coat. The earth drinks deep of blood leaking from a dozen open wounds.

    The wolf stands silent, completely motionless save for the subtle shifting of its storm cloud mane. Foam falls from the corners of its lightning-filled maw, revealing the true depths of its madness.

    I swallow, Eric gulps, and the craghund climbs to its feet.

    The wolf lowers its head, preparing to charge.

    Thor, lend us your might.

 Chapter 2

    Steel-gray, molten gold, and brutal yellow glow beneath darkening skies. Spearwood creaks as breath stills in tight chests. Low rumbles herald lupine charges, age-rifted kin standing on the verge of battle once more.

    I swallow, eyes unblinking, as time rests in an uneasy silence. Thunder claps, a wolf howls, and death walks Midgard. The craghund erupts into motion, meeting the charging wolf head-on with a furious growl.

    The wolf''s howl thunders across the land, hitting me harder than anything I''d felt before. I stagger, ears ringing, as warmth wets the sides of my head. Eric shouts something, glancing over his shoulder at the whirling twister of stone and storm, fur and fang. I shake my head and Eric mouths a curse, positioning himself between the brawl and me as winds gather about his spear.

    The rushing winds knock me off-balance and I drop to my knees, helpless in the face of such power. My hands shake, my soul quails, and I watch as the craghund throws its head back in a silent cry of pain.

    The wolf dives, jaw wide. Stony spikes pierce its face, but it cares not as its lightning-clad fangs close tight around the craghund''s throat. Crackling bolts build, preparing to discharge, only for a spear-shaped blast of wind to shear an eye clean off its head.

    Blood sprays in a shower of shattered bone, but the wolf ignores the pain. The tiny window is enough for the wily craghund, however, to slip its long tongue past canine lips as magma-hot saliva drips in heavy loads. The tongue slithers inside the wolf''s maw, filling it with spittle quickly hardening to stone.

    The wolf howls as lightning discharges, only for the blast to meet hard rock and explode¡ªinside the wolf''s maw. Bone shards fly in a sea of spraying blood, both the top and bottom jaws of the beast blown away in a shower of gore. Intact teeth and brittle fragments join their brothers as the wolf''s head snaps back.

    The craghund dips its head, the remnants of the wolf''s jaws lodged in its neck, as its own maw closes tight around the wolf''s forepaw. Teeth crunches through bone as the craghund snaps its head to the side, tearing the wolf''s paw off and leaving a ragged, bleeding stump in its place.

    Though missing eye, foot, and mouth, the wolf still stands. Frenzied beyond all reason, it knows neither pain, nor fear, nor mercy as its storm cloud mane crackles. The wolf pounces, the craghund darts back, only for a bolt of lightning to leap from dark clouds as molten eyes spread wide.

    The craghund goes stiff as lightning runs through its body. Steam rises from the defeated beast as it collapses limp against the ground. It sinks into the earth, reclaimed by shadows as it returns to the spirit world.

    "Dad!" Eric cries, the sound muted by the ringing in my ears. There''s barely any time to act let alone think as baleful yellow eyes turn to meet twin sets of steel-gray. The wolf gargles in a crude attempt at a howl, fear striking deep in my heart.

    I can''t move, can''t blink. My fingers twitch, my body shakes, and breath is a hard-pressed commodity. Wind gathers as the wolf digs claws into the earth. Eric shifts his shield and lowers his spear, its head gleaming with crimson might.

    Grass flies as the wolf blurs into motion. A fell-furred bullet, it tears down the hill with hatred in its eyes. Eric meets the wolf''s hate with a battle-cry as spear-wind flies, cleaving limb from shoulder.

    The wolf''s intact forepaw tumbles in its wake, but its advance goes unhindered. Carried by its speed, lightning crackles as the beast impacts. Hundreds of pounds of fur-covered muscle meets shield-leather as Eric braces himself against the ground.

    Eric cries out in pain as the shield impacts with his shoulder, a sickening crack filling the air as he slides back across the ground. Bracing his spear against the ground, his teeth grind as he pushes himself forward, twisting as he goes to hurl the wolf away.

    The wolf tumbles, struggling to its feet, as Eric readies his spear. After-images follow his motion as his spear-arm blurs, a trio of lightning-fast lunges snaking out past his shield. Three strikes carve through fur and flesh, plunging deep into guts and stomach as Eric wrenches his spear out. Reversing his grip, he screams battle-fury as the winds guide his spear.

    The spear thunders down, punching through bone and sinew as it emerges, slick with blood, from the other side. But its journey doesn''t end there, for it carries on deep into the earth and pins the wolf to the ground.

    "Halla!" Eric shouts as his fighting-hand darts to his work-knife, injury locking his shield-arm in place, "You need to run! Now!"

    I want to scream, to cry, to do anything. I-I w-want to run. Anything to get away from this, this horror. And yet...

    I tremble, frozen on my knees, as Eric displays his courage.

    Eric growls, drawing his work-knife, and turns on the beast. He throws himself at the monster, bodily keeping it pinned as his knife-hand rises and falls at a furious tempo. Blood flies as iron parts flesh and bone, yet the wolf refuses to die.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    Its hind paws lash out, claws gleaming with lethal light, as Eric stiffens, eyes wide. He falls back, stomach split open, as coiled-up guts spill out from a ragged wound. Impossibly, in a scathing denial of all good sense, the wolf rises, wrenching the spear from the ground and leaving it lodged through its body.

    Lightning crackles across the beast''s mane, charging as Eric grits his teeth. Crimson flames ignite across his body as power surges, his aura strengthened by the stoking of an Aspect. With a great heave, Eric throws his hands to the sky as wind howls and storm clouds gather.

    The wolf''s remaining feet leave the ground as the wind picks it up by the scruff of its neck. Bodily hurling it across the fighting ground, Eric musters his might as the spear dislodges, spiraling free and to the earth.

    A crown of curling iron spikes sprouts from his brow, the tips igniting one by one as Eric stokes a second Aspect. The surge of power knits flesh as it repairs his spilling stomach, returning organs to their proper homes as Eric turns steel-gray eyes to me.

    "Halla!?" He hisses, anger spiking behind his eyes, "I told you to run!"

    I open my mouth, instinct overriding fear, only to blink as a splash of blood paints my face. Thunder claps as rain beats a wet drum, the burning smell of lightning rising in the air.

    Eric cries as a lightning-clad and heavily-furred missile impacts his chest and throws him to the ground. Tooth fragments gnash, working to tear deep chunks of flesh from bone as blood spills. Eric writhes, lashing out with knife and hand as best he can with back to the ground.

    Fingers twist into fists as I grit my teeth, life returning to limb when I force myself to my feet. How can I call myself a warrior if I just stand aside in the face of danger?

    Power surges as I throw myself into action. Heart''s heat pounds in my ears as I race towards the fallen spear, its rain-slick haft sprouting straight from the ground while booted feet drive deeper into mud-churned earth. Fingers flex, wrapping around the leather handle as I wrest the weapon free.

    Twisting, I round on the wrestling bundle of brother and beast. Spear held high, I aim and aim and aim, but never do I find an opening. Eric wrestles with the wolf, the writhing mass leaving no chance for me to strike without fear of killing kin.

    I freeze, limbs trembling as I hesitate. I have to do something, I can''t just stand here! B-but, but if I attack now, I''ll hit Eric!

    Lightning crackles through the mane, taking my hesitation for the weakness it is, as the wolf''s head dips down. Its mangled maw overpowers Eric''s weakening arm, its few remaining teeth plunging deep into his throat as his head snaps back, stiff; face frozen in pain.

    Thunder claps and a flash of storm''s light blinds my eyes. I blink and stagger, spots filling my vision as smoke rises, billowing out from where Eric once laid.

    Smoke clears as spots fade, revealing the fallen form of Eric. A thin trail of smoke rises up through the gaping tunnel making up most of his torso, its source the scorched-black ground under his body. His head falls back, limp; empty gaze glossy as he stares at the dark heavens.

    Ears deaf to the noise, a scream splits my lips as legs take mindless steps forward. Thunder rings in my head, its source the heart pounding against my chest.

    E-Eric... H-he''s de-dead.

    He-he''s dead.

    He''s dead.

    ¡­

    Eric is dead.

    Three words, just three syllables.

    Eric is dead; a simple phrase, one pre-eminently easy to say. It''s so simple, so easy, that I just can''t help myself! I laugh, long and hard, as my heart beats the drums of war.

    My brother is dead, his killer is right there, and I have a weapon in my hands.

    I''ve balanced the equation, all I need now is to prove it.

    An odd sense of calmness swells in my mind despite the ever-harder pounding of my heated heart. Flames flicker in the corners of my vision as light glows beneath my skin. Whips of fire split through flesh to lash against the air; the power lurking in my clan''s heart-blood making itself known as I lift the spear above my head.

    The Stoker State, the heritage of my kin, a bloodline rich in heroic might, now hums in my heart as I step towards the unknowing wolf. Its head dips low, further mutilating Eric''s body, and completely disregarding me as a threat¡ªits mistake.

    Fire surges as heart-hammers reach their zenith. Though my clan hesitates to speak of the truth, the Stoker State is quite simple both in concept and execution. Heat builds up in the heart and provides ample fuel for one''s might. Simple, easy to grasp, and very effective.

    My mouth hinges open, jaw going slack, as a jet of flame erupts from my throat. It scorches my tongue, burning my flesh, as tears leak from the corners of my eyes. I can''t handle the power of my heating heart running at maximum, but anything less would only tickle the beast.

    The sudden gout of flame grabs the wolf''s attention, but it''s too late now. Power surges through my limbs, the spear tip shining with molten fury, as my mangled throat gives wind to a wordless war cry.

    The spear descends, the wolf reacts, but there''s nothing that could save it now. Fur burns as flesh sizzles, tendons snapping as vertebrae severs. Flames erupt from the spearhead, bathing the wolf''s insides in hungry heat. Ravenous, tongues of flames swallow chunks of flesh, turning all they taste to black charcoal.

    The wolf collapses, dead.

    So why don''t I feel anything?

    An odd haze settles across my mind as I stare at the wolf''s smoking corpse. My knees buckle, dropping me to the ground. I need to get up, to get Eric to the Seeress, but my traitorous limbs refuse to move.

    The spear slips from numbing fingers, but I hardly pay attention to the sound of wood on grass. After all, the graven face of Dad now fills my vision as smoke spills from his open maw.

    His arms wrap around me, his warmth the only thing I can feel. Brewing tears break the dam, spilling down my cheeks as I shudder and shake.

    "It''s okay, Halla," Dad says, comforting words whispering into my ear, "I''m here."

 Chapter 3

    Dad trails twin plumes of nose-born smoke, his arms full with Eric''s body as he walks. Wrapped in Dad''s cloak, Eric is spared the bite of spring as I trudge along in Dad''s wake. The largest of the sheep shuffles behind us all, guided by a length of leather ending in my hand. Tied to its back is the wolf''s fire-scorched remains.

    A fire-emptied eye socket drills holes in my back as I walk in silence. W-wolves aren''t like us humans, any death is final. And yet...

    Shame burns in my chest as I bow my head, eyes locking to the freshly-trodden grass. I should''ve done something, anything, to save Eric. His spear was right there, I had it in hand! I could have slain the beast, then and there!

    B-but... But I didn''t. I-I failed him. I froze, fear won.

    I was weak, I hesitated, and Eric died because of it.

    With every step, I draw closer to home, and my heart beats that much harder. My shoulders stiffen as I stand up straight, my brows pressing tight upon my head. Fingers curl into fists as teeth grind together.

    I failed because I froze. I froze because I was weak, untested, untrained. Of course I froze, of course I was weak. How could I not be when I forgot a rule all men must obey?

    Power Requires Sacrifice, one of the three Laws of Life.

    I sacrificed nothing, so I had no power.

    Today, that changes. Today, I sacrifice my hesitation. Never again will I freeze, never again will I let inaction take the lives of my loved ones.

    My fiery heart beats in agreement, its flames warming my soul.

    <hr>

    Home commands a powerful presence at the top of a lonely hill. Good, fertile land lies empty in the new year, soon to be plowed and made seed-sown in the coming weeks. A fence of sharpened stakes and flat boards encircles the hill, the sole entrance a stone-paved gate left open in its master''s absence.

    A small herd of cows linger around the hill, kept close by the watchful eye of my older sister, Asva. Brown hair cascades down her shoulders as she turns her head in greeting, only for her warm smile to freeze as horror dawns in brown eyes.

    Asva''s jaw trembles as slender, nimble fingers work themselves into knots. "I-is that...?"

    "Dead in body alone," Dad answers as he steps through the gate with me and the sheep close behind.

    "Oh, thank the Gods," Asva is quick to offer a bowed head to the skies, her horror vanishing as quickly as it came.

    "We will soon," Dad mutters before his tone rises into a command, "Get your mother and Randi, and bring me the bleeding bowl. Halla," he turns to me, his back straight and voice firm, as Asva nods and runs off, "unload the wolf at the butcher''s block, I''ll be there soon."

    I offer a nod just as the house''s front door swings open, revealing an older copy of Asva. Crows'' feet border narrow eyes beneath a canopy of furrowed brows. Her gaze locks on Dad as she erupts into motion, her strides long and swift. Randi, Dad''s house-thrall, follows close behind with a cloth-wrapped bundle under arm.

    "Steinarr!" Mother shouts, her voice wobbling ever-so-slightly as she slows before Dad. Hissing, she closes what remains of the gap in an instant, "What have you done to my baby boy?"

    Dad hesitates, shoulders slumping as his eyes moisten, "I... I wasn-" He shakes his head, stopping his words as he screws eyes shut, "Later, please."If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Mother''s lips thin, but she respects Dad''s wishes as she sighs. Holding out her arms, she says, "Give him here, Randi and I will see to him."

    Dad nods, gently depositing Eric into Mother''s waiting arms. She struggles under the weight for a moment before taking a deep breath and righting herself. With Randi in tow, she returns to the house.

    Dad watches them go, eyes lingering on darkness as they disappear into the house, before letting his head hang limp.

    "Halla," I startle as he speaks, "don''t you have somewhere to be?"

    My eyes widen as I let out a very manly and warrior-like squeak and, on swift feet, quickly drag the sheep to the butcher''s block.

    <hr>

    Asva and I stand as Dad crouches before the wolf''s remains, the sheep tethered to a nearby hitching post. The ground here is bare and flat, the sole adornment a thick, red-stained stump bearing hundreds of axe-bites.

    Asva holds a polished bowl of silver-trimmed wood. Runes cover the inside, carving a spell into the wood. Uncolored as they are, no magic can be wrought.

    I hold nothing, nothing save for the rising determination in my heart. All animals have their flaws, their weaknesses, so I shall learn that which wounds the wolf best. No beast-wolf will escape my wrath, this I promise.

    "Wolves," Dad begins, his work-knife''s iron gleaming in the early evening light, "are like any monster." With a smooth, practiced motion, he opens the wolf from chest to hips, revealing its insides to all who deign to look, "They have what''s called a ''frenzy-fast''," reaching his hand inside the wolf, he roots around for a moment before cracking a small grin. With a sharp wrench, his red-slick hand emerges holding a bloody mass of sack-like flesh, "Shapecrafters and Seers always pay good prices for monster organs, but frenzy-fasts and..." he pauses for a moment before inclining his head toward Asva and I, "Can you guess what else would interest a magic-man?"

    It doesn''t take much thinking to come up with an answer¡ªbefore Asva, might I add! "The heart!"

    "Very good," Dad smiles, his clean hand ruffling my hair as Asva scowls, "Frenzy-fasts and hearts are the most valuable. Eyes are also up there, same with brains, but," he taps his knife against the wolf''s flattened head, "those aren''t exactly on the menu for us, so to speak."

    "Dad?" I speak up, a question on my lips, "How do you kill a wolf? Eric," the modicum of levity vanishes when my brother''s name takes to the air, "hurt it bad, but it didn''t die."

    Dad''s small grin fades, but he doesn''t hesitate to answer my question, "Wolves will die like any creature, human or otherwise. You hit it hard enough, quick enough, to send it into shock and then finish it."

    "So why didn''t it die when Eric hit it?"

    Dad''s lips thin as he sighs, "The frenzy-fast," he wiggles the hand holding said organ, "was too small for a wolf this size, which means its frenzy overwhelmed its senses. Frenzy dulls pain and sharpens the killer instinct, turning anything with it into death-on-legs. Depending on how the Lord of Frenzy is feeling, of course." Dad shrugs as he gestures for Asva, who hands him the bowl, "Speaking of the Gods."

    Reaching into the wolf''s chest, Dad removes the heart with a sharp flick of the wrist. Holding the heart above the silver-trimmed bowl, he squeezes, filling the bowl to the brim with deep red blood.

    "All-Father Odin, Lord of Frenzy," Dad begins as he kneels on the ground, his head bowed and the bowl held up high, "we offer you the heart''s blood of a wolf as thanks for limiting its frenzy."

    Glowing light erupts from within the bowl as the runes receive color. The blood churns as its level lowers, the runes swallowing the bowl''s contents with every passing moment.

    The wolf''s frenzy... was limited? Heart pounding, I swallow the fear building inside. No matter. Frenzy or not, limited or not, every wolf will feel the bite of my blade.

    ...When I get one, that is.

    The bowl empties, cleaning itself as it does, but Dad does not rise from his pose. His hand reaches out, drifting to where the sheep, the largest of the flock, calmly nibbles on weeds.

    A sharp crack fills the air. One moment, the sheep lives. The next, it doesn''t; its neck snapped by Dad''s hand.

    The sheep collapses and I swallow, Asva''s hand meeting mine in a quiet show of sisterly support.

    In a smooth motion, Dad splits the sheep''s neck and fills the bowl anew. Returning to his kneel, he bows his head and raises the bowl once more to the heavens.

    "Vitharr, Wolf-Foe," Dad begins, his voice solemn and bearing something the previous sacrifice lacked, "I offer you the biggest of my sheep as t-thanks," he pauses, gathering his strength, "as thanks for granting Halla the strength to slay the wolf. I-it," he swallows, "it was stronger than I expected, and I fell further than I thought."

    Light erupts, blood drains, and the sacrifice is complete.

    A warm wind fills the air.

 Chapter 4

    "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¡ªwouldn''t be right, otherwise¡ªso 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.

 Chapter 5

    Situated on a natural harbor, the collection of buildings that make up Asvir reside on a prime spot of coastline. While most of the Hading coast is pebbly beach, the Asvir-claim is nothing but sweeping, fertile fields at great odds with the salty sea. A half-dozen ships cling to the seaside, their sails stowed and hulls unadorned by neither shields nor dragon-prows.

    "Tell me, Halla," Dad says as Asvir comes into view, the sun dipping close to the horizon. We''ll likely stay the night in the Hersir''s home, as travelling so close to the Hading woods after dusk is a fool''s gambit. The maw-beasts that call the forest home are eager to feast upon man-flesh, "how do you think Asvir came to be?"

    How do I think Asvir came to be? What kind of question is that? Obviously, it came to be by people building it. But Dad doesn''t want the obvious answer, he wants me to think deeper. So... It had to start somewhere, right? It couldn''t have just sprung up fully formed from Ginnungagap, could it?

    I tilt my head to the side, considering the sprawling collection of buildings clustered around the home of Dorri Rattlespear. Dorri isn''t the first Hading-Hersir. His father, Framarr of the Fierce Wind, was the one who Jarl Erikaer Corpsemaker appointed to the region; Dorri just inherited the position alongside the house.

    With that in mind, surely the Hersir''s house was built first, no? The rest would''ve been built after. But why would they need to build all the rest? Normally, everyone and their families live in the same house, under the same roof. They''d all be allied by blood, marriage, or employment, of course, but that''s just good sense. Can''t be living with someone you don''t have some connection to!

    So, what would prompt the construction of all those other houses? You can build a house to accommodate any amount of people by adding expansions as needed, so space couldn''t have been an issue. Could it have been a power struggle? Hm, no, couldn''t have been. While a power struggle could certainly warrant a new house, I can''t imagine that the power strugglers would put up with living on the same plot of land as their rivals. After all, only one man can be the landowner.

    And speaking of men of status, Asvir does have¡ªaccording to others, anyways, I''ve not seen enough of the world to know one way or another¡ªan unusual concentration of talented craftsmen. From smiths to cobblers to coopers, the walls of Asvir contain them all.

    I scowl, coming up short. There''s something there, something with the craftsmen, I can almost taste it. But as ill-fortune would have it¡ªI''ll need to take an extra long bath to get rid of such poor luck¡ªI can''t quite make the connection.

    Dad listens as I explain my reasoning to him, nodding along with every link I find. I flush, coming to my failure, embarrassment and shame rising within. Fortunately, Dad makes no comment of my lackings, merely gently providing the missed connections.

    "Just about every town and village started as someone''s farm," Dad begins as we draw close to Asvir''s plank-wrapped walls. "Only one I can think of that didn''t is Hedeby, but that''s a special case."

    "Why didn''t Hedeby," I ask slowly, taking my time to sound out the unfamiliar name, "start as a farm?"

    "It might have, actually," Dad hums as he considers the question before suddenly shaking his head, "Either way, that''s neither here nor there. So, lets say that you''re a wealthy, powerful landowner¨C"

    "Like you, Dad?"

    "I..." Dad pauses, pursing his lips as he casts a narrow-eyed glance around, "I suppose so, yes, but I must ask you to keep such thoughts to yourself while we call ourselves guests of the Hersir, if only for politeness'' sake."

    I frown, but concede the point. After all, making foes of the Hersir would end poorly for all of us, "I will, Dad."

    Dad nods, moving on with a quick pace, "Regardless, if you''re a wealthy, powerful landowner who tires of having to travel when his sword needs repairing, what can you do to soothe your troubles?"

    I shudder at the thought of a broken sword. Such poor fortune would surely infect those around it, but at least it isn''t as ill an omen as armor breaking, "I could buy a better sword, one like Crowfeeder that doesn''t break."

    Dad snorts, "That is certainly one option, yes, and a rather clever one at that. Can you think of another, however?"

    "I could..." Hm, how wealthy am I? "Could I buy a thrall who knows how to work sword-iron?"

    Dad''s smile lengthens as he chuckles, "And that''s another clever solution, but do you have any others?"

    "Well, if I''m wealthy enough to buy a thrall as skilled as that," I run thumb and forefinger across chin and jaw respectively while Dad signals for the sledge to stop, "then, am I wealthy enough to move a smith to my house?"

    "Indeed you are!" Dad says with a small round of applause, head gently swiveling as he surveys Asvir''s outskirts, "So, you''ve got yourself a skilled smith living under your roof and no longer have to journey to have your things fixed, good job, but a new problem presents itself. Can you guess what that might be?"If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    A new problem? Why is there always a new problem? Why can''t things just stay solved? Sighing internally, I get down to work.

    So, I''m a wealthy landowner and it''s the fact that I''ve got a live-in smith that''s causing the problem. Which means that this wasn''t a problem before I had the smith, so it can''t be related to non-smithing things. Well, maybe it can, but that''s for later thinking. For now, I''ll just focus on what problems a smith specifically might generate.

    Let''s get the obvious out of the way first: "Do I have access to a steady supply of metal?"

    "I''ll say you struck a deal with a dwarf clan for some metal, but good thinking. Metal and fuel," Dad adds as an after-thought, answering my next question.

    If metal and fuel aren''t the problem, and I''m probably getting along fine with the smith, then it''s likely that the problem has an external source. Jealous neighbors are always a source of trouble for the wealthy and powerful. And how could they make trouble in a way that relies on me having a smith? Eyes narrowing, I ask, "Do my neighbors plot to poach the smith out from under me?"

    Dad chuckles, "Certainly a way to put it, but you are correct. Just as you used your wealth to convince the smith to come live with you, others could very well do the same and you''re back to square one."

    "Even worse," I add, "because then I''d have to go to my jealous neighbors to have my things fixed."

    Dad smiles as doom dawns on the horizon. I can feel it in the air, the coming tragedy heralded by splaying, wriggling fingers. I try to dodge, to avoid any amount of the wretched death awaiting at the end of my fate-thread, yet it is all for naught.

    Dad ruffles my hair, leaving it in a horrid, tangled state. I sigh, retrieving a comb from my belt-pouch and running it through my crimson locks. It takes a lot of effort to get my hair this nice, dammit! The least he could do is let me keep it as is for a little bit!

    "Very smart," Dad says as I shuffle out of arm''s reach, "So, to avoid such a thing, how would you secure a smith to stay?"

    Hm, I could offer him more money than my rivals, but that could get expensive fast. I need a more permanent solution, something that ties him down. A-ha! "I marry him to one of my daughters."

    "That would do the trick," Dad nods as I quietly cheer, "but, let''s say you''ve already married off all your daughters, what then?"

    I pause my cheering, considering the wrinkle he''s thrown my way. What makes a man stay somewhere if marriage is off the table? Well, let''s take a deeper look; why do men do anything? For ordstirr, for the power that comes from recognition by their peers.

    If a man feels he has better prospects for gaining ordstirr elsewhere, then he will go to that place. Thus, if I want to keep the smith nearby, I should ensure that his prospects are better here than anywhere else. And how do I do that?

    Oh, wait! That''s it!

    Almost stumbling over myself in my excitement, I turn to Dad with a broad smile on my lips, "I make him a landowner! I give him his own house, one close to mine, and make him my neighbor!"

    Dad smiles again, "Very, very well done, Halla." I barely get a chance to preen before his hand ruffles my hair, undoing the hard-fought order I''d established mere moments before.

    "Indeed," a new voice adds as its master joins the conversation, "That was a fine display of clever thinking, one I must confess my hearing of."

    The Hersir of the Hading, Dorri Rattlespear, smiles as he approaches Dad and I. A sturdy man with hair of black-and-white, Dorri stands eye-to-eye with Dad. His ever-present spear, a gift of the sea commanded by Dorri''s will, floats at his side. Its haft bears a half-dozen rings that rattle and sing with every motion.

    "Steinarr Freedfire and Halla Steinarsdottir," Dorri continues, making the first greeting as is his right as Hersir, "it seems to me that I have luck''s favor on this fine day, for I was planning on paying you a visit." He lifts his hands in a soothing gesture as Dad stiffens ever-so-slightly, "Fear not, for it was simply to check in. The winter was hard for us all."

    Dad nods, shoulders relaxing as he breathes out a shallow puff, "Thank you for your concern, Hersir, but I am happy to report that my family has pulled through fully intact."

    "I am happy to hear that," Dorri smiles, eyes drifting across the sledge and its cloth-wrapped contents. "While I am quite eager to sate my curiosity, there is a more pressing matter to concern myself with." His eyes don''t stop their journey as his entire body follows their march, his movement only ending when he lays eyes on me. "The winds carried your clever words to me, Halla Steinarsdottir, and I feel it would be unfair if I gave you nothing in return. Thus," he flexes his hands, the sunlight glimmering off his finger-rings as he selects one from the display, "a gift from me to you, in the hopes that your wisdom grows to staggering heights."

    Sliding silver from his thumb, Dorri holds the little band of shiny silver out for me to take. While ultimately rather simple in design and construction, the inclusion of a tiny red gem is quite tasteful. Still, it''s not the silver or the rock that has my heart pounding so, but what it represents.

    I swallow, mouth suddenly dry, as I carefully accept the offered gift. Skin greets silver as my soul surges to new heights. Power floods my being, ordstirr gathering in great bundles like miles of thread woven into thick bolts of ready cloth.

    Ordstirr, the power of the soul''s glory, gained by the respect and admiration of others. It flows through my limbs, warming every inch of skin and filling it with might untold.

    Crimson flames erupt from my skin, my frami igniting of its own volition to contain the sudden surge of ordstirr. Though the fire heats the air into a wavy mess, it leaves my flesh untouched and unburnt.

    Dad chuckles, hand slipping unharmed through flames to rest upon my head, "I suppose I''ll have to teach you how to properly use your ordstirr, huh?"

    And that''s exactly what this is; my ordstirr. Ordstirr I earned through my own merit, not something I gained through simply being related to Dad or my extended kin.

    Gods, this feels good. Recognition at last.

 Chapter 6

    After my frami died down and Dad explained the situation to Dorri¡ªI was a bit too distracted with my newfound power to pay much attention to the specifics¡ªDorri decided to accompany us to the Seeress'' tent. To better discuss what to do about the potential for wolves, as I understand it.

    "Holding off a frenzied wolf like that, one that manifested thunder no less," Dorri shakes his head, a low whistle leaving his lips, "That boy of yours is turning out to be quite something, isn''t he?" Dorri snorts, eyes gleaming as he nods towards me, "Of course, I could say that about all your children."

    "I am very proud of them, all of them," Dad answers with a smile as he rests a hand on my shoulder. He shoots me a sharp glance, a warning. I squint back, momentary confusion banished by sparking realization. I wasn''t going to say anything, honest! I mean, sure, Asva isn''t all that impressive compared to me or Sten, or even Eric, but that doesn''t make her not a Volsung! Her chest beats with the power of the Stoker State, just the same as it does for all descendants of the dragon-slayer.

    "Your eldest had enough potential that a miracle-smith came all the way from Finland to collect him," Dorri begins to list off all the feats of my siblings and I. "Young Eric has enough kunna-control over the ever-rebellious winds to stop a frenzied wolf from harming neither sheep nor your youngest, who shows incredible intelligence at such a young age." The shadow of a frown crosses Dad''s face, a frown that''s mirrored on mine a moment later. "Really, the only one of your children that hasn''t shown much promise is young Asva."

    "She will come into her own," Dad''s answer is extremely diplomatic, but there is still an ounce of heat in his voice, "How goes your own child? Has Folkmarr taken up your Rattling Spear art yet?"

    I take a deep breath to hide my burgeoning smile. I, like any child of men of high status, am well aware of the posturing and social sparring that make up any kind of interaction between men of class. It is important that their children, when two such men clash, do not give the other side material to work with.

    Dorri stills, face frozen in stone, "He goes well."

    Still, it is difficult to conceal my joy when Dad lands such a blow. Come after my sister, will you? Not so fun when it''s your own children¡ªmy apologies, child¡ªon the chopping block, is it?

    Dad hums and changes the subject, point made loud and clear, "The wolf Eric killed could have had friends, for wolves often hunt in packs."

    Eric killed? But, but I did that!

    "Indeed," Dorri mutters, life returning to his face, "but, you said it was frenzied, no? Such an affliction robs beasts of their sensibilities, but you have more experience than I in hunting such creatures, so I will defer to your expertise."

    "It falls on the status of the pack," Dad eventually says after taking a few moments to think it through, "This wolf was likely outlawed from its pack as its frenzy grew too quickly, but the curse may have spread to its kin before it was cast out."

    "You make a convincing argument," Dorri nods as he slows his pace and falls behind the group, "I will speak with Logi on the matter and have him, with your blessing, organize a search of your lands for this beast''s kin."

    Dad frowns, as do I. Logi Firehair is one of the top three warriors in the Hading, third after Dorri and Dad respectively. It is no secret that he covets the title of the Hading''s strongest fire-wielder, a title held by Dad for as long as I care to recall.

    "I would rather track it on my own, for the Hading is sparse enough with game as it is and a search party would only send what little there is into flight."

    "A fair reason," Dorri replies as he slows to a stop, "I will leave you to your business with the Seeress, then, but do keep me informed on the status of the wolves."

    "Of course," Dad offers a short bow of the head as Dorri takes his leave.

    "I don''t like him very much," I say after Dorri clears earshot. The ring on my thumb feels oddly heavy as I run fingers across its silver surface.

    Dad hums, "You don''t have to like him, only tolerate him as long as he holds to his oaths."

    A Hersir¡¯s primary goal, like any member of the Jarl class, is to provide means for those who collect beneath his banner to earn ordstirr. Whether that¡¯s by raiding, sharing out his wealth, or by other means it matters not, as long as he holds true to his oaths of service so to will his men hold to his banner.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    I echo Dad¡¯s hum as we arrive at the Seeress'' tent.

    <hr>

    "Steinarr."

    "Solrun."

    The opening exchange between Dad and the Seeress could be described by many words. Frosty could certainly work, as would terse, and curt is definitely hanging around in the vicinity, but the word that best fits can only be familiar.

    Solrun, Seeress of the Hading, is a small woman of advanced age. Starting at her eye-sockets with three lines to a cheek, red paint flows in streaks down her face. Her eyes and hair share the same light gray and her wrinkled skin is pale from a lack of sun. Her limbs are thin and she clings to a gnarled staff as if it is the only thing keeping her from collapsing¡ªperhaps because it is.

    There can be no recognizing Solrun as anything other than weak, but mistaking weakness of the body for weakness of the mind is an error one can make but only once. Enough hugr, the power of the mind, and a man can do anything just by thinking about it hard enough. Sink ships far away from shore, curse a man from half-a-world away, summon storms, and soften swords, such and more are the purview of the wise.

    Still, family is family, even when separated by generations, for Solrun was once a concubine of the Blackhand and, thus, half-step kin to Dad and I.

    Solrun sighs, breaking eye-contact with a hang of the head as long wispy locks drape across her face, "Kolla, prepare the kettle. We have guests."

    A lurking shadow shifts in the darkness, emerging in the shape of a girl no older than eight. With pale gray eyes blanker than my mind whenever someone asks me an unexpected question, Kolla maneuvers through the dim space without even bothering to move eyes let alone head. She pauses just before the kettle''s resting place, a tentpole-braced shelf, and inclines her head towards the group, "Do you wish for milk?"

    "No, but Halla does," Dad answers for the both of us as I turn a quizzical stare his way. He shrugs, "You''ll want it." I shrug back, uncertain but trusting.

    Kolla nods and collects the kettle before disappearing once more into the darkness.

    Solrun''s lips thin as she gestures for us to enter. Soon, Dad and I find ourselves seated across from the Seeress with Eric''s wrapped body between both sides.

    "Tell me, then," Solrun begins as wizened fingers reach for the cloth, "what have you brought to my door?"

    "My son, Eric," Dad explains the situation to Solrun. She nods along, calmly thinking matters through while unwrapping Eric''s body. I brace myself, fingers gripping the armrests, as Eric is unveiled once more.

    Even prepared, I nearly vomit as the charred hole greets my gaze. I gag, body shaking, as all eyes fall on me.

    "Halla," Solrun''s voice is gentle and soft, a soothing balm to my open wound, "I think it best if you waited outside."

    "N-no!" I force out, managing to keep myself upright despite the painful sight. I need to stay strong, I need to face my fears.

    "Halla," Dad speaks this time, his voice adding the firmness Solrun''s lacked, "you should wait outside."

    I open my mouth but find nothing there. Eric''s pale, waxy face sits shrouded in shadows, the only thing keeping me from losing my pride. I swallow.

    They''re right... I''m not ready, not yet.

    But I will be.

    Taking flight from the chair, I soon find myself swaddled in the fresh air of the ocean''s breeze. Though I''ve left the tent, I am far from alone.

    "He is not dead, you know," Kolla''s empty eyes drill straight through my back. Her speech is slightly stilted, like her voice can''t handle her words.

    "I-I know that!" I snap at her, twisting away from her stare. It''s unfair of me, I know, but I just can''t help it.

    "No, you do not," Kolla''s words draw me up short. "You believe that he is dead, but can be brought back to life. This is not the case."

    I blink, brows furrowing as heat builds in my chest, "I..." a scowl creases my face, fury ignites my gaze, "Alright! So if he isn''t dead, then what in all the worlds is he, huh? He''s not breathing, his heart doesn''t beat! He''s dead, dammit!"

    "Your definition of death is incorrect." Kolla continues to stare, eyes completely unblinking, "Eric''s soul is in a state of shock, but it is still in his body. It has not left for other worlds."

    "I... what?"

    "A sudden burst of sufficient pain sends the soul into shock. It cannot control the body in this state. It is similar to sleep. You do not die when you are sleeping, but you cannot control your body."

    "So..."

    "He is not dead. Once his soul is awoken, he will have control over his body once more."

    "Even with the...?" I wave a hand at my chest.

    Kolla blinks, tilting her head to the side, "The condition of his body does not matter. It is not his Fated Day. Nothing can kill him until then."

    "And nothing can save him when it comes, yeah," I finish for her, recalling the first and most important of all the laws.

    All Men Die.

 Chapter 7

    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¨C"

    "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¨C"

    "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¨C "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¡ªwell, 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¨C" 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.

 Chapter 8

    While Eric is back among the living and I am nothing less than ecstatic at that fact, I don''t exactly have a lot of time to express my joy with all the extra work I''m having to shoulder to pick up his slack.

    "Eric!" I draw out his name as I slump across the central room''s table, nose pressing against the wood as the cheery hearth-fire warms my weary bones. Exhaustion clings to every limb, days of labor adding up to a withering sentence. "Next time you go and get yourself killed," I mumble with a nasally tone, "you''d better keep your spine!"

    To call the noise Eric makes a ''snort'' would be a great insult to snorts across all Midgard. In fact, it may even be across all worlds! It is simultaneously wet and snotty while somehow managing to sound crunchier than fallen leaves. One could almost call it a nasally gurgle were it not for the lacking exhale that robs the noise of all staying power.

    "I will keep that in mind, Halla," Eric''s voice is a low, husky thing, a pale shadow of its true self. He has to speak slowly and take frequent breaths between each and every word¡ªsometimes even syllables if the word is long enough! Were it not for the upward crook of his lips, I''d never be able to tell that he speaks in good humor.

    I can''t exactly hold it against him, either, what with the whole ''missing the lower half of his lungs thing'' he''s got going on. Only reason he''s not needing a bag or billows to speak is thanks to the wolf charring the breath-sacks closed with its lightning.

    And speaking of air...

    Even through weight-closed nostrils I can smell the day-meal cooking. Honey-drizzled mutton with plenty of butter-laden bread stuffed with cheese and garlic. If I''m remembering correctly, Asva found a bounty of sorrels while foraging the other day, so there''ll be some of those as well. It''ll be ready soon, which my empty stomach eagerly awaits.

    Cracking open an eye, I swivel it down to where Eric sits at my left. He''s currently slouching, which isn''t exactly a surprise given the lack of lower spine, but the armrests are keeping him from collapsing inwards. The chair''s backrest meets my gaze, peering out through the platter-sized hole encompassing most of Eric''s torso.

    Walking is very difficult and he can''t do any actual labor, so he''s forced to stay inside and warm his feet all day long. He''s healing, as told by the bits of fresh bone, organs, and flesh slowly growing from the limits of his wound, but it''s an agonizingly slow process.

    Normally, healing is a relatively speedy process. If you still have the missing part on hand, simply pressing the stumps together and stoking an Aspect does the trick. Even if you don''t, it doesn''t usually take that long for completely gone parts to grow back. A missing knuckle can return overnight if one is especially lucky, a couple weeks for a hand. Alas, to achieve such quick convalesce requires large quantities of food¡ªfood which Eric cannot eat thanks to his absent digestive system.

    If Asvir had a Shapecrafter, this wouldn''t be anything even close to an issue and Eric would be all fixed up and ready for work. But Asvir does not, and so Eric sits trapped in his chair, waiting for his body to fix itself at a glacial pace.

    Since he can''t eat, the Seeress prepared a special potion that contains all the things the body needs to heal itself. All he needs to do is rub it into his gums twice a day.

    It''s hard not to pity him, really, as I tuck into a warm, tasty meal and he''s stuck with the same nasty medicine day in and day out. Dipping a finger into the sticky mix, he sighs and rubs it into his gums.

    Still, even with all the extra work I''m having to do, at least I''m not being forced to learn Gods-damned weaving. When I¡¯m spending my days with the sun in my face and the wind in my hair, I can''t exactly say I''m unhappy.

    Besides, Dad said he''d finally teach me how to use my ordstirr!

    The sword-hand door to the hearth room opens up, revealing the form of Dad. I go greet him, bouncing to my feet, only to pause with the weary looks on his face.

    ¡°The hunt didn¡¯t go well, I take it,¡± Mother says as she fills another bowl for Dad.

    ¡°No,¡± Dad mutters as he tucks into his serving, ¡°and I think that Einarr¡¯s taken this most recent failure as a sign to give up. We¡¯ve been chasing the bastards,¡± Asva¡¯s brows lift at Dad swearing and I stick my tongue out at her weakling ears, ¡°for weeks now and haven¡¯t seen so much as a footprint.¡±

    Mother frowns, sliding down next to Dad as she rests her head on his shoulder, ¡°You think they might have some kind of magic helping them?¡±

    ¡°More likely they just left,¡± Dad grunts a noncommittal answer as he shovels food into his mouth. He does shift to give Mother a better resting spot, though, so he can¡¯t be as hung up on this as he gives off.

    ¡°Did Einarr say anything about me?¡± Salgrun eventually asks, his words hesitant, from a corner bench. It¡¯s quite strange that he, a guest, has taken a seat of low honor like that. Maybe he feels it¡¯s only right given that he¡¯s living with us for the time being? I know how this story ends, though, and soon we¡¯ll have a new farmhand helping around the house. Well, probably a shepherd first and if he proves himself then he¡¯ll be promoted to farmhand, or even huskarl if he¡¯s especially worthy.

    On the other hand, it would be quite difficult for him to earn enough wealth to acquire another weapon if he were only a shepherd. Shepherds and their families, after all, are paid in room and board in exchange for doing the less desirable tasks around a farm, like mucking out animals and the like. Farmhands receive a measure of money for their skills in addition to room and board and, as such, it would be insulting to demand they do such filthy thralls¡¯ work. The most you can do is ask them if they can and while usually the answer is ¡®yes¡¯, you still can¡¯t force them into it without making an enemy of them.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    Of course, if Salgrun were made a farmhand he would have a great deal more responsibility on his shoulders, but also a lot more status. He wouldn¡¯t be able to slack or take much time off to practice his skills, as his aid would be needed on the farm. Still, he wouldn¡¯t have to watch the sheep while it''s pouring rain, so he¡¯d have that going for him. He¡¯d also be a lot more worthy of respect as a farmhand than as a mere shepherd, for his wealth would be independent of the fortunes of the farm.

    Now, if Salgrun made it all the way to huskarl, then he¡¯d have his weapon situation solved. In addition to room, board, and independent wealth, a huskarl is also paid in a weapon from the husbondi, the master of the house. They are expected to wield that weapon for the husbondi should trouble rear its head, while shepherds and farmhands have no such expectation placed upon them. When a feud results in a house-burning, women, children, and uninvolved men are allowed to leave unaccosted. Shepherds and farmhands are counted amongst those uninvolved men, while huskarls are not.

    ¡°If you came with me,¡± Dad says over a wine-cup¡¯s brim, ¡°you¡¯d be able to ask him yourself.¡±

    Salgrun grimaces and falls silent. Yeah¡­ I don¡¯t think he¡¯s got it in him to be a huskarl, not right now anyways.

    Regardless, it¡¯s almost time for Dad to teach me ordstirr!

    <hr>

    Around the back of the house is a nice flat bit of land. Normally, this is where we do our bathing, so it sees a lot of traffic, which has done numbers on the once-grassy ground. Today, though, the plank-bound bathtub is rolled to the side and the pressed-dirt floors are home to boot-clad feet.

    "Ordstirr," Dad begins as he stands opposite me. We left our cloaks in the house, so his battle-scarred forearms are bared for all to see. Each scar has a story attached to it, each a memory rarely spoken of, "is the culmination of a man''s life. All his deeds can be found in his ordstirr. Every victory, every defeat, every action, and every inaction. Any time a man makes a choice, any time he opens his mouth, his ordstirr suffers the result."

    "I know all that, Dad!" I grumble, resisting the urge to stomp my foot, "You said you were going to teach me how to use it!"

    Dad''s eyes glimmer, "Do you? Tell me, then, what are the three laws?"

    I roll my eyes and huff, but oblige him nonetheless, "All Men Die, Power Requires Sacrifice, and..." I pause, a flush rising to my cheeks as I stumble at the finish line, "um, victory is everything?"

    A snort billows, a grin cracks, "Not quite; you''re looking for Wisdom Brings Mastery."

    Sudden thunder rolls in the distance, an oddity in a cloud-free sky.

    "R-right," I mutter, rocking on my heels as Dad nods.

    "If I were to translate ordstirr into, say, English," he continues his lesson, "it''d be something like," he pauses for a moment, thinking it through, "''word-glory'', that''s about right."

    "Word-glory," I try out the unfamiliar words, cringing at the odd way it curls from my throat.

    "Words spoken about your glory," Dad shrugs, a slight frown sliding across his face. "That''s not nearly the true meaning, but it works to help get a rough understanding of how you get it."

    "Because you gain ordstirr from the respect and admiration of your peers, yeah, I know," I finish for him, failing to hold my tongue.

    "It''s more complicated than that, much more," Dad snorts and shakes his head, "but that''s enough speaking of vague concepts. I can see you''re getting sick and tired of that," he chuckles, "so how about we get to the practical, eh?"

    A sailor could navigate by the gleam of my smile.

    "Inside your soul is a loom," darkness creeps at the corners of my vision, forcing me to focus all attention on Dad lest I lose all sight, "and on that loom are threads," he holds out his hands, palms facing skywards, "these threads are ordstirr." Like snakes across the ground, crimson string slithers from each finger as they reach for the heavens. Light clings to every length, a glow rising deep within.

    "Prestige, respect, and renown all add to your ordstirr," more threads join their sky-crawling kin, "while wicked nid takes away," a chill passes through the air as fully half of the threads fall limp, breaking away from Dad''s fingers. They pile on the ground, fading with the wind. "Once nid takes hold, the ordstirr is gone forever. You can gather new ordstirr," new threads rise, replacing the missing lengths, "but this ordstirr is not what you lost. It cannot be."

    "When ordstirr is gained, half stays on the loom and half is woven into three bolts of cloth which we know as Aspects," Dad lifts a brow as he nods towards me, "You''ve heard of them, that much is true, but do you know them by name?"

    Swallowing, I fix him with my best look of determination and nod. This time, I will not be caught off-guard. "Frami, your fame," crimson flames erupt from around Dad''s body, "virthing, your worth," a cloak of curved swords unfurls from Dad''s shoulders, "and saemd, your honor," a crown of iron spikes sprouts from his brow, each length topped by a flickering candle-flame.

    "Good!" He smiles, as do I, "Now, to test your knowing."

    "Close your eyes," I do so, casting myself into a world of darkness, "and breathe." Crisp air fills my lungs and spreads the cold spring chill. "You can feel it, can''t you? That warmth in your chest, at the core of your being." I-I can! I can! I can feel it, humming and thumping away in time with my heart. "That is your soul."

    "Now grab it."

    ...what?

    "Don''t think, just do. Like you were speaking or drawing a sword."

    I... Okay. Don''t think, just do. Don''t think, just do.

    Grabbing hold of my soul, I immediately pause as I realize that I have no idea what to do now.

    "Did you do it?" Dad asks, pulling me from my thoughts. I nod, making sure to keep careful hold over my soul as I do, "Alright, now squeeze. Squeeze and knead and work it."

    ...I''m not really sure what I was expecting, but it wasn''t this.

    Shrugging internally, I do as asked¡ªand a smile spreads across my face.

    With every squeeze, my soul grows warmer, less rigid. With every knead, it stretches out, limbering up and working out the sharp edges in its form. Lethargic inaction falls to the wayside as my soul spreads, separating into ample fibers upon the loom, its might awoken, and power fills my body.

    Bliss, utter bliss. My limbs hum with might, power plays at my fingertips. I could do anything, I could do everything. I could climb a mountain, swim through the depths, fight lions, dragons, trolls, and all the beasts of the land and sea. I could fly through the air like a bird or dig through the earth like a dwarf.

    With ordstirr, I am limitless.

 Chapter 9

    With Salgrun officially entering into a shepherd''s contract with Dad, my help isn''t needed as much, which means that I''m once more stuck inside. Hooray.

    The needle slips, sharp bone splits skin, and I wince. Blood seeps from my thumb as I quickly stick it in my mouth¡ªMother will tan my hide for sure if I bleed all over good cloth. A metallic, coppery taste coats my tongue as I grumble to myself.

    I''m sat in the hearth-room a fair bit away from the flickering fire, my only view beyond the house are glimpses of cloudy skies snatched from the tiny smoke-holes perforating the roof. My lap is laden with the working-tools of women at weave; cloth, thread, and plenty of needles to prick myself upon.

    The other women of Einhollstad are close by. Mother carefully guides Asva through the needle-binding process, their fingers a blur as they tie thread into knots in the hundreds. The only woman missing is Randi as she''s currently beating the crap out of the wolf''s pelt around the back of the house. Every once in a while, a heavy thump travels through the walls. She''ll probably be done soon, if I''m counting time right.

    Regardless, I''m stuck practicing my sewing technique while Asva gets to learn how to needle-bind. My damned stumpy fingers lack the dexterity to do either well, but that''s not really the point, you know?

    I don''t even like needle-binding. In fact, that''s not a strong enough word.

    I hate needle-binding. I hate how the string bites against my skin. I hate how my fingers wrap around the needles. I hate how hard it is to fix mistakes and I hate how damned easy they are to make. And most of all, I hate how Asva does it so effortlessly. She never has Mother breathing down her neck, she''s always her perfect little example of all the things I''m not.

    Asva is tall and slender, like a graceful bird in flight; I''m short and rough, prone to trampling and stomping. Asva has deft fingers and can twist them into any shape she wants, my fingers are closer to sausages, more akin to bludgeoning instruments than precision tools, and my palms are always covered in hard calluses. She''s talented too; I''ve never seen her make a mistake while working the loom, not once in all my years on Midgard.

    "Stop slacking, Halla," Mother''s warning tone crashes through my thoughts like a storm does a straw hut, her words whipping me into action faster than a horse can gallop.

    Asva snickers, "How will you ever hope to catch a husband if you can''t even fix his clothes?"

    "If fixing clothes is what you think will get you a husband, then I hope you''re happy with spending the rest of your days alone," I retort, careful to avoid any words of true heat¡ªDad might let me get away with sharp words, but Mother is different.

    "I don''t need to worry about finding a man, little Halla," Asva shoots back with glee, she''s always been eager to hone her cutting-words, "it''s you I''m fearing for."

    "Then worry not, dearest sister, for a warrior has little need of a husband."

    Asva snorts, "So, what, if you''re a warrior, then won''t you have to have a wife?"

    I blink, words failing before I''d even had a chance to open my mouth. A wife? Like, a woman that I would kiss and stuff, like how Dad does with Mother? Well, I guess that makes sense. Heck, that would actually be pretty nice! I wouldn''t have to do the woman''s work if I had a wife, and I could kiss her and stuff too!

    But... Wait a second, how would we have children then? I''m pretty sure that you need a man and a woman to make babies, I''ve seen enough animals making them to know that''s probably how it works. But...

    Hm, well, if I''m a warrior, then I''d be a man, right? So, it''d work out way better if I had a wife than if I had a husband. Can''t make children if there''s no women. Or, well, I''ve seen rams mount each other before, but I don''t think that either of them gave birth.

    ...This is making my head hurt.

    A shake of the head rids me of mind-spinning thoughts, letting me refocus on the task at ha¨C

    "Cat got your tongue?" Asva''s eyes gleam as she smirks.

    "No! I was just¨C"

    "Getting back to work," Mother''s stern words put a stop to our antics. I scowl but do as ordered¡ªthese socks won''t fix themselves, after all.

    I hum as I work, the tip of my tongue greeting the smoky air. In and out goes the needle, a calming motion repeated ad infinitum. To speak with the truth at the fore, the whole sewing and weaving thing isn''t that bad. Working with my hands has always kept my focus and I always work best when the task has a clear end point, like in fixing socks.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    When I''m just doing something to do it better is when I find myself slacking. That''s the real difference between men''s and women''s work, I reckon. Men''s work always has a clear objective that, once achieved, you can stop at. Women''s work is endless; and sure, some of it does have those endpoints, like in cooking and cleaning, but there''s so much else that doesn''t.

    Weaving is a perfect example, really. Sure, I''m working with my hands, but it also is endless. My only saving grace is that it isn''t time to shear the sheep. When the shearing season comes and we''re up to our eyes in wool, it''s nothing but loom-work day in and day out.

    From the moment you wake up, you''re working the loom until sun down. Why? Because wealth is measured in cloth, that''s why. An ounce of silver is roughly equal in value to six ells, which is about a hundred-and-twenty inches of cloth. That''s only if it''s vadmal, too, which has to be two ells wide, no more, no less. If you get it wrong and try to barter with it, you can be sure that you''ll either be on the other end of a weapon or in court.

    If there''s one thing we speakers of the law-tongue can agree upon, it''s that wealth is good and having a way to measure it is also good, but being able to actually display your wealth is best. That''s why the value of a farm is measured in cows and not by cloth, as cows are way more visible than cloth is.

    Einhollstad has a herd of sixteen milking cows, which is quite respectable indeed. A milking cow is worth about two ounces of silver, so around two-hundred-and-forty inches of cloth. That values Einhollstad at roughly thirty-two ounces of silver or three-thousand-and-forty inches of wool cloth.

    Obviously, my father''s farm is worth way more than a measly thirty-two ounces. We''ve got plenty more wealth in sheep and goods than we do cows, but that''s a lot harder to quantify than saying we have sixteen cows. It''s also not really realistic to barter with cows as, well, cows are big and ample sources of food over the winter. Don''t want to sell your only source of food for a nice shirt, after all.

    So, yeah, when the shearing season comes and it''s time to weave the cloth, there''s nothing to do but turn wool into silver on the loom.

    A clunky thumping sound trundles through the house, the tell-tale sign of the front door in action. We women of Einhollstad tense, fingers wrapping around knives and needles as we listen for familiar footsteps.

    Before anyone can enter the hearth-room, they must first pass through either of the pantries¡ªone pantry contains this year''s food while the other contains last year''s, we alternate between the two. That gives those inside time to prepare a defense in the case of enemies.

    Fortunately, Dad''s rhythmic tapping reveals his presence long before he opens the door. He smiles as he steps inside, only for his smile to turn strained as Mother turns her withering gaze on him.

    "How many times do I have to tell you, Steinarr?" Mother begins, her ire a cool presence more akin to the calm before a wicked storm than any human emotion, "When you''ve been in the woods, shake the needles from your shoulders before you step inside."

    Dad slides close, long stride¡ªwhy couldn''t I have gotten any of his height, huh? He''s got plenty to spare!¡ªcarrying him well into Mother''s space. In the blink of an eye, his hands are on her cheeks and his lips press to hers.

    Mother squeaks, jolting at the sudden intrusion before melting into Dad''s embrace. I groan as Asva clasps her hands together, brown eyes alight with romantic ideations.

    Mother pulls back, fierce gaze softening ever-so-slightly, "The nerve..." She sighs, slapping a gentle palm against Dad''s chest, "Fine, fine, but you''re cleaning it up!"

    "And I love you too, Asveig," Dad smiles, eyes alight with warm love as thin trails of pinewood smoke leak out between oft-cleaned teeth. A ghostly frown creases all our faces at the smoky sight¡ªthe thicker the smoke, the worse things tend to be for Dad.

    "You''re smoking," Mother''s words are blunt, her eyes narrowing to thin slits.

    Dad frowns as he hangs his cloak and takes his seat by the fire. His smoke mingles with the hearth''s, mixing into an indiscernible blend before escaping out the smoke-holes. "Just... I thought I saw someone in the woods, but it was a trick of the light."

    "Was it Horus?" My ears perk up as Mother slides in beside Dad, a hand rubbing small circles into his back. Rare is a chance to learn of Horus, the man who Dad once chased to the very ends of the earth, so I''m all ears.

    Dad''s brows furrow, shadows playing across his bearded face¡ªhe''s looking a bit scruffy around the chin, "Can''t be, Persia swallowed him whole."

    Persia? That''s close to Miklagard, right? Or maybe I''m thinking of somewhere else entirely...

    "A son, or nephew? Horus had plenty of kin here, once."

    "No, no, it was just a trick of the light, nothing more," Dad says again, more firmly this time. His words gain a stern edge that thins Mother''s lips. Smoke slips free of his nose, thicker, darker than before.

    Dad... He might be close to having an episode. No, he is close to having an episode.

    I, I have to do something, anything to take his mind off this trail! But what?

    Wait! That''s it!

    I jolt upright, eyes widening with the spark of an idea. Bouncing over to where Dad rests, I speak quickly yet clearly, careful not to stumble over my words, "Dad, can you please teach me weapon-work? Please."

    Mother tenses, eyes hardening as her brows furrow. Her mouth opens, quick to reprimand me for my impudence¡ªI haven''t even finished my sewing!¡ªonly for her gaze to pass over Dad and soften yet again.

    If there''s one thing I admire Mother for, it''s that she would do anything to keep her family healthy. Dad going through an episode is the exact opposite of health, so it''s no real surprise to hear her next words, "That sounds like a good idea, Halla. Steinarr, why don''t you take her out and do just that, yes?"

    Dad hesitates, eyes darting between Mother and me is quick succession, before sighing and hanging his head, "Fine, fine, I suppose it''s time for me to show you how to use a sax anyways."

    I cheer while collecting our cloaks.

 Chapter 10

    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¡ªa 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¡ªthe 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¡ªone 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¨C 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¡ªso about three or four weeks or so since I started my training¡ªmy 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¡ªand 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."

 Chapter 11

    "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¡ªDad 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¡ªor 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¡ªgoat furs, I belatedly realize¡ªbut 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.

 Chapter 12

    The Outlaw stares at us, eyes wide with shock, and we stare back with eyes even wider. The difference is stark and readily apparent, for our weapons are drawn while his are not.

    Silence stretches out between us, its long reach brushing against all our souls as we stand in the dry streambed. Nobody dares flex muscles nor utter words, the fragile quiet all that stands between us and a sudden storm of violence. Each passing thump of the heart''s hammer is a chance to study our newfound opponent for another moment more, opportunities I would be fool to waste.

    The Outlaw stands still, his leather-skinned arms laden by collected deadfall, as his beastly eyes narrow and trace across Bear, Sticks, and I. Just as I study him, he studies us with a wicked, animal cunning more fitting for a monster than a man.

    He''s skinny, much too skinny for a man full grown. Shallow, festering wounds cover what skin can be seen through the ragged remains of tunic and trousers. His feet are bare with gnarled, claw-like toenails exposed to the world. He''s gone hungry and now stands at the verge of starvation, his only saving grace the rabbit in the pot.

    A rusted axe dangles from a crude rope-tied belt, its rotting haft snapped in two. He''s taller than all save Bear, but his advantage in reach is lessened by his weapon''s lacking length. He bears no hint towards any manner of shield, meaning he either wields his axe with two hands or he needs his off-hand free to use a kunna¡ªa form of mastery over an aspect of the world.

    Regardless, his hands have no influence in the opening moves, for he''ll need to drop his lumber load to draw his weapon. That''ll give us the best chance we''ll get to wound him, which he must surely be savvy to. So, how will he prevent us from wounding him?

    Realization strikes as the Outlaw''s muscles twitch and the Hound of Hel lets loose his fateful call.

    In the span of a handful of heartbeats, three things happen back-to-back. The Outlaw hurls the dead-fall, I strike it from the air, and Sticks returns the favor with a throw of his own.

    Sticks'' green-glowing spear whistles in flight while the Outlaw desperately twists to the side. Sharp iron parts weak flesh and sinks deep, the Outlaw gasping in surprise and pain as a pierced-through trouser-leg turns a deep dark red. He grunts while drawing axe, his yellowed eyes focusing on the sudden intrusion of Bear and I inside his personal space.

    Bear lets loose a fearsome battle-cry, the world shaking with his furious bellow as long legs carry him forth. He swiftly outpaces my charge as his shield''s rim dives towards the Outlaw''s chest in a display of amber ordstirr.

    The Outlaw jerks away only for the leg-lodged spear to catch on the stream-bed''s root-ridden walls. Amber-strengthened shield crushes through hunger-weakened rib cage, knocking the Outlaw back and into the earthen surface. Blood sprays from around shattered bones and chest-filling shield as Bear lifts his sax; just as the Outlaw lifts his head.

    Sickly yellow ordstirr flashes as the Outlaw''s empty hand flicks down. Bear cries out in surprise, shield-lacking arms wheeling as the earth opens up beneath his feet. Not nearly enough to swallow him whole, no, but plenty to engulf his feet and force him to the ground.

    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    Bear falls and I take his place, the Outlaw''s eyes widening in surprise. The Outlaw having a moment''s rest? Not on my watch!

    I swing, my sax carving through empty air as the Outlaw ducks down and growls. Surprise slips my lips as he pushes off the wall, skinny arms held wide as he tackles me to the ground.

    My back strikes earth as the chest-lodged shield knocks the wind from my stomach. Pain rattles through my body, a sickening squelch filling the air as the rim drives too deep. I keep my grip on my own shield, though, which stops a following axe from finding a home in my flesh. Blocking-shivers ride through my arm as the tell-tale crack of breaking iron fills the air.

    Enraged by his weapon''s failure, the Outlaw bares his beastly fangs as he scrambles to get a grip on my own shield. Fingers flash around the edge only for my sax to leave them little more than stumps before the monstrous man presses his full weight against my shield.

    I bear my shield and grit my teeth, the weight of a fully grown though hunger-starved man difficult to resist as gnashing teeth grow ever-closer to my face. Thick slobber flings free, wetting my cheeks as the stink of nid fills the air.

    D-did he just fucking spit on me? A sudden surge of anger fuels my beating heart; this insult cannot be allowed to stand.

    Wrath breaks free from my mouth in a wicked, throat-shredding scream. Crimson ordstirr collects at my knee as I whip my shield to the side. The Outlaw dives, aiming for my exposed throat, only to catch my shield in the side of the jaw.

    He staggers and I explode into motion. Leaping to my feet, my crimson-clad knee swings up like a lumberjack readying his axe as momentum adds ample force to my strike.

    Grapes don''t grow very well in Norway, the climate is much too cold for them to flourish. Still, Dad was determined to find a way to make it so¡ªwine, after all, is his favorite drink. He''s always been great with plants, my Dad is, and so he now is the proud owner of a teeny tiny vineyard.

    The grapes are quite small and have a certain bitterness to them, but its enough to make a few bottles of wine with. Of course, when making the wine, the first step is to crush the grapes.

    I''ve never had a chance to try out my Knee-Groin Trick and so I''ve always figured that it would probably be pretty similar to crushing grapes.

    Turns out, I was right.

    A certain pair of sickening squelches fills the air as Bear and Stick both cross their legs, eyes wide with a horror exceeded only by the pain behind the Outlaw''s gaze.

    He stumbles back, legs shaking and tears welling in his eyes, but I''m far from done.

    My leg continues its motion as my knee gently taps against my chest. I kick and my heart''s flames surge, exploding out and lending my leg great force as booted foot finds rawhide-wrapped shield-rim.

    The Outlaw gurgles as he finds his spine replaced by a shield''s wooden surface. He falls to his knees, stump-laden hands pawing uselessly at his chest, but falls limp as my sax finds a home in his head.

    I give him a couple more blows to make certain he''s dead. He doesn''t get to have dignity in death, not after fucking spitting on me, the bastard son of a dog-fathered whore!

    "You, uh," Sticks says, releasing tension on his bowstring, "you doing okay, Halla?"

    "Bastard spat on me," I grunt, kicking the corpse as Bear silently reaches for his shield.

    He freezes as wood snaps, his face falling alongside the broken remains of his shield. He sighs, scowls, and joins me in my kicking.

    Sticks blinks and looks between Bear and I before shrugging and joining in.

    We don''t leave much of a corpse behind.

 Chapter 13

    Hinges rattle as I swing the front door open with a great big smile on my face. Stepping into the warm embrace of my home''s hearth room, my voice reaches far and wide as I shout my greetings, "Hello the house, for the hero returns!"

    "Don''t shout in the house," Mother chastises from where she stands in the middle of the room, not even bothering to look up from her work. She''s leaning over the cooking pot¡ªa great big mass of brass Dad made from a bell he looted from the Christians¡ªalongside Randi and Asva as the younger learns from her elders, "Garlic can be prepared in two main ways," she explains to Asva while picking up a clove.

    I swiftly tune Mother out, for the womanly crafts have never held my interest. I am to be a warrior, a man! I have no need for the skills of the house-keeper, for I will cleave head from shoulders and turn plains to fertile fields.

    Bouncing over to where Dad sits in his chair¡ªas he is the master of the house, he rests in the best, warmest place in the house; the high seat right beside the hearth¡ªI find him in the midst of a craft much more suiting my tastes.

    Dad slouches in his chair, the tip of his tongue sticking from his mouth as his furrowed brows sit on their haunches. At his side is one of his shoes while the other lies across his lap. He has needle and thread in hand and he''s carefully prodding the worn-down sole, a frown on his face.

    "Hey, Dad!" He lifts his head at my words, a brow arching over a gray eye, "Whatcha doing?"

    I know what he''s doing, he''s determining if his shoes are fixable or if he''ll have to make new ones. Still... It''s nice to have him explain things to me.

    Besides, it''s poor manners to only speak of your own glories. Though I''m eager to tell all of the battle with the Outlaw, there is a proper method to doing so, one that must be followed. I can''t just go blabbing about and running my mouth to all who''d listen, as much as I might like.

    "Hello, Halla," he smiles at me as he nods to his work, "Shoes''re falling apart quicker than I figured they would, so I''m wondering if my technique has slackened or if I used sub-par leather."

    "Didn''t you make those just last month?" I seem to recall him grumbling about a hole in his shoes around that time. Shoes tend to last a handful of months to half a year at most, which makes the swiftness of this pair''s death quite odd.

    "I did," Dad grumbles, frown deepening. "Though," he adds as an idea comes to mind, "I have been on my feet a great deal more with Eric''s injury, so that would certainly have a hand if my technique isn''t up to snuff anymore."

    I cast a quick glance around the room, noting a certain absence. Usually, when he''s not working or watching the ships, Eric can be found with birch-bark and charcoal in hand as he draws the shape of ships at sea. With all the extra time he''s had on his hands, I reckon he''s gotten pretty good at it. More than a few of his drawings have wound their way up onto the pantry door.

    While that by itself tells little of Eric''s presence, the lack of his spear certainly does. The Havamal, the wise words of the High One, says to never be more than a single footstep away from one''s weapons. Attacks can come at any time, at any place, for any reason, so one must always be ready.

    If Eric''s spear isn''t here, then neither is he. That applies to all men, too. Well, as long as he has a weapon, I guess. Though, does that mean that a weaponless man is nowhere to be seen? You certainly can''t rely on him in combat, so you won''t see him at your side¡ªunless he does show up even with his lacking arms, which would make him quite the man indeed.

    Regardless, Eric.

    "Where is Eric, anyways?" I ask before adding, "And Salgrun, now that I think about it."

    "They''re both out together, setting hare snares," Dad says as he scowls and tosses the shoes aside. His sock-clad feet wiggle as he holds them close to the fire, a content sigh leaving his lips, "Eric''s healed swiftly, but he''s still not back to full strength so I''ve had Salgrun accompany him."

    "Didn''t Salgrun''s spear get stolen?" I take the seat at Dad''s side, which earns me a quick glare from Asva, which I return alongside poking tongue. "How will he help if trouble comes?"

    "He took a wood axe," Dad says while nodding to the empty spot on the wall behind him, where the tools of the house usually rest. I nod, a slight scowl on my face. How could I have missed the missing axe? Dammit, I need to be more perceptive! "How did your time with your friends go?" He grins, ruffling my hair, "Go on any adventures? Take any victories?"

    There we go, the moment I''ve been waiting for! I draw myself up to my full height, ignoring the spasms of pain stabbing forth from my gut, and answer Dad with a smile on my face, "It went great, Dad!"

    "Oh?" He leans back in his chair, a chuckle slipping his lips, "Do tell!"

    "Sticks a¨C" I barely make it a single word before Dad cuts me off with a raised finger.

    "Do it right, use their real names," a warm flush rises on my cheeks at the gentle admonishment. After all the trouble I went through already...

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    Sighing, I gather my strength and resume, "Stigandr Kersson, Abjorn Vidsson, and I went into the Hading in search of a thing Stigandr found," Dad arches a brow, but a nod keeps me going, "Our journey took us deep, past the lumber-trees and into the wilds." Dad''s other brow joins its brother, his lips twitching downwards and hinting at a frown. Did I forget a step? Oh, wait! I did! "We met at the Straggler Ash, proceeded through the Deadfall Outskirts by the Oxtrod Path, and turned north at the Storm-Stone before continuing with Mt Barrowwatch to our right."

    There we go, problem solved! It''s important to list the landmarks by name so that anyone hearing the story could go and see the site for themselves, if they so desired. That way, it''ll be easier for listeners to believe and spread your tale, thus enhancing your ordstirr gains.

    Still, even with my solving of the problem, Dad''s lips only continue their downward curl. I''m pretty sure that I haven''t made any other errors, so it must be related to something else. It''s probably best for me to just carry on my tale, "After traveling for," how long did we spend walking? "an hour," that sounds about right, "we encountered an old, dried-up stream-bed which contained our destination. Hidden by root and leafy disguise," my smile returns as my words grow in volume, "was an outlaw''s hideout, freshly used!"

    Asva gasps, dropping a half-ready garlic clove into the pot. Her eyes are wider than a dinner bowl only until Mother delivers a sharp smack to the back of her hand for the mistake. The stare disappears soon after as she focuses on her work with renewed vigor.

    Dad motions for me to continue and so continue I do with ever-growing vigor. "There, we were soon met by the hideout''s master; a wicked Outlaw! He attacked with axe and earth, but we fought back with bold courage and deadly skill. Stigandr threw his spear into the Outlaw''s leg and Abjorn buried his shield in the Outlaw''s stomach, only for the Outlaw to use an earth kunna to make Abjorn fall! I charged in after, not letting the Outlaw have a moment''s rest, and used my shield to keep him at bay while lopping off his fingers with my sax! He tried to bite my throat out with his teeth, but I used my Knee-Groin Trick to put him in his place! Then, I kicked Abjorn''s shield deeper through the Outlaw''s spine, splitting him in half before burying my sax in his head!"

    As my story ends, the only sounds in the house are the crackling hearthfire and bubbling pot. All eyes fall on me as my smile slowly fades, the attention hardly praising.

    "Halla," Dad begins slowly as fear wriggles its way into my heart, "while killing the outlaw was a good deed and should be celebrated, can you tell me why it won''t be?"

    I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. What did I do wrong? A man should slay outlaws wherever he finds them and isn''t that exactly what I did?

    No, wait...

    ...I''m not a man; I''m a woman. Not even that, I''m a girl.

    Just a stupid fucking girl.

    "I-it''s not fair!" I shout, throat tight as I stumble from the seat, nearly knocking it over in my flight. Tears well in my eyes and I breathe heavy, shaky shoulders rising and falling in unsteady, uneven motion, "I-I''m just as strong as a-any boy, s-stronger even!"

    Dad steadies the chair as he too rises to his feet. "Halla, lis¨C" I don''t give him a chance to speak.

    "No! I-I killed the Outlaw, I killed the wolf! I deserve the credit, I deserve the ordstirr! It''s not fair that Eric gets to be the wolf-slayer when he didn''t even do anything except die!" Dad''s gentle gaze turns to stone, but I''m too far gone, "Eric getting himself injured has put nothing but strain on this family, it would have been better for him to have met his¨C"

    Dad holds my tongue between thumb and forefinger, stopping me from speaking words I could never take back. It is a gentle grip, one causing me no pain whatsoever, yet I know that could change in an instant.

    "I named you for your grandfather, my father, Hallr Blackhand," Dad begins slowly as dread pools in my pain-ridden stomach, a shiver spreading through my body as black smoke leaks from his mouth, "do not shame his memory by speaking such words."

    The crackling vanishes, the hearth-lit blaze suddenly throwing up a cloud of smoke as its flames suddenly snuff. The boiling pot freezes, its bubbles too scared to pop let alone splash. The creaking of the house stops as the packed-dirt floors shiver and shake with fear. Even the wind beyond the walls quiets alongside the gentle mooing of the cattle.

    "When I release your tongue, you are not going to make any noise until I say you can. I am going to speak and you are going to listen," Dad continues, his stare like iron around my neck, "am I understood?"

    I nod, an awkward, jerking motion.

    "Good," Dad''s face does not change as his fingers twitch and my tongue is free. "I want you to understand that I am not angry with you, I am disappointed. You have put me in a very difficult position, one I will need to work fast to resolve. We are very, very lucky that you did this with my battle-brothers'' sons and that is our only saving grace. I am going to have to travel, without shoes, to both Vidar and Kerr''s homes to get our story straight. I will have to call in favors to ensure that this version of the tale you told me does not spread beyond our allies'' ears."

    "If I am not able to prevent the spread of this story," Dad continues as my legs shake, dawning horror hitting me like a ship''s prow, "my standing in the Hading will diminish significantly and those of opportunistic inclination will smell blood in the water. We will see low-status men of unfamiliar face and name approaching our door with weapons in hand and ambition in their eyes. I will kill many, but luck always runs out. When I fall, you, your mother, your sister will be made thralls and Eric, if he is not killed, will join you in chains."

    Dad¡¯s smoke-spewing words fall upon me like iron-tipped arrows, each syllable stabbing deeper into my soul. The Law is what keeps society from falling apart; without it, we¡¯d soon be up to our ears in blood feuds. By following the Law and staying wary against threats against its power, we Law-Tongue Speakers protect ourselves from the predations of both those in and out of the Law¡ªa protection I may well have lessened for me and my family.

    While there is no law against a woman killing, as far as I am aware, there are laws against women wielding weapons. By taking up arms, in the manner I did, I''ve given Dad''s enemies fuel to use to spread gossip about his ability to handle things. If he can''t even handle his own daughter, how could he handle a court case or the command of a fighting column? That would open his position up to further slander, further lessening his standing in the eyes of the community.

    And yet, even as my shoulders buckle with the weight of my actions, even as Dad leaves through swinging doors, even as I stand in a silent house, my fiery heart beats ever on.

 Chapter 14

    Fearful hours turn to tense days as weeks and months of waiting mount in a blur of dry throats and held breath, but aimless anxiety often bears little fruit. No foreign men come knocking at our door, no words of shame linger in our wake.

    Worries settle as the seasons change. There is much work to be done, so able hands must be ready to see it through. Cloaks, mittens, and ear-covering hats disappear as winter''s bite heals and summer passes in through the door. A warm, sun-wrought embrace brings beads of sweat to working men''s brows as many soon wish for times of snow and cold.

    The seeding season comes and passes in the blink of an eye as shoots of growing green rise in sprawling fields. With the coming harvest but a distant dream on the horizon, men rest their weary working bones as they turn to matters of more import: ordstirr.

    Summer is the time of adventure. It is when one journeys from home to find fame and fortune in whatever shape it may come. Whether by skillful sword-work or clever haggling tongue, there is much glory to be won by those ambitious enough to seek it out.

    Summer too is the time of social upheaval, as young men return home having made improvements on their strength of arm and store of ordstirr. They wield their newfound power to the collective benefit of family and allies alike, upsetting the current balance by advancing their standing. A new hierarchy must be found come the arrival of winter.

    Until such time, however, the gains of the young are to be celebrated, for a chain is never stronger than the weakest link. The stronger each warrior is, the stronger their community grows as a whole.

    And celebrate we do.

    "Come, Stigmar!" Vidar Smash, Bear''s father, declares with a broad grin as he pounds his drinking mug against the table. Amber liquid splashes, the scent of spilled alcohol rising alongside a round of cheers. "Come, tell us the tale of your victory again!"

    We¡ªDad, Eric, Asva, Salgrun, and I¡ªare gathered in the home of Kerr Skippingstone, Sticks'' father, amidst a throng of faces to celebrate the success of a certain adventure. If I were to take a moment to count the present families, I''d probably come to about ten or eleven or so separate households all collected beneath one roof.

    Stigmar Kersson, the younger of Sticks'' two older brothers, answers the cheering with an easy, confident smile that has many of the present young ladies batting their eyelids and tugging at their fathers'' sleeves. Standing up from the high seat¡ªwhich Kerr had leant him as a show of respect¡ªthe barrel-chested young lad spreads his thick-wristed arms as he begins to recite the tale for the umpteenth time that night. "On a warm evening many weeks ago, when the planting had only just finished, the son of Gleb Moss, Snorri, approached me as I was examining the newborn lambs for any signs of deficiencies. Snorri spoke welcome words and I answered in kind. He said to me, ''Stigmar, you are good with animals and my father and I have need of your talents''. I asked him what need they had of me and he said, ''Stigmar, a wild wave-horse has broken into my father''s fields and feasts upon the growing oats. It refuses to leave and we need you to calm its madness and free us of its curse.''"

    "A wave-horse?" One of the newer arrivals to the festivities asks with head tilted in interest. Hints of black color peek out from the roots of bleached-white hair as the man known to many as ''Rudolf Strong-Steed'' purses his lips, "I can see why that would be cause for alarm! Such beasts are impossible to lay hands upon, save for under the light of the full moon."

    "Unless you know certain secrets," Stigmar replies with a gleam in his eye, "secrets known only to the Franks, a tribe my grandmother happens to belong to." Whistles rise as toasts are made to an elderly woman wrapped in cloth. Gray hairs tumble down a face permanently twisted in a sly smirk, her eyes just as sharp as any blade despite the advanced age wrinkling her skin, "Using the knowledge of her people, Alflent wove the moon into a canteen and, armed with this tool, I went to where the wave-horse ravaged the land."

    "Wha'' did da horsie look like, Tigma?" The youthful voice of Stiga, Kerr''s youngest, asks with big ol'' eyes wide. She can''t quite speak right, not yet anyways, but she''s getting there. She''s sat on the ground by her mother''s feet, playing with a collection of dolls and carved figures.

    "You already know what the horse looks like, little Stiga!" Stigmar laughs as Stiga pouts, the gathered crowd laughing alongside him, "but fine, fine, I''ll tell you what I saw as I approached the beast."

    The lights dim by their own will as a hushed silence falls across the gathered masses. Stigmar leans in, face shadowed by the hearth-fire. His eyes glint as his fingers splay wide, conjuring specters in the shadow-filled hall. Ripples run across his flesh like water shining in the hearth-light.

    "The wave-horse was like nothing I''d seen before. Sea-foam clung to its body like a mane, flowing in the wind as it galloped. Quicker than any ship and swifter than any storm, the earth rippled like water beneath its hooves as it tore up one end of the field and then the other. I could see straight through its body, for its skin was water and its bones were ice. Whenever it found itself facing an obstacle, it merely turned into so much liquid, flowing around whatever was in its path with a simple ease. Nothing could touch it, not man, monster, or myth." Stigmar takes a deep breath as he locks eyes with each and every guest, "and it was my job to stop it."

    "I knew I would never be able to get close, not with how fast it was and how deftly it avoided the traps set by Gleb and his family," Stigmar says with a nod towards where Gleb sits slightly away from a corner¡ªa spot that is quite prestigious to one of his status.

    The households with the highest status here are Dad''s, Vidar''s, and Kerr''s, for they not only own land but also have the means to hire other families to work said land if they so choose. Of the Karl class, men like my Dad, being prosperous landowners, are at the highest rung of society. Thus, they and their family''s ordstirr gains are significant indeed for ordstirr growth is enhanced by one''s standing.

    "So, I devised a plan," Stigmar says with a smile, "No beast as proud as the horse would ever refuse a challenge, so that''s exactly what I would do. One morning, after discussing the plan with my hosts, I climbed the fence and made my approach. The wave-horse eyed me as I bowed, but stayed near with my display of respect. I told it I thought it a coward, for it ran away at the slightest sign of contest." Many men in the audience voice their agreement with Stigmar, saying that any man who fled was no friend of theirs, "This angered the beast and it prepared to strike me down, except I had my secret weapon ready."

    "The beast struck, but I was prepared. Tossing the canteen''s contents, the moon-water mixed with the wave-horse''s flesh and allowed me to drive my sword, Goatbite, through its chest!" Stigmar roars as he leaps on the spot, waving his hand above his head as if he were holding his sword then and there, "The beast took off but I held on tight! In one motion, I split the beast from chest to hip and spilled its guts across the ground as it continued to sprint all across the land!"

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    Cheers erupt as Stigmar nears the end of his tale, but he holds his hands for silence, "With my foe now felled, I tore free its beating heart and brought it to my lips, feasting on its life-blood and taking its might for my own!"

    At once, Stigmar''s hair turns to sea-foam as his flesh gains a watery glow. He stands there, smiling, with bones of ice and skin of the sea. Men toss empty bowls and barren cups, but all simply splash through his body without the slightest bit of harm.

    Cheers erupt once more as the festivities resume in full swing. I sit off in a corner, a spot quite shameful for one of my status but a place I feel is fitting for right now.

    I really should be out there, partying with my friends and family, but... My fingers twist tight around the wine cup in my hand, its aroma tickling my nose with its sweet succor.

    I take a deep breath, ignoring the dark thoughts by burying myself in a study of those nearby.

    Most of the other households present are of lesser standing, largely being those who lack the means to own land and so work the fields of those who do. Salgrun counts among the lowest of these fellows, being an unmarried shepherd, though Dad is likely to promote him to farmhand in the coming weeks should he prove himself worthy of such responsibility. Should that happen, Salgrun will be counted amongst the likes of Borri and Brandr Kettilsson or Tormod Bransson and his son, Bran Tormodsson¡ªthe Kettilssons are in the employ of Kerr as farmhands but while Tomord is a farmhand in Vidar''s employ, Bran is only a shepherd.

    Though such men are of low standing, they still possess the right to eat and drink at festivities without challenge, for they serve the house-master or his allies. Men like Gleb Moss, who own land but remain unprosperous, must provide some measure of reason¡ªoften in the form of valuables and such¡ªwhy they should be allowed to attend such celebrations. This is to prevent unknown enemies from having an easy time of entering one''s home.

    Such festivities are opportunities to forge alliances and make deals unhindered by one''s enemies as might be the case at the yearly Thing. A scandal earlier this year involving Snorri Glebsson''s bride-to-be and a roguish trader''s son left Gleb Moss lacking much in the way of allies¡ªthe last anyone saw of Kjellaug Njordsdottir she was on the trader''s ship, embraced by the roguish son, while her father shook hands with the trader¡ªand so he''s probably now seeking out new friends to go and extract vengeance alongside.

    It''s what I would do in Gleb''s position, after all; make new friends and go after either Njord for breaking the deal or the trader''s son who ran off with the bride, probably both, actually. Well, if I were Gleb I wouldn''t even wait to make allies, I''d just go off after them the moment I heard about what happened. I''m a strong, proud warr¨C

    ...No, no, no I need to stop thinking like that. I have to, I just have to. Otherwise I''ll lose my sense again and get Dad and the others in trouble.

    I look towards the hearth-fire, its light seeming almost sad to my eyes.

    Or, maybe I''m seeing myself in its glow?

    ¡°Hail you all, hale this day,

    And to Halla and friends.¡±

    A voice cuts through my thoughts, drawing all eyes to its master. An old man of advanced age stands in the middle of the room, having made his way there from the shadows. One single eye gleams from beneath a large, wide-brimmed hat as he lifts his arms high.

    ¡°Their deeds done, their fathers

    The words they wove I speak.¡±

    With that, the skald begins his tale, reciting a poem most familiar to my ears; a poem concocted by Dad, Vidar, and Kerr.

    Outside a gaunt outlaw,

    Out to earth from the hearth.

    Stick spear in shear shin clean,

    Stigandr¡¯s strike spikes leg.

    About to try flee bout,

    Abjorn¡¯s shield makes chest yield.

    Alive is an affront,

    A few chops and that stops.

    The skald finishes the poem and lowers his arms as the ordstirr reserve of Sticks and Bear more than doubles. They smile amidst the cheers and applause of the gathered crowd, eyes gleaming with pride as their chests swell.

    I stare from my shadow-wreathed corner, a frown on my face as a meager trickle of ordstirr adds itself to my supply, the gains of being closely associated with Bear and Sticks. It should be me up there, I should be with Bear and Sticks, and yet...

    Nobody saw the truth, so nobody knows.

    The skald spins slowly on his heel, invisible amidst the applause as his sole gleaming eye falls on mine.

    I blink, realization striking like a lightning bolt as I jerk upright. Someone did see the truth! Someone who listens to ravens, someone who governs from on high, someone who wields mysteries a foolish few might consider feminine.

    All-Father Odin, divine progenitor of the Volsungs; he saw my deeds, he knows my glory. Whether by raven wings or by witnessing it with his own eyes, the truth is known to him.

    The skald nods, stepping back into the shadows, and I grit my teeth in a fierce smile.

    All men are descended from the Gods. All those who are born speaking the Law-tongue can trace their lineage all the way back to the Gods, if they are willing to accept they may be descended from Thrall rather than Karl or Jarl.

    We Volsungs have no such fear, for we are directly descended from the highest of the Gods. Odin fathered the first of us, Volsungr, from whom came many, many generations of Kings, Jarls, and Heroes each grander than the last. Divine blood runs through our veins; blood that refuses to kneel, to yield to such petty things as fate.

    I climb to my feet, my motions unnoticed by all in attendance¡ªall save the Skald.

    I will grow strong and I will have my name in that poem. Even if the time is not yet right, my goal is set and the path is known.

    My eyes settle on the crackling hearth-fire merrily burning away in the middle of the room. I stare unblinking yet unbothered by the flames, for I have never known the pain of fire''s kiss.

    We of the dragon-slayer''s lineage, that illustrious line of Kings and Heroes, know well that fire is our ally. It calls to us, welcomes us to its embrace. Never would it char our flesh, for our heart beats with the strength of dragons¡ªwith the strength of Fafnir, wyrm of fire.

    If I am to carve my name into the heavens, I will need more than I have at my side. I need the strength of fire, for my heart knows it like the back of my own hand.

    And yet, how can one claim to wield flames without knowing it in all ways?

    I walk forward, my hair flowing behind me like a Kingly cloak. A dark red waterfall gathers about my body as my strides carry me to the hearth-pit. Dad''s gaze falls on me, his lips parting as his eyes widen, but it''s too late.

    I grip the cobblestone edge of the hearth, the fire flickering before me, and bury my head in the flames.

 Interlude 1

    "Daddy? Who was Backhand?"

    "Blackhand, honey, his name was Blackhand, and he was the strongest of them all. He was a man of the highest standing and he knew neither rest nor relaxation."

    Steinarr Freedfire, youngest son of Hallr Blackhand and bearer of Dead Sword Crowfeeder, wets his throat with a mouthful of wine. Warmth pools in his gut but does little to quell the desert in his mouth¡ªa dryness more severe than any he experienced in the Saracens'' sands.

    Beneath the trail of stars, Little Halla leads the way home with a broad smile on her face. She tosses a flimsy bundle of flames between each hand as she walks, crimson fire flowing like a horse''s tail in its wake. Stubborn baby fat clings to her chill-reddened cheeks, her rather short stature doing little to conceal the mass of her labor-honed body.

    Little Halla seems happy as she skips along, but how much might that be a fa?ade? Steinarr knows better than anyone how deep the blades of terror can pierce and how easy they can be to conceal. Solrun said that Little Halla is battle-born, that Little Halla is not one who would suffer from such mental scars; but Solrun does not, cannot, know Little Halla like he does. She is a child, a baby, soft and unready.

    "Hey, Eric!" Little Halla shouts as she waves her hands before her. Eric turns with a raised brow as Little Halla grins. Cupping her palms together, tongues of crimson flame flicker between her fingers as she pulls her arm back, "Check this out!"

    She steps into the throw and lets fly the blazing bundle. Flames trail as the ball soars, splashing against a pile of earth serving as a road-fork''s marker. The flames lick harmlessly against the dirt, yet Little Halla is oh-so proud all the same.

    Little Halla needs to hone her kunna. A fragile fireball like that could never hope to scorch hair let alone¨C

    Steinarr thrusts his hand as a jet of crimson flames engulfs a charging warrior. Skin chars black in an instant, the familiar screams cut short by Crowfeeder''s deadly edge.

    Steinarr grimaces, eyes screwing shut as he downs another swallow of wine. Warmth spreads across his chest, soothing his memories under a blanket of calm thoughts. He takes a deep breath, letting the shadow-summoned past leave him along with the exhale.

    Little Halla is a child¡ªhis child, his baby girl¡ªshe does not need the lessons of Captain Steinarr. He''s earned his rest with twenty years of blood-spilled installments; he doesn''t need to go back to Persia, where he buried those dark dreams. His work is done, it''s over now.

    Salgrun sneezes as he walks beside Steinarr, his gaze fixed to the dark-draped forest lurking by the side of the road.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Salgrun is, to not mince words, a sub-par man. He puts on a brave face yet trembles when battle is met. His spear shakes, biting thanks to passing luck and by accident more than any skillful intentions. He wouldn''t have lasted a year in the Varangian Guard, if he were even accepted into its ranks.

    And yet, wasn''t it Steinarr''s job to take such pitiful excuses of warriors and turn them into true Varangians? Wasn''t that where he excelled?

    No, not in the leading of men, but in their slaughter.

    "Captain! The gate, close the gate!" One of his warriors cries out, urging Steinarr on as the enemy hordes close in. Not all his men have made it across the threshold, yet every passing second means tha¨C

    Steinarr forces another drink of wine down his throat, eyes creasing as he scowls. That battle was over fifteen years ago, yet it haunts his dreams like it happened only yesterday. Why? Why must he suffer in silence what other men can spend a single afternoon laughing away?

    The truth of the matter is that Steinarr... He has two talents, fighting and farming, and even that may well be wrong. What is fighting but threshing the chaff from the wheat? What is training but helping plants grow?

    Though the farmer sows what he will one day harvest, he does not command his crops to grow. He merely readies his scythe and reaps the end result.

    ...Little Halla, sweet daughter, does not deserve this curse. She should live a life full of laughter and smiles, a life never knowing the sting of loss nor the pain of an absent homeland.

    A scream splits the air as a toddler''s blood-dry corpse greets the dawn.

    But he''s already failed her there, hasn''t he?

    ...There''s nothing left to do now but shield her from the cruel world as much as he can. Little Halla is a precocious child, she is one to run the fields and climb the trees. Steinarr had thought that she would calm with time, but it seems that he will have to take matters into his own hands.

    But how? He can''t punish her for adventuring, for such things are only expected of the youths. Likewise, he can''t punish her for dreaming of being an adult...

    That''s it! If Little Halla wishes to act the adult, then an adult''s responsibility shall be hers! If he can keep her busy enough, she won''t have time to engage in activities that endanger her or the family. That way, he can protect her whenever he''s needed.

    Crowfeeder greets his palm as fingers twist tight about the handle. A smile curls at his lips, his smoke clearing up for the first time in weeks.

    Come, man, myth, or any murderous monster, come and discover a long forgotten past.

    Come, o'' wicked vagabonds, and learn what was buried so long ago.

    <hr>

    Solrun, Seeress of Asvir, watches the stars as they climb the horizon. Her fingers comb through her Kolla''s hair, braiding a red ribbon into her straw lengths.

    "Mother," Kolla says as a certain dark star flickers, "the future is found in the past."

    Solrun hums, "Indeed, child, it seems that the past won''t stay buried for long."

 Chapter 15

    Sweat drenches my brow while a smile spreads across my face. I laugh as wood splinters and trunk creaks, the marked tree soon falling in a shower of autumnal leaves and sticks.

    Resting the lumber axe on my shoulder, I idly eye the fallen tree while slowly circling its length. It''s odd, you know? How much work I''ve been doing these past few months, that is. I''ve been so busy I''ve had barely any time to myself let alone any to spend with Sticks and Bear!

    Something does feel a bit off with the work, though. Take, as an example, the tree I just fell. I''ve lost count of all the trees I''ve chopped and, in doing so, have made a sizable dent in the nearby Hading outskirts. And yet...

    I''m not really sure what Dad needs all this wood for; it''s not like we need to expand the house or anything, and we''ve got more than enough firewood at this point. Heck, we might even have enough to last us till this time next year!

    Which leaves me wondering why he wants me to go out, mark trees, chop them, and then transport them all the way back to the house. If it weren¡¯t for the lack of smoke on Dad¡¯s lips, I¡¯d have thought he was in the middle of one of his episodes or something.

    But hey, I''m certainly not complaining! If it means getting out of the house, I don''t really care what I''m doing. Besides, I grin as I slip the axe into my belt and crouch before the log, it''s a good chance to work on my hamr!

    Fingers wrap around the trunk as I dig my heels into the earth. Wood groans as I grit my teeth, the weight pulling against my might even as I push it ever-higher. The bark clears the dirt and rises a half-inch into the air before it goes no further.

    With a great huff and a fierce scowl, I''m forced to drop the log. It falls to the ground with a heavy thump, leaving my hands red and my clothes covered in tree stuff.

    Damn, not quite strong enough just yet. I''ll get there, though! One of these days, not only will I carry a log with ease, but I''ll throw it too! Just like in the raiding trials, I''ll be throwing logs all the way across Asvir''s bay.

    I can see it now, ''Halla Logthrow... er''

    ...Yeah, I dunno about that kenning. Certainly no ''Freedfire'' or ''Blackhand'', that''s for sure. I really don''t want a stupid kenning, people like that are always weirdos. Like, there''s a guy called ''Kurt Frogtongue'' in Asvir and he''s got a really long tongue. Kinda freaky, if you ask me. Which you should, because I''m very good at answering questions. And asking them too!

    Still, I''ve gotta get this tree all the way back to the house. This is probably the worst part of this whole ordeal Dad''s had me doing recently, the return. It''s just so annoying having to drag this damned log and have its branches always getting caught on things. Really ticks me off.

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    Which is why I''ve developed a little bit of a trick.

    Grinning, I roll up my sleeves, hold out my hands, and take a deep breath. According to Dad, any motion that is practiced to a certain degree can become what''s called a ''trick.'' Tricks are how you use ordstirr in ways other than brute force blows. The better one gets at any given trick, the less ordstirr is needed to see it through.

    Regardless, as I draw upon the fire lurking just beneath my skin, the faint taste of ash lingers at the back of my throat. Acquiring a kunna always leaves some kind of mark on its wielder and I am no different. Ever since I stuck my head in that hearthpit and swallowed down all the fire I could, a small cloud of embers leaves my lips whenever I focus my power, the ashen mass soon drifting free in the wind.

    Fire flickers to life between my palms as sparks ignite by my will. Inhale fresh air, exhale embers; inhale, exhale, a pattern to follow as I muster up my might alongside my sharpening focus.

    Conjuring flame is a simple matter; all one needs is a fire kunna, sufficient willpower, and often a subtle flick of the wrist to get things going. What isn''t so simple is when you try to do anything beyond a mere feasting trick.

    Fire is difficult to control. Fire is fleeting and fragile, and can be put out by any number of means. Throwing around a ball of fire on its own won''t do anything, the most it''ll do is maybe set something on fire. To really get the explosions and blasts I''m looking for, I need to give it some real oomph to actually see any results.

    Which means using ordstirr.

    Using ordstirr... It always puts a smile on my face. It''s just such a good feeling, you know? The wave of power as you draw upon your own glory to smack some idiot moron straight into next week?

    There¡¯s nothing quite like it.

    An ember-laden whistle leaves my lips as I smile. Reaching deep inside, eighteen strands of ordstirr separate from my soul loom and wind their way through my body. Without drawing upon my Aspects, I can only muster thirty-six separate strands of ordstirr to wield. Pitiful, I know, but it¡¯s enough to get me through the day.

    I laugh as an arc of crimson fire bursts free from my hand. The air sizzles as the wave flies, the heat-born tongues lashing out at all in its way. It sears through the branches, carving a clean, smooth path through the autumn leaves.

    A second use of that trick sees the other side cleared of twigs, branches, and the ever-so-annoying leaves while also leaving me empty of ready ordstirr. I grimace, my readily-available power now slipping through my fingers like so much dust on the wind. No real biggie, of course, I can draw on my Aspects whenever I need to. And ordstirr returns swiftly when one has a chance to rest¡ªnot so much for Aspects, of course, that takes days to happen.

    I''m not really sure what to call this trick yet, but I''ll need to come up with something if I want to take it any further than its current state. You can''t refine something without a name, after all, and it''s a pretty rough trick. Eighteen strands of ordstirr is a high price to pay for a fighting trick, but less so for a working trick. Really, it''s the sort of thing that you wouldn''t want to pull out on the battlefield unless things got dire.

    ...Man, it''s been a bit since I last fought anything, huh?

    My fingers twitch. My foot taps. My pulse quickens.

    I really should see if there''s anyone down for a scrap or two, I''m getting a bit antsy just thinking about it.

 Chapter 16

    Trampling my way over the leafy tapestry of reds, oranges, and yellows, I drag the fallen log in my wake. I grimace as I feel the crunch of a fallen leaf through a gap in my shoe¡¯s stitching. A pillar of hearth-smoke climbs what sky is visible at the edge of the Hading, providing a guide while I make my way home to Einhollstad.

    The hearth-fires are stoked hotter to combat the creeping cold, which throws thicker clouds of smoke into the air. Dark and heavy, the thick trail slowly meanders its way ever-higher. Once it reaches a certain height, the hungry sky spirits will eventually take notice and devour it piece-by-piece, bite-by-bite.

    Taking a deep breath of the crisp autumn air, I adjust my grip on the log and continue down the path. Soon, I pass beyond the Hading''s grasp and lay eyes on Einhollstad''s perch on the hill.

    Winding my way around the back of the hill, to where I''ve been told to leave the logs, I''m met with two thought provoking sights; one half-expected and one entirely not.

    Right where it should be is the pile of logs, just the way I''d left it; a mass grave of hundreds of trees. Nothing''s changed since last I was here a few hours ago, which strikes me as somewhat odd. With all the firewood we''ve been using in the hearth, surely one or two of the logs would''ve gone to feed said fire, right? And yet, they all remain untouched. While certainly unusual, I''d long grown used to it over the past few weeks.

    What I''m not used to is the presence of a certain brown-haired older sister of mine.

    Asva stands overlooking the pile, a frown creasing her lips and brow alike. Confusion runs rampant across her face as oblivious wind spirits play with her hair. She twitches as I step into view, her eyes narrowing as she spies my timber haul.

    She''s probably going to nail me with some sharp barb, so I ready myself to parry her assault and counter with one of my own.

    "Halla," she begins, genuinely confused and potentially even concerned, "why..." She wiggles a finger at the logs, "What''s going on?"

    I open my mouth, one of several insults ready and waiting to fly, only to pause as her words reach my ears. She''s... She''s being genuine right now. I''m almost tempted to take advantage of her lacking guard, but something tells me that''d be a bad idea.

    I set the log down before shrugging, "Dad told me to fell trees, so that''s what I''ve been doing. What''re you doing here?" I just can''t help myself.

    "Mom''s mad, mad at you," Asva replies, a little bit of fire in her eyes, "You''ve been skipping her lessons all week!"

    "Yeah, so?"

    "So she sent me to find you!" Asva grumbles, smoothing out her dress, "You''re lucky I found you here, else I''d have beaten you black and blue if I''d have had to go into the woods!"

    I snort and roll up a sleeve while giving my bicep a quick flex, "Anytime, o'' sister of mine, I''d be happy to test your mettle!"

    Asva pauses, eyes widening slightly, "W-when did you get so," she shakes her head and finds her footing, "Doesn''t matter how big your arms are, you''ll still never be able to reach the top shelf!"

    "Why would I need to," I laugh, "when I can just knock it down with a kick?"

    "Dad would tan your hide if he caught you messing around like that!"

    I snort and roll my eyes. Asva knows the same as I that there''s never been an emptier threat than that. Dad never hits me, or Asva, or any of his children. Well, training doesn''t count, obviously.

    Mother does hit me, though, so why... Why would Asva threaten me with Dad and not Mother?

    Asva frowns, her mind working through the same thoughts as me, "Halla, you said that Dad told you to do this, right?"

    "I did, yeah." My frown mirrors hers as I realize what she''s getting at, "You don''t think that he''s having an episode, do you?"

    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Asva shrugs, "I''ve not seen him smoking at all, so it can''t be that, right?"

    "Right," neither of us sound especially certain of that fact. ...I think we''re going to have to ready our weapons for this one, "Do you, do you think we should tell Mother?"

    Asva blinks, looking at me like I''d grown another head, "I... That''s a first from you, Halla, if that is your real name."

    I chuckle, thankful for her humor to lighten the mood ever-so-slightly, "At least I have the hair to prove it!"

    Asva''s smile turns strained, but she swiftly brushes it off, "Lets... Lets go tell Mom."

    <hr>

    Mother listens close to our words, her frowning face carved from stone. Wrinkles mar her brow as we finish our tale, her eyes narrowing with sparking anger.

    She asks but one question: "How many trees have you chopped?"

    I share a quick look with Asva before answering, "I... I''m not sure. Hundreds, probably."

    Mother doesn''t speak as shadow dims the light and the hearth-fire shivers in fire. Storm clouds gather as thunder claps in the distance while the wind sobs and the earth trembles. Dirt-packed floors dare not cling to her shoes as her strides carry her across the room. The doors swing open of their own accord, fear commanding them into action upon her approach.

    Asva and I hurry along as the scent of burning feathers, the tell-tale of Mother''s anger, fills the air. Did we make a mistake in telling Mother? Maybe, but there''s no going back now. The only choice left for us is to see it through to the end, like dreng.

    We find Dad around the back of the house, showing Eric how to carve a proper canteen from a block of wood. The lessons will have to wait, however, as Mother will suffer no fools.

    "Steinarr Freedfire," Mother''s voice booms across the backyard, each step leaving dents in the foot-flattened ground, "What wicked spirit drives you to such madness as to order our youngest to clear the Hading?!"

    Dad freezes, eyes wide like he doesn''t quite understand what''s going on, "Asveig, I don-"

    "Don''t you ''Asveig'' me!" Mother thunders, her fury rivaling the greatest sea-storms. Eric flinches as the block of wood in his hand explodes, showering him in splinters and sawdust. He swiftly retreats to a safe distance, close to where Asva and I stand, and nervously picks wood-bits from his palm. "You know as well as I that the Hading won''t take kindly to so much wood being felled, doubly so if there''s no reason for it!" She takes a moment to calm herself and swallows a deep breath, "Please, Steinarr," she nearly falters on his name, "please tell me that you had a reason for sending our little Halla," a scowl crosses my lips, "on such a foolish quest?"

    Dad shifts from foot to foot as he cringes away from his wife''s ire. It would almost be comical for such a big man to fear anything if not for how... Oh, Gods, there''s almost nothing behind his eyes.

    He slumps forward, a broken man, as an agitated hand runs its way through his hair again and again. His jaw clenches and slackens in quick succession, his breathing speeding up as he scratches furiously at his beard. Thick smoke, the blackest I''ve ever seen, pours from his mouth like an unending waterfall of agony.

    Asva''s fingers find my hand and I squeeze tight to quell the shivers as Dad tries to speak, "I-I, I jus wan''ed," he''s stumbling through his words, forgetting letters and skipping syllables, "keep ''er safe."

    Mother''s gaze softens as her hands fall away from her hips. She steps forward, closing the distance with a single stride, and takes Dad''s hands in her own. "Steinarr," she whispers, yet our ears catch every single word, "how bad is it?"

    Dad speaks not a word, yet his silence answers all the same.

    Mother frowns as she considers the situation. Her eyes jump first to Eric only to note the still tender wound, she hardly even considers Salgrun as he watches from a distance, an odd look on his face; which leaves her gaze settling on me.

    The air stills as her stare bores a hole through my soul. I can''t look away, can''t even blink, as, for a single, lightning-fast heartbeat, Mother''s shadow gains a pair of wings.

    "Halla," Mother''s words catch me off-guard. She stands up straight with eyes aglow as power thrums through her voice, ¡°listen close and listen well.¡±

    Daughter-mine,

    Of dauntless mind,

    Seek her the Seeress.

    Those that stand,

    Those against,

    Send them swift to their graves.

    My soul loom hums with power; my ordstirr threads thicken as the poem does its work. Despite the severity of the situation, I can''t help but smile and nod.

    Let the world try and stop me; for Asvir, I am coming.

 Chapter 17

    My boots pound against the ground, grinding leather to dust as I race ever-on. Trees shiver and shake, cringing away from my arms-pumping passage. Pregnant clouds, heavy with rain and thunder, gather on the horizon while the brewing threat of storm-scars rumble across the land.

    Soon, the storm will strike and rain drops like arrows will churn dirt into mud. My boots were already needing replacements before I set out on this quest, but with how hard I''m running I''m not sure they''ll survive till Asvir let alone the return journey.

    Slowing down to spare my boots is no option at all and my socks won''t survive the rough ground, so I''ll just have to brave it barefoot. If that''s what it takes to see my father whole of mind and free of this curse, then so be it.

    My hero''s heart burns with vigorous purpose as I grit my teeth and focus my thoughts. Carving a path through fear and doubt, I churn dirt with pounding feet as the brewing storm swallows the sun.

    Darkness falls across the land, casting all into a blanket of shadow. No light flickers save for the brief flashes of storm''s light as lightning strikes the earth. Thunder rumbles as rain falls, battering against my skin like a sling''s stony spawn.

    My clothes grow wet and heavy and my cloak swiftly weighs me down, so I wrench it from my shoulders and toss it into the trees. If I''m lucky, I''ll be able to collect it once I see this task through, but its fate is of no concern as I pick up speed.

    An owl''s hoot breaks my focus, the haunting sound echoes through the trees and over the land. My heart pounds a warning drum as lightning strikes and my wary eyes fall upon the glint of shining iron.

    I jerk back, throwing up a spray of mud and muck as the arrow whistles past my head. Loose strands of severed red hair float in the wind, left stranded by the arrow''s flight.

    Those that stand, those against,

    Send them swift to their graves.

    Mother''s words ring in my ears as I twist to face my foes while drawing sax and shield alike. Fury grips my burning heart as a growl thunders from peeled-back lips, "What dead whoreson dares halt my passage?!"

    "That''s the bitch," a voice hisses from the woods, the words slightly muffled by a hollow-sounding echo.

    Three shapes emerge, shuffling from the trees. Clad in goat''s fur and draped in the stench of death, gaunt faces filled with hatred reveal their wicked form. Three Outlaws with spear, axe, and bow dare to bar my path.

    The axe-outlaw carries an open jar beneath an arm, its opening pointed my way. Twin glints of a dead man''s eyes shine from the shadows, the voice''s owner making itself known, "Remember me?" It hisses again, the voice sounding ever-so-slightly masculine.

    Remember? When have I ever seen a talking jar befo¨C Wait! Could this be the Outlaw I slew with Sticks and Bear? But how could this have happe¨C

    No, it doesn''t matter and I don''t care. Man or monster, imbecile or impossibility, it matters not to me. Anyone who stands in my way must die for the insult.

    I lower into a fighting crouch, shield held just below my eyes as I ready my soul loom, "I don''t care to recall the faces of worthless wretches."

    The voice growls, "You''ll pay, you bitch! Get her, boys!"

    The Outlaws lurch into motion, their gaunt faces and hollow eyes striking me as somehow wrong. Yellowed skin stretches taut across bone, leaving little room for muscle. Their eyes lack purpose; their souls lack that vital spark of life.

    Were it in any other situation, I would have likely found it all deeply disturbing. But it is not any other situation and they are but obstacles to overcome.

    When fighting against superior numbers, the best option is to either retreat or find a way to render their advantage null. If that is not possible and you must face them man-to-man, then there is only one way to make it out alive.

    You must strike fast and strike hard. You must be swift and stay ever on your feet. You must never cede the initiative nor give them a chance to coordinate, for a good plan and enough numbers can bring down even the most powerful warrior if he fights alone.

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    Rain falls as I push off the back leg, exploding into motion with shield raised and sax at the ready. Preparing a handful of ordstirr strands, red hair whips in my wake as I run eyes across the outlaws.

    Ideally, I''d kill the Bow-Outlaw first, but the Spear- and Axe-Outlaws will surely get in my way. Of those two, Spear-Outlaw has the greater reach and, thus, presents the greater threat and so he''ll be my first target.

    Though my passage did a number on my shoes, it did have one benefit: it brought my blood''s power to a boil. I''ll get two or maybe even three uses if I''m lucky.

    The Spear-Outlaw lunges, his namesake glinting with insidious intent as it barrels towards my skull. Stoker State''s crackling fires erupt from my flesh as its power lets me easily sway around the blow and wrap my swinging shield with a dozen strands of ordstirr.

    Retribution roars victorious as the outlaw''s skull splinters under the force of an ordstirr-clad shield. I step past him, hooking my shield around his head and slipping my sax under his spear-arm to drive it home in his belly. Once, twice, thrice more do I introduce my friend to his flesh, leaving his stomach a mess of ragged strips as I slip away just in time to avoid an axe-strike.

    The axe parts nothing but air as I curse my erring awareness. I need to keep moving, never staying still for more than a second else¡ªI twist away from a sudden arrow¡ªthey catch me lacking!

    "Come on, come on!" The jar shouts under the Axe-Outlaw''s arm¡ªnone of them seem to possess any shields, a small glimmer of luck in these trying times. "Kill her already!"

    Axe-Outlaw advances, quick to fulfill the command, and I race to meet him. He raises his axe, the weight slowing the motion and giving me a much needed look at the recovering Spear-Outlaw behind him.

    He''s close to death, I can feel it, but that won''t last forever. Even an Outlaw can acclimate to pain-shock given enough time, rendering the twelve strands of ordstirr I''d spent useless. I need to finish him off now, while he''s vulnerable from pain-shock, or else I''ll need to draw on my Aspects.

    Pale yellow ordstirr wraps around the outlaw''s axe as the trick reveals itself and I realize I''m not going to have a choice in the matter. He swings and the blade blurs through the air faster than any arrow as I barely lift my shield to meet it.

    Axe-iron cleaves through leather and wood in a spray of splinter, shearing away the back of my shield in a single stroke. A bowstring''s twang is my only warning before pain erupts from my side amidst the jar''s cackling glee.

    I stumble back, blood mixing with the mud as needle-like rain bears ever-down. An arrow now sprouts from my side, a potent reminder of my glaring mortality, and the Axe-Outlaw is quick to capitalize.

    The axe climbs high, its snail-like pace purposefully misleading, as more pale-yellow ordstirr wraps around the blade. I clench my jaw, ignoring the throbbing pain in my side, as I muster up what Stoker State power I have remaining.

    He swings and crackling fire carries me clear and away from the axe''s deadly blade, the last of my Stoker State supply vanishing as I do. It''ll replenish with my every motion, but I might not get a chance to use its power again before the day is done.

    Spear-Outlaw shakes his cratered head and plants his feet, recovering from the pain-shock while the Bow-Outlaw draws back another arrow.

    "Sven, circle around the bitch!" The jar cries and the Spear-Outlaw nods, moving to do just that while Axe-Outlaw wraps around my other side. The Bow-Outlaw takes aim and I''ve got a spear on one side and an axe on the other.

    I''m down a third of my ready ordstirr, completely out of Stoker State, and now facing a coordinated assault.

    Things... They aren''t looking good. My heart hammers as the outlaws advance and the arrow sends spikes of pain through my body.

    I... I might die here. I might not reach Asvir, I might not get the Seeress, and Dad might not recover.

    All because I couldn''t best a measly three outlaws. Sure, they had me outnumbered and sure, they had decades of experience on me, but that''s no excuse. I am a Volsung, I should be better than this. I should be able to slay any number of such pitiful wretches.

    And yet, the arrow still brings me pain. And yet, my shield is nearly gone, reduced to splinters. And yet, I still face three to my one.

    I... I can''t do it, I''m going to fail. If I were born a boy and given the chances to prove myself, to gain more ordstirr, maybe then I could do it. But I wasn''t, I''m a girl.

    Just a stupid fucking girl...

    And yet¡­ And yet, I''m a stupid fucking girl who still has her Aspects. I''m a stupid fucking girl who hasn''t revealed her fire kunna.

    I''m a stupid fucking girl with a reason to keep on fighting! Never give up, never surrender! That''s what it means to be a dreng! I''m a stupid fucking girl, yes, but I''m a stupid fucking dreng, too!

    Fire flickers in my heart as my fingers twist tight around my weapons. Brows furrow as jaws clench, my eyes alight with crimson fire. Sax-blade clatters against shield-rim, banging out a brutal rhythm across the rain-splattered battlegrounds.

    "Come on, then, if you''re man enough!" I shout, furious glee twisting a wicked grin across my lips. "Come on, prove you''re better than this stupid fucking girl by killing her, here and now!"

    "But beware," I laugh my warning as I point my sax at each in turn.

    "The next man to approach me dies!"

 Chapter 18

    "The next man to approach me dies!"

    My words echo alongside a backdrop of thunder and the clack of iron on wood. The outlaws advance and I slink back, keeping the distance between us as even as I can given the slickness of the mud beneath our feet. With only half a shield and sporting an arrow''s kiss¡ªthe embedded iron even now grinding fresh pain from my flesh¡ªI''ll need to think, to plan if I am to see my quest through.

    Battlefields are chaos, I understand that now. There''s too much going on and too little time to react let alone think. Knowing the proper steps to winning a fight when outnumbered is all very well and good, but it doesn''t matter much when the whirling battle-frenzy dulls the mind.

    My shield is good for one more hit, and that''s only if I''m lucky. Even when the shield is destroyed, though, I should still have the boss in hand. It''s good iron, strong and firm. It''ll do damage if I can nail someone with it. I might be able to get an opening if I throw it at someone, too, and I need a hand free to use my kunna so that could work out well.

    "Sven, take her legs!" The jar yells and the Spear-Outlaw''s weapon lowers, a certain something flashing behind empty eyes as it moves to obey.

    The Spear-Outlaw explodes into motion, his body wreathed in green ordstirr helping his charge along. A veritable missile of flesh and bone hurtles my way, the deadly spear shining as I force myself to respond.

    My feet leave the ground as I hop into the air and the spear''s iron head buries itself deep into the earth. Tattered shoes greet yellowed flesh as I drop a two-foot kick against the Outlaw''s chest. Pain shoots up my legs as my ankles scream in agony, his speed doing me harm even as his hunger-weakened bones crack!

    Momentum carries me forward as the Outlaw stumbles back and I follow him down into the muck. Mud splashes as he lands and I scramble quick to my feet, well aware of the approaching danger.

    Ignoring the protests of my ankles, six strands of crimson ordstirr wrap around my leg as I kick off the fallen man''s chest. Spear-Outlaw screams, my strike doing its work, and I throw myself away from the axe hewing towards my head.

    "Dammit, Gunther!" The jar swears as the Axe-Outlaw greets nothing but air, "What the shit did that spirit-whore even do to you?!"

    Drawing his axe back for another strike, the Axe-Outlaw makes no comment about his companion''s foul words while the Spear-Outlaw yet again picks himself back up from the muck.

    This isn''t going to work, I scowl as I duck another arrow. I''m wasting ordstirr on things that I''ve already tried, on things that haven''t worked. I need to reevaluate, need to figure out how I can change things up.

    Wait, spirit-whore? As in, someone who works with spirits, like a seeress? That must be how that outlaw''s soul got into tha¨C

    The Axe-Outlaw advances, robbing me of my chance to think as anger swells in my heart. You know what? Screw it! Thinking hasn''t helped me so far, might as well just go all out while I still can! Can''t use my Aspects if I''m fucking dead!

    So why the fuck am I hesitating? Didn''t I sacrifice my fear? Didn''t I sacrifice my hesitation? Didn''t I promise to never let my thoughts hold me back? Am I an oathbreaker? Did I make a false-sacrifice?

    Fuck.

    No.

    Between the heartbeats of violence, in the time the Axe-Outlaw takes to lift his axe up high, I take a deep breath and focus my will. At the end of the soul loom are three pieces of cloth within which fully half of my ordstirr is stored. Grabbing hold of the closest, the cloth unravels into so much thread as a crown of curling iron spikes sprouts upon my head.

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    Power surges through my body, the world blurring into streaks of blended color as I move. Axe-Outlaw''s head snaps back as I hurl my shield as hard as I can. The wood shatters on impact, but the boss carries on through the outlaw''s face and out the back of his head.

    Bone sprays as blood spills, the outlaw''s limbs growing limp as the jar makes worried sounds.

    "Gunther? Gunther!" The jar cries out as the Axe-Outlaw teeters on the spot, the axe slipping from numbing fingers.

    "Gunther''s fucking dead, you idiot!" I snarl as I kick the half-corpse over and twist to meet the charging Spear-Outlaw with my next Aspect already unravelling.

    A cloak of crimson cloth unfurls from my shoulders as the Spear-Outlaw lunges. Rather than dodge or block or any of that pussy shit that didn''t work, I step forward. The spear-tip splits my flesh yet I stay standing, stay moving as my virthing heals my body all the while.

    I stride forward, pushing through the cross-guard and driving my sax into the bastard''s shoulder. Using it to wrench him down to my level, I look him dead in the eye as I press palms against either side of his head.

    "Odin take you, you piece of shit," I curse through clenching jaw as flame-light flickers between my fingers. Ordstirr surges, crimson fire ignites, and the outlaw screams as his eyes pop and his head explodes in a shower of steaming, flash-boiled brains.

    My head snaps at an angle, an arrow taking me through one cheek and out the other. I lift a hand, curl fingers around arrow-wood, and calmly wrench it free in a shower of blood and skin. I''d frown if I could, yet it seems my face muscles have failed me.

    I turn towards my attacker, the spear following my motions, and fix the Bow-Outlaw with an arched brow. The empty eyes of the outlaw are the only response I get. That, and the creaking of his bowstring as he draws another arrow back.

    Well, I tried.

    An ethereal crimson blaze engulfs my body as I lift both hands, palms facing the outlaw. Fire gathers at my palms as Aspect-sourced ordstirr adds itself to my might.

    Twin arcs of ragged, crimson flames burst out from my grasp and hurtle across the space faster than the eye can blink. The first takes the outlaw from head to shoulders while the next takes him across the pelvis, splitting him into thirds. Or maybe fourths, I''m not really keen on counting that right now.

    The Bow-Outlaw collapses, dead, and I''m left victorious. Injured, yes, as the returning pain¡ªhuh, when did it leave?¡ªis eager to remind, but victorious nonetheless.

    I take a moment to bask in the glory with as much of a smile as I can muster on my face. Ah, sweet victory, how good you are.

    Well, all that''s left is to finish my journey and¨C Now what do we have here?

    The jar rests face-down in the dirt, muffled noises rising all the while. "Sven? Harold? What''s going on? I can''t see!"

    I snicker to myself as I tip the jar over with a toe-prod, "Dead and dead, I''m afraid," I speak as best I can, my cheeks continuing to fail me when I need them most.

    The jar is silent for a long moment, "So..."

    "So indeed." You know, I was planning on just stomping him into dust, but I''ve been wanting a pet for a while now and Dad just never lets me have one. Mother''s allergic, or so I''m told. Speaking of which; "Do you shed a lot?"

    "I, what?"

    "Do you shed, yes or no? It''s an easy question." I rest my foot against the ceramic surface.

    "N-no! Of course not!" The jar replies, fear mixing with confusion and producing an odd sort of anger.

    "That''s good," I nod as I scoop the jar up and tuck him under an arm. "You''re gonna be my new pet."

    "P-pet?!" The jar squawks, "I''m a free-man, a Karl! You can''t just do that to me!"

    "No," I roll my eyes, "you''re an outlaw. You have no rights, no protections, so you can either be my pet or we can use you to hold cow shit."

    "...Is killing me not an option?"

    "And waste a good jar?" I laugh out loud as I continue towards Asvir. "Absolutely not!"

    Now, what was I doing before I was so rudely¨C

    Oh, shit.

    Dad.

 Chapter 19

    Solrun opens the tent''s flap before I''d even had a chance to announce my presence, sizzling suspicion in her silver eyes reflecting the light of the setting sun.

    "What foul witch-work have you brought to my tentstep, o'' child of flames?" Solrun asks before lifting a carefully plucked and skillfully crooked brow at my wounds. What can be said of her mastery of strange skills and magical mysteries is nothing compared to her clear perfection of the arched-brow stare. "And what did you go through to bring it here?"

    "Oh, God," my jar grumbles, "another witch, I hate wit¨C" He cuts himself off with a squeak as bright blue power sparks behind Solrun''s eyes. I almost laugh until I realize with whom, exactly, her ire lies.

    "Keep your thrall in check, Halla Steinarsdottir," Solrun says, her wrinkles twisting down into a severe scowl, "else his words make enemies of friends."

    I nod, the scent of burning flesh faint on the wind, "I will remember that, Seeress, thank you."

    Solrun hums, "I hope you do."

    "But I''ve not come here for this," I give the jar a jostle, which draws a yelp from the dweller, "I come here regarding my father, Steinarr."

    Solrun''s lips thin, "I see." She turns, gesturing for me to follow, "Come in, I''ll have Kolla prepare a kettle."

    A kettle? Tea, now of all times, when my father''s sanity hangs in the balance? No, this cannot be. I''m tempted to raise my voice, to cut her off at the pass, yet hold my tongue. There are few worse times to make an enemy of a Seeress than when you are in desperate need of her aid.

    "Wise-woman, please," I can swallow my pride for this at least, "Steinarr, Dad, his heart devours his mind. He needs your help, and quickly."

    Solrun stands in silence for a single heartbeat, her eyes tracing my face in search of any hint of deceit. Finding none, she nods.

    "Kolla, the raven''s shape-cloak," Solrun snaps her fingers, her daughter manifesting from the shadows with a cloak of raven''s feathers held in hand, "Symptoms," she demands of me as she wraps the cloak about her shoulders and strides forth from the tent.

    I follow in her wake, explaining Dad''s troubles as we walk. With every word I speak, Solrun whistles in time and a pair of ravens¡ªeach thick and heavy with spiritual might¡ªcarry tools and medicine to her hands. Each new item disappears between the folds of her cloak, vanishing into some space between worlds.

    "Stay close," Solrun says as I finish, her arm spread wide and welcoming. I answer her call and her arm wraps around my shoulders, engulfing me in the raven''s feathers for but an instant before the world twists.

    Time, space, and all that is in and out lose meaning beneath the weight of raven''s feathers. Glimpses of pumping wings, cawing calls, and the wide-open skies are all that remain.

    The world untwists and I find myself collapsing against the ground. Head spinning, I clutch at the earth like a newborn babe does its mother''s teat as I struggle not to vomit.

    Eyes screwed shut and ears ringing with a most dreadful tune, I scarcely hear Solrun''s words, "Let loose your lunch, child, you''ll feel better afterwards."

    I do so, swiftly painting the ground with my stomach''s contents. She spoke the truth, though not nearly as much as I''d hoped. For how long I lay there I know not, only that at some point the ringing stops and my eyes can open once more.

    "God be good," my jar groans as consciousness returns to me, "what the fuck happened? And where are we?"

    "Don''t know," I answer with a cough, breath hard to come by as I sit upright. Casting a glance around my surroundings, I''m treated to a most welcome sight, "but we''re home."

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    "Which is?"

    "Einhollstad, the east-most Hading-farm."

    "Einhollstad? But that''s... Christ Almighty, that''s where Steinarr Freedfire lives!" My jar swears by the God of the Christians, which is odd, but his words draw a chuckle from my lips nevertheless.

    "He''s my dad, you know," I crack a grin at the sudden, drawn out silence broken only by a hasty prayer.

    "Heavenly Father, deliver me from this ill-fated doom."

    So my jar is a Christian, is he? This is the perfect time to ask all those questions I''ve go¨C Dad!

    I leap to my feet, sudden realization striking harder than the Hammer of the Gods, and into motion in a single move. Bursting through two sets of doors, I''m met with my family gathered around Solrun as she carefully feeds a steaming brew to an upright Dad.

    Dad''s face stops me in my tracks. He''s up and awake, but his cheeks are gaunt and his skin is pale and waxy. Dad has always had a rather round face, one inherited by yours truly, so the sight of such clearly defined cheekbones draws me up short. His chapped and bloodied lips part as he slowly yet purposefully swallows mouthful of brew. The bitter taste reaches my tongue even at this distance, yet Dad swallows it dutifully and without even a hint of a twitch upon his face.

    That is, until his eyes fall upon me¡ªme and the blood on my body.

    Dad coughs, a mist of bitter brew spraying from his lips as he hacks and wheezes, eyes wide with worry as he tries to force himself to his feet, "H-Halla?!"

    "Be calm!" A verbal whip cracks as power surges through the house, rattling wall-bound tools and shaking dust from the rafters as Solrun''s words carve themselves into the air in letters of brilliant blue. They hang there effortlessly, as if suspended from the ceiling by impossibly thin strands of string.

    The spell does its work, for Dad''s eyes mist over and his breathing evens out. Solrun guides him back into a resting pose before handing the brew off to Mother and turning to address the family.

    "My work here is nearly complete," Solrun begins as the family collectively sucks in a breath, one that''s soon released with her next words, "Steinarr is nearly cured of his condition."

    "Wh-what was wrong with him?" Asva steps forward, her fingers working themselves into knots as she stares at Dad''s now sleeping form.

    Solrun hums, "A difficult question to answer, I''m afraid, as I lack all the details. What I can tell you is that a spirit, a dead man''s ghost, was able to slip past Steinarr''s fylgja and make it into his heart, where it proceeded to make mayhem. The spirit was foreign in origin, from an arid, distant land, which may have been how it was able to avoid the fylgja. Though," Solrun frowns as she continues, "I suspect there were other elements in play. Upon probing his soul''s defenses, I discovered that they are in quite dire straits. With how belabored his fylgja was, I fear it was only a matter of time until Steinarr succumbed."

    ¡°So,¡± Asva continues, lips twitching into uncertain frowns, ¡°it was just a spirit, then? And not his mind failing him?¡±

    Solrun¡¯s lips thin, ¡°This time, yes, it was ¡®just¡¯ a spirit.¡±

    ¡°This time?¡± I find myself asking a question I fear the answer to.

    ¡°Should a Speaker of the Law live long enough to grow gray in the hair, either his body or his mind will begin to fail him. This, tragically, is an inevitable process,¡± Solrun¡¯s face twitches as she says ¡®inevitable¡¯, like she¡¯s not entirely convinced of that herself. ¡°There are ways to delay and stave it off, but there are no permanent solutions.¡±

    "You said his defenses are in dire straits, meaning you were unable to fix them?" Mother asks as she carefully administers the last of the brew. Though Mother knows many spells and incantations, only a Seer knows the full extent of the soul.

    "What I did was little more than a stop-gap measure. It will fail in time unless we discover and solve the root cause of this issue."

    Mother stands up, the brew bowl empty, and addresses Solrun with her full attention, eyes alight with fierce, fiery determination¡ªa determination I know all too well, for I see it in my reflection every day. "What can we do to help?"

    Solrun nods, accepting Mother¡¯s conviction, "Inner turmoil is often the primary cause of weakness in a soul''s defenses. Cast your thoughts into the past, consider what might have eaten away at Steinarr''s mind until he couldn''t take it anymore. There, we shall have one half of the equation."

    The other half, of course, being the solution.

    I grimace, not needing much time at all to realize the root of Dad''s problems. After all, it''s splattered all over my body.

    "It''s me." My voice cuts through the room like the work of a well-honed sword. All eyes fall to me as I gather my courage and stand as tall as I can, "I¡­ I''m the reason."

 Chapter 20

    "I''m the reason."

    My words hang in the air like a malignant odor; like a stench that might never go away no matter how long you air out the house.

    Mother''s lips thin as Asva''s eyes widen, a gasp leaping free of her mouth. Eric''s brows curl up, concern and worry flashing in equal measure as his fingers tense and untense in quick succession. Salgrun is silent, the odd expression he''s been wearing remains the same as he flickers between thoughts faster than I can or care to follow.

    Only Solrun seems almost pensive, an impression that''s soon validated as her voice fills the room.

    "What in particular about you?" Solrun asks, sweeping across the room and swiftly closing in around me. "Rarely is a single person in their entirety the cause of such strife."

    "I..." I suck in a deep breath as tears brew at my eyes. This is it, the moment I''ve been dreading; this is where I will have to give up on my dreams, isn''t it? No amount of courage or pride could keep the shaking from my voice, "I, I keep putting myself in danger, keep wielding weapons and acting the man. That''s why Dad''s like this. It''s my fau¨C"

    "No," a voice grabs ahold of my very soul, "it is not your fault."

    Solrun lifts a brow as she steps aside, revealing the frown carved on Mother''s face.

    "M-Mother?" I manage to get out through body-wracking shivers. Long legs carry her close as she pulls me in for a hug. Her arms wrap around me as I grab handfuls of her dress, my tears drying on her clothes.

    "The only one at fault is the man who could not accept the truth," Mother¡ªMom¡ªsays softly as she combs fingers through my hair, "the one who so vehemently refused to face the facts that it tore his soul to shreds. Your father, I love him," she sighs fondly, "but he is a stubborn hound. He loves you, he really does, but that love blinds him to who you are, of the woman, no, the warrior you will one day be."

    "Dad thought it was me who slew the wolf," Eric speaks up, a hand idly covering his long-healed stomach, "and gave Halla her sax when he found out it was her. But he said that he was going to give it to her for Yule before that, so maybe it isn''t Halla doing warrior''s work that has him in this state?"

    "Yeah!" Asva adds, "Dad said that it was a good thing that Halla killed that Outlaw, too! So it can''t be that." Eric blinks, brows lifting in surprise. He opens his mouth to ask a question only to think better of it, his teeth clicking closed.

    A tiny smile creases my lips as I bury my face in Mom''s dress. Thank you, Eric and Asva, really, for trying to take the load from my shoulders, but the truth must be faced one way or another.

    "The actions of a conflicted man," Solrun says, certainty in her words, "one who trusts what his eyes see yet holds in his heart that which is no longer true."

    I swallow, extricating myself from Mom''s embrace, and release a long-held breath, "If I... If I stop this, if I stop..." I take a deep breath, "If I stop pursuing the path of the warrior, will Dad get better?"

    "Will his condition improve? Certainly," Solrun tilts her head to the side, a certain sly shine in her eye, "Will he ''be better''? Absolutely not. The potential vulnerability will remain and this could, and perhaps will, happen again."

    "Then how do we fix it?" Mom asks, returning to an upright state.

    "By showing Steinarr, once and for all, that warrior''s blood runs through his little girl''s veins. Her aftermath is not enough, he must see her work in person."

    Silence falls as we consider what that means, what it would entail. How would we even begin down that path? For us to show Dad how much of a warrior I am, we''d have to find foes, right? That would mean either travelling with Dad in his current condition or making enemies of our neighbors, neither of which are especially good options.

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    "Fortunately," Solrun smiles, "the magic that lets an eyeless soul see is only a few steps away from the magic that lets one witness the past."

    An eyeless soul? As in, something like my ja¨C

    "Halla, if you could collect your thrall, please." Solrun answers the question before I''d even had a chance to think it.

    "Thrall?" Mom tilts her head to the side. I don''t bother explaining, it''ll be easier when they can see him for themselves.

    A few minutes later, my jar is on the table and the story unfolds for all to hear.

    "I do not squeak," my jar grumbles, annoyed by some of the more colorful descriptors I may or may not have utilized in this retelling.

    "And you are certain that he is the same outlaw that you killed with Stigandr and Abjorn?" Mom asks, her arms crossed.

    I nod, "Positive. Tell her, jar."

    "I don''t wanna."

    "Do it!"

    "No!"

    "Do it or I''ll put you in the latrine!"

    "You wouldn''t."

    "I would."

    "Then do it already! You won''t get my eyes if they''re full of shit!"

    Shit, he''s right.

    Mom watches the byplay with no small amount of amusement in her eyes, "I will take your word for it, then."

    "Regardless of the jar''s identity," Solrun says, her eyes glowing with bright blue power, "the magic that allows him to see and experience the world around him will also allow us to peer into said experiences."

    "Will... Will this hurt?" The jar asks as fading sparks of power drift in the air.

    "Depends on how well the spell was made."

    "That doesn''t answer my ques¨C" The jar''s voice vanishes as the Seeress lifts her hands. Fingers splay wide as threads of bright blue ordstirr snake through the air and wrap themselves around the jar''s surface. Power pulses as magic makes ready, the jar''s mouth glowing with intense light.

    Images, pictures, and scattered memories emerge from the Jar''s maw, drifting through the air like feathers on the wind.

    "It will take some time to sift through the mess," Solrun says as she begins her work, "modifying another caster''s spell is never a smooth process."

    With that in mind, we settle in and wait.

    <hr>

    Sax cleaves, fire burns, and a redheaded warrior laughs as she slays her foes. A wild, frenzied grin stretches across her face as she dances with sax and shield in hand. Blood spills from open wounds, yet nothing seems to so much as slow her down as she drives her shield through the head of a foe.

    She welcomes the bite of pain, impaling herself on a spear to clap its master''s head between her hands. Flame surges, exploding out from inside the spear-wielder''s head and showering her in a spray of sizzling blood, bones, and brain.

    She cares not as she draws her power reserves to their utter limits. Twin arcs of crimson flame snap out like whip cracks, splitting the bow-wielder in thirds as she claims victory on this day.

    Surrounded by family and with lip and limb bound by magic, Dad can do nothing but watch me lay waste to my enemies. He watches me slay each outlaw one-by-one; he watches me wield weapons with deadly skill and cast hungry flames at my foes.

    When all is said and done and the spell keeping his mouth shut finally falls away, a single whispered question is all that leaves his lips.

    "I... How did you learn to heal and harm with your Aspects?" His eyes fall on me, honest confusion in his gaze. "I taught you to stoke them, but not how to wield them properly."

    I answer his confusion with my own ample supply, "I... I don''t know," I can really only shrug at his words, "It just made sense, I never really thought about why I knew that it would."

    "A natural talent," Solrun picks that moment to add her voice to the mix, "just like her namesake."

    "I can see that now," Dad says as he sighs, eyes leaving the hearth-flame and returning to me, "Halla, my daughter... I owe you an apology." He takes a deep breath and begins, "I kept my knowledge from you, I taught you only the most basic of battle-truths hoping that it would keep you from pursuing the heights of power. I see now how wrong I was."

    "Halla, I am so sorry."

    I swallow the lump in my throat and choke back tears as I rush to embrace my healed father.

    Finally, finally this ordeal is over.

 Chapter 21

    Having spotted a suitable place to rest its weary wings, a bird alights upon my sky-facing shoe''s sole. A small, chubby thing, the bird calmly runs beak across its travel-ruffled feathers, apparently completely unaware of my considerable ire.

    My arms shake, muscles burning, as splayed-out fingers hold my entire body off the muddy ground. The bird sends out a cheery chirp as it shifts ever so slightly and casts my balance into Ginnungagap.

    I fall, splashing face-first into a mud-swamped puddle and sending the bird fearfully into the sky. I can only hope I lasted long enough to¨C

    A bundle of food lands at my side, spilling out into the mud. My stomach grumbles despite the foul conditions and I eagerly dig into the muck-drenched bread and cheese. Quickly, I devour what I can of the meal before a hand finds the back of my belt¡ªfinally, I''m out of that damned dress!¡ªand wrenches me into the air.

    I dangle from Dad''s grasp as I shovel a block of cheese into my food-stuffed maw, forcing it past a lump of mud-wet bread and down my gullet.

    "What are the three ways you can use your Aspects?" He holds up five fingers and my eyes widen to their utmost limits. A finger falls and I nearly choke.

    Shit, fuck! Another finger falls, leaving me with three seconds to answer before I''m forced to do the Gods-damned mud-plank again. I swallow what food I can while spitting out the rest, which costs me another second. A wet cough leaves me with only a single second to my name as I finally force my words into action.

    "Healing, harming, and h-helping!" I gasp, nearly stumbling over the final word as I dangle in the air.

    "Good," Dad doesn''t smile as he drops me back into the muck, "Sax and shield, two minutes." He walks off to drier land, his shoes annoyingly clean while he leaves me to scramble upright.

    Scowling, I swiftly collect my equipment and race to meet Dad at his chosen training ground. He watches me approach with a face carved from granite. I shuffle along, more than a little nauseous with how fast I had to eat my food, only for Dad to meet me half-way.

    Lightning fast, his forearm catches me across the throat, crushing it utterly and dashing me against the ground so hard that bones snap. He lifts his foot, ready to stomp me into oblivion, but I roll to the side just as the boot falls. Sax in hand, I cleave it across the back of his ankle as I climb to my feet. Dad falls and I drive my sax through the back of his head.

    He collapses into a pile of leaves and sticks as the plant-clone dies.

    "Good," Dad says from behind me, now with the slightest hint of a smile on his face. Rather than bask in his praise, I stoke my frami and bathe myself in crimson flame as its healing power washes over me. Bone and throat mend themselves as swiftly as they broke, just in time for the next assault.

    Crimson flame gathers in Dad''s palms as a salvo of bouncing fireballs race my way. I grit my teeth as I lift my shield and throw myself to the side. Landing on my shoulder, I ride the momentum and roll to my feet just as the next wave of blasts comes hurtling across the field.

    Again I dodge, again I roll to my feet only to be met with yet another series of fireballs. At this rate, I won''t be able to close the gap before one of them hits me. They bounce across the ground, leaving scorch marks wherever they greet the earth. Wait, only some of them scorch the earth.

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    That''s it!

    This time, instead of throwing myself away from the flames, I boldly step forward into the salvo. Careful to avoid the earth-scorching fire, I don''t even bother to defend as the rest splash harmlessly against my skin. Without ordstirr fueling it, fire lacks any sort of bite¡ªa technique used to conceal how much ordstirr one is spending and one Dad has a particularly low opinion of.

    Dad continues sending blast after blast my way, progressively increasing the amount of real fireballs the closer I get. Even with the steadily growing number of fireballs, I keep moving as I nimbly dodge and dance around each and every as the gap ever-closes. Desperation crawls across his face as he readies his hands high above his head only for my shield to invert his elbows and for my sax to cleave him from head to chest.

    The plant-clone collapses into a pile of leaves and sticks.

    "Good," Dad says, once more behind me. This time, he''s armed with sax and shield as his smile grows into a proper grin. I advance, shield ready, and we meet in a clash of blades.

    He swings twice before thrusting; a steady tempo meant to lull me into a rhythmic pattern as I dodge and block the simple attacks. At some point, he''ll do something different to throw me off and I need to be ready for that. Probably a trick of some kind, like the Shatter-Wrist Trick.

    Of course, even if I need to be ready for his mix-up, I can still make moves of my own. After all, just as he keeps a steady rhythm of moves, so do I.

    I jab forward with my shield''s edge and Dad sways to the side, the sixth repetition of this move. Normally, I''d follow up with a head-chop and he''d block with his shield before countering with his own combo.

    He doesn''t see the Heel-Kick Trick coming before it''s too late¡ªI really don''t want to have my wrist broken. Dad stumbles and I take advantage, hurling my shield into his face as I wrench his shield away and drive a half-dozen sax-stabs into the pit of his arm.

    The plant-clone collapses into a pile of leaves and sticks.

    "Well done," Dad says as he steps out from the copse of trees marking our training ground. He''s got a big dumb smile on his face and a pair of water canteens in his hand. He tosses one my way and I eagerly swallow it down.

    The cool water calms my nerves as I smile and wipe my mouth dry. "How''d I do?"

    Dad tilts his head to the side, a pensive look on his face. "Six out of ten."

    I gape, nearly dropping the canteen in my shock, "S-six?! That was easily a nine!"

    Dad chuckles, my dread rising alongside his hand, "You fell into the muck," he lifts a finger and I groan, "got caught by the armbar" another finger, "faced kunna-spray without considering alternative solutions," a third finger rises and I frown. Wait, six means I made four mistakes but I''m pretty sure I only made three, right? "And you were lulled into the battle-rhythm."

    "Oh, come on!" I scowl as I plant hands on my hips, "I won that exchange and you know it!"

    Dad gives me a flat stare, "Any strike that fails to kill or wound is worthless."

    "But I did kill you! My attacks were all leading up to Heel-Kick Trick!"

    "You were hitting my clone with attacks that, if they connected, wouldn''t have killed or wounded. The head-chop was the best of your combo, but the shield-edge would barely have bruised let alone break bone."

    I grumble and kick at a rock, "Fine, fine! Six out of ten."

    Still, I''m getting better. Every day, I climb closer to that vaunted ten out of ten.

 Chapter 22

    "Halla, you stupid girl, you should know this by now!" Dad says with stern scorn as I cower before his ire, "Swords are the companions of heroes and, thus, grant more ordstirr than any other weapon. Saxes provide their wielders the ability to impart greater force and, as such, are found in the hands of the physically powerful! Axes split through armor and shields like so much firewood and spears deliver wounds best of all weapons!"

    I wake to a cold sweat despite the sleeping furs. The crackling of the hearth-flame does little to warm my shivering skin as my heart beats a frantic tempo in my ears. I groan as I clap hands to my head and ride out the last waves of heart-shaking terror.

    Gods, I''m even having nightmares about training.

    I wince as sunlight trickles through the smoking-holes, the nose-tickling light hinting at just how late in the day it is. I''m all alone in the hearth-room, the rest of the household out bringing in the harvest. A smile spreads across my face as I relax, falling back amidst the warm embrace of countless furs.

    Rightfully, I should feel nothing but shame for lazing about while there''s harvesting to be done. I should leap to my feet and join my family in their work. Instead, I let loose a blissful sigh as I nestle deeper into the furs.

    I never thought this day would come, that I would rather be inside than out in the wilds. Somehow, though, the constant training and lessons have succeeded where a decade of mothering failed.

    Yesterday, I was carrying a log on my shoulders while dodging fireballs, rocks, and root-spikes. Not only that, but I had to do it while balancing on a narrow beam suspended over cattle filth. And if that wasn''t enough, I also had to recite the twelfth, third, and seventh stanzas of the Kunnaspekin¡ªin that order.

    ...I didn''t get a very good score yesterday.

    So, I''m quite happy that Dad and Mom let me sleep in today, even with all the work that needs doing. As long as I don''t make too much noise, nobody''ll know I''m up!

    "Halla''s awake!" My jar shouts at the top of its... Lungs, I guess? Magical lung constructs, probably.

    "Curse you, Jar!" I grumble as I bury my face in the furs. Despite how warm and comfortable the furs are, I know it can''t last forever. Mom''ll tan my hide if she catches me falling asleep after I woke up, after all.

    Kinda funny, really, that her threats still hold weight even after all these months of training. Even if I could break her over my knee, she''s still my Mom.

    ¡­you know, I¡¯m not sure if I could break her over my knee. How strong is Mom, actually?

    Groaning, I haul myself to my feet as I cast a bleary-eyed look around the house. With only my small clothes as protection against the cold, the first step after waking up is to find where in the heck my working clothes got off to.

    Usually, they''re on the ground next to my bench-spot. I know, I know, leaving clothes on packed earth will only dirty them, but it''s not my choice, honest! Every night, I leave them on the bench, but I move around so much that they always wind up on the floor!

    My hand first finds my long-forgotten dress and I pause, its fabric untouched for many months. Dresses don''t handle well in the training field, so I''ve long since transitioned to wearing tunic and trousers like the men of the family. I need to be careful, of course, as it''s against the law for men to wear women''s clothes. While neither Dad or I know if the reverse is true, it''s better to avoid unnecessary strife. So, until I can snap a man in half with my bare hands, the dress is what I wear when interacting with non-household members.

    It won''t be long till I can do just that, though. Heck, I could probably rip a Christian in half as I am now! Not that Christians are men; after all, they don''t speak the law-tongue!

    Passing over my old dress, I soon find my real clothes and swiftly don both shirt and trousers. My pants are a green-dyed wool while my tunic remains undyed¡ªthey were rather quickly made once I nearly ruined my dress in training, so they''re unadorned by any decorations. After securing the tunic in place with a leather belt I loop into a knot, I grab my sax from the wall before pausing at my new shield.

    My old shield was good for little more than food for the fire, which is where it met its fate. The only thing salvageable was the iron boss, which now awaits new wood in the workshop.

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    "A shield-lacking man is a man soon dead," Dad''s words echo through my ears as I nod at the wisdom. While it is best to never need the shield, having one is infinitely better than not. If the three Outlaws had shields, I would not have won that day, that much I know for a fact.

    My new shield is much heavier than my old shield and has enough surface area that I don''t even need to crouch to take a fighting stance. A warrior should craft his own shield so it can fit his fighting style, but this one will work until I find the time to make my own. I honestly prefer a smaller shield as, much to my chagrin, I''m not exactly the largest of warriors. But a man makes do with what he has available to him.

    Regardless, there''s work to be done before setting-sun. Fastening my sax to my belt and slipping my shield across my back, I step through last-year''s pantry and out into the front yard.

    Piles of grain and mountains of hay greet my sight as sickles and scythes arc across the land beyond the palisade fence. The sun beats down, its warmth blunted by the chill of autumn, as my kin does their work. Dad, unusually, is nowhere to be seen in the fields.

    "Halla!" Eric calls as he drags a large bundle of grain stalks up the hill. It''s easily twice his height, yet he handles it with little issue save for its unwieldy nature, "Asva and Randi are threshing, so help me with the grain!"

    Eyeing the few dozen more bundles of equal or greater size at the bottom of the hill, I snort as I nod, "Struggling so much with so little work, o'' brother of mine? Your healing-rest has left you weak!"

    "Big talk for someone too lazy to wake with the rest of us!" Eric retorts with a smile as he picks up his pace just a tad. He disappears around the back of the house while I trot down the hill. Collecting a bundle of my own, I meet him halfway as I haul it up.

    "Where''s Dad?" I ask Eric as passes me.

    He waves a broad gesture to the west, "He''s visiting with Kerr and Vidar."

    I cock my head to the side, "What for? Are we doing a group sacrifice or something?"

    I don''t get an answer to my question as I soon crest the hill and lose sight of Eric. Dropping the bundle off and giving Asva and Randi my greetings as they take flail to grain, I make my way back down the hill and meet Eric once again.

    "Something like that," Eric gives me my answer, "He said he wanted to offer an apology to the Hading and the proper place to do that is at her Heart."

    "The Heart of the Hading?" My brows lift high as I whistle. The Heart of the Hading is the deepest point in the woods, where the most powerful beasts prowl and monsters lurk behind each and every leaf and twig. "Makes sense why he''d want to go talk to Kerr and Vidar, then, we''ll need their help to make it that deep!"

    "My thoughts exactly," Eric says with a nod as he disappears over the hill.

    We continue our idle chatter while we work, discussing all manner of things from the new toilets at Harvin Tallhouse''s farm to if Lort Blue-Fish would bring more of his eponymous blue fish to the next Thing. Eventually, we finish with yesterday''s bundles and can move the processed grain into storage while the field-workers gather today''s harvest and stack them at the bottom of the hill for tomorrow''s work.

    It''s around this time that Dad comes home, a pensive look on his face.

    A dinner of fresh bread, venison, and sheep-cheese await our hungry stomachs as we eagerly dig in. While we eat, Dad invites me to his side.

    "Halla," he begins after swallowing a mouthful of meat seasoned with the last of the previous year''s herb harvest, "Have you been to the woods lately?"

    I frown and shake my head, "No, I''ve not. Is... Is there something wrong?"

    "The wind whispers words of vengeance, the Hading''s ire falls on our shoulders," Dad says as he sighs, shame in his gaze. "To make things right, we''ll need to make a sacrifice. A potent one, with cow, blood, and runes, delivered to the Heart of the Hading."

    "Eric told me of this," I nod and Dad snorts.

    "Little surprise there, not much else to talk about."

    "I wouldn''t be so certain, Dad," I grin as I lean close, "Harvin Tallhouse got new toilets!"

    Dad chuckles, "Really? I suppose I''ll have to try them out one of these days."

    "Gross," A nearby Asva retches while listening in as I laugh alongside Dad.

    "Regardless of Harvin''s toilet situation," Dad continues once our laughter dies down, "the Heart of the Hading is a full day''s journey, one that would be difficult even without her ire on our heads. We don''t have a choice in the matter."

    My brows furrow, "You speak as if I''m joining you on this venture." Please, please, please, please, please, please, please.

    "I dragged you into this mess," please, please, please, please, please, "so, yes, you will be accompan¨C"

    "Yes!" I leap to my feet, a cheer on my lips as I shout my joy to the heavens.

    Dad snorts, "I figured you''d be happy."

    Happy? I''m downright ecstatic! ¡°When''re we going?"

    "Once harvest is done, we set out." Dad''s eyes gleam as he smiles, "But don''t think you can slack in your training just because adventure shows its face."

    I groan.

 Chapter 23

    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¡ªnot 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¡ªanytime Dad wants to give a gift to someone he has to run it past her first, after all¡ªbut 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¡ªa spot midway between Kerr''s, Vidar''s, and Dad''s farms¡ªwas 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¨C"

    "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¨C

    "We make for the Hading''s Heart!" Vidar Smash''s roar of command rattles the land and shakes birds from the sky.

 Chapter 24

    When the Speakers of the Law-Tongue march with weapons drawn and violence in their hearts¡ªor do anything as a group, for that matter¡ªthere is a very particular way of doing things. Respect and standing are paramount and must be carefully considered when organizing any gathering of Norsemen.

    Even the lowliest shepherd is a Karl, a free-man with the right to pick and choose with whom his loyalty lies. He is in command of his own fate, of his own strength, and so he is worthy of respect even if only for that alone. That means that he cannot just be thrown into the fighting-line without care or consideration, for he is a man in full and will not suffer such insult in silence.

    The more Speakers you gather, the more time you must spend on considering who goes where rather than on more important matters. No competent commander would think spending his valuable time on that is a wise idea, and so he allows the men of standing to organize and lead the warriors they brought with them.

    As Dad leads the way into the Hading with a column of fighting men on either side, a peculiar consequence of this strategy is readily seen. With Vidar Smash taking the reins of the shield-hand column and Kerr Skippingstone taking the sword-hand, the resulting formation is rather lopsided. Nine line-men on the left, twenty-two on the right.

    Surely Dad sees the flaws in such an uneven number, right? An enemy force could easily overwhelm Vidar''s column and encircle the entire army!

    Dad hums as I voice this question, the winter snow crunching underfoot as we make our way through the Hading''s firewood-plundered outskirts. Sticks grumbles wordlessly while sulking in the shadow of Bear as he carries the placid cow over a shoulder.

    "A good question," Dad eventually says after a few moments of silent thought, "but you''re not counting for all the variables." I cock my head to the side, confusion sliding across my face as Dad begins to elaborate, "Consider the differences between Kerr and Vidar, as a starter."

    I frown slightly but do as asked, casting my gaze across both men in question.

    Kerr Skippingstone cuts a striking figure as he strides through the snow-choked underbrush. His boots never seem to stay in one place as he gracefully moves from spot to spot; his wavy cloak casting ripple-like patterns across the snow. Mail glistens in the sun as his aventailed helmet sits proud on his head. His blue-painted shield is rimmed in iron and made of linden, the best of all wood for crafting shields. His weapon-hand holds a spear while a sword and sax wait ready upon his belt, each well-made and well-maintained.

    All in all, there can be no doubt that Kerr Skippingstone is a man of wealth and power.

    Across the way, on the shield-hand, is a man of extreme size. With limbs thicker than some men''s torsos, Vidar Smash towers over all others present including Bear, who only barely comes up to his chest. Even the trees themselves seem almost undersized when contrasted against Vidar''s might. Heavy bricks of fat-covered muscle cling to each and every square inch of exposed flesh¡ªof which there is a great deal thanks to Vidar going without shirt or cloak.

    Vidar''s weapons seem almost like afterthoughts compared to the raw power contained within his body. An axe as long as Dad is tall rests in his hands, its haft too thick for me to wrap a hand around. Its iron head gleams in the sunlight, its hewing-edge as long as two hands. Across his back is a shield thicker than a finger''s length and two saxes longer than most swords dangle from a strained belt that struggles to contain the girth of this mountainous man.

    But even with all the power in his body, the most striking feature of Vidar are his eyes. Cloaked in the shadow of a prominent bow, Vidar''s eyes are little more than slight glints as they flick and dance from man to man. There''s an idle sort of curiosity held in them as he carefully considers how he would fight and slay each and every man present on this day. It''s the kind of curiosity that''s reserved only for the most deadly of men: Berserks.

    "Of the two, who would win were they to face off in single-combat?" Dad times his question perfectly, asking it just as I finish my examination.

    "Vidar," the answer comes swiftly, without even a moment''s thought necessary to find it.

    Dad nods, "During our time as Varangians, Vidar and Kerr fought three-hundred and seventy-two spars. Vidar won three-hundred and eighteen of them."

    "Dad... How many did you win?"

    Dad smiles, "I was a Captain for a reason, Halla, and it wasn''t my courtly manners."

    "Your papa''s a dangerous man, kid," Vidar''s sudden intrusion nearly shakes me from my skin, his voice like gravel in my ear. I catch the slightest glimpse of his gaze as they lock square on mine, a considering look on his face, "even together, Kerry and I could never take him down."

    "Not for lack of trying, mind you," Kerr adds, sliding into the conversation like he''d always been in it, "we even once put certain bowel-movement inducing herbs in his wine."

    Vidar grunts, shuddering with the memory, "Only thing that won us was latrine duty."

    Dad snorts, "I still don''t know what you two were thinking with that one. I was part of the Constantinople Gardeners'' Society, I am more than familiar with the taste of laxatives in my wine."

    "Speaking of laxatives, Stenny," Vidar begins as Sticks groans from the rear.

    "Oh, Gods, they''re talking about using the shitter again," Sticks casts a pleading gaze to the heavens, as if begging Mighty Thor to strike him down at that very moment.

    Vidar laughs, "If you live as long as us old fucks, you''ll know exactly why we take it so seriously!"

    "Toilet-time is important, Stigandr," Kerr''s voice gains a lecturing edge as he turns towards his youngest son, "and you''d do well to remember that."

    "Yeah, yeah," Sticks waves his hand before him, "it''s a good opportunity to speak with someone in private. I''ve heard it all before!"

    "And you''ll hear it all again if you keep that up," Kerr answers with an easy smile despite the warning in his words. A round of laughter rises from the listening Norsemen as Sticks grumbles and returns to sulking in Bear''s considerable shadow.

    I pause as something catches in my thoughts, my eyes resting on Bear''s quiet face. You know... I''ve never really given it much thought before, but it''s a bit odd how quiet Bear is. Sticks is basically just a younger, less experienced Kerr, right, and I don''t need a mirror to know that I''m similar to Dad in a lot of ways¡ªwe''re both stubborn as the dead, for one¡ªbut the only thing that Bear seems to share with Vidar is his size.

    Vidar is large both in body and in personality. He speaks his mind to the heavens, never caring for who might catch his words on the wind or for what might come of it. He, as some might say, ''doesn''t give a shit.''

    Bear simply isn''t. He is large in body, yes, but that''s where the similarities end. Though he has his father''s anger, he works hard to keep it in check. His words are few and far between as he carefully considers the ways his tongue might sway.

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    Why might Bear be so different? His mother didn''t survive birthing him, so it couldn''t have been her influence, right? So, what else might have had a han¨C

    Tension flares as ordstirr rises. The echoes of a dozen fylgjur''s warning calls bounce in our ears as a wolf''s howl splits the air.

    The Hading sends her first test.

    "Wolves?" Vidar frowns as he shifts his axe from shoulder to hand, "You reckon they''ve any relation to the beastie that boy of yours killed, Stenny?"

    "That was Halla''s kill, actually," Dad idly remarks as he scans the suddenly silent forest. Something catches his gaze, stalling out any further words as his eyes narrow under the shadow of furrowing brows.

    "Really?" Vidar snorts as he reaches out, an arm travelling my way as I realize his aim far too late. A hand large enough to palm a shield claps me across the shoulder, nearly knocking me to the ground as Vidar lets loose a roar of laughter, "Good for you, girlie! We''ll make a proper blood-spiller of you yet!"

    With Vidar''s words comes a few fresh clumps of raw ordstirr from the murmurs of all those listening in. The ghostlike masses drift into my body, where my soul-loom spins them into threads of strength.

    Dad frowns at the display, especially with how Kerr now shoots him with a worried look, but there''s no more time for idle words. He lifts a hand, fingers flicking forwards, as the earth rattles with his booming commands, "Vidar, form a frontal wedge behind me! Kerr, split in two and hold the flanks! Kinsmen," Eric and I''s ears perk up as Dad addresses us directly, "guard the cow!"

    I blink while the warriors surge into motion around me, their eyes wide and teeth bared with their rising fighting blood. Guard the rear? That can''t be what Dad said. I must not have heard him right.

    "Painter, take the shield-hand!" Kerr gives an order to his farm manager, Sterkard Painter, who nods his iron-helmed head and heads off at the head of ten men.

    "Stunly Laces, I swear to the Gods if those stupid shoes come off again, you won''t be having anymore feet to guard!" Vidar bellows with eyes alight with fury, the subject of his ire a man bending over to tie a rather elaborate set of shoe laces.

    "Dad!" I shout as Dad steps forward with Crowfeeder at the ready. He pauses at my words, looking back over his shoulder with a tense brow-raise, "Where do you want me?"

    The tension in his gaze disappears in an instant. In its place stands a stare of honest astonishment.

    ...I heard him right the first time, didn''t I? Dammit.

    I scowl out a grumble, not bothering to wait for Dad to say anything, "The rear... Right..."

    Kerr nods, pleased at my words, ¡°The fighting line is no place for a woman.¡±

    Vidar scoffs, ¡°Bah, she¡¯s a blooded warrior! If she wants to be in the thick of it, then let her!¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s only half-blooded,¡± Kerr reminds with a disapproving shake of the head, ¡°she has yet to send anyone to meet their Fate.¡±

    ¡°Half is more than none!¡± Vidar retorts while Dad sighs.

    ¡°Enough,¡± he silences the brewing argument before focusing on me, ¡°Halla, I need you to guard the sacrifice. If we lose that, this whole venture is for not, do you understand?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, yeah,¡± I grunt with a heavy scowl, waving off any further words while stomping off to the back, where Eric attempts a comforting smile. Bear''s shadow engulfs us both as he runs thumb across his sax, hints of jealousy in his gaze as Sticks runs off to join his family on the fighting line.

    "This is so unfair!" I am a proper man and I do not sulk, so I am simply voicing my troubles aloud. That''s all this is.

    "It''s an important job, Halla," Eric tries to soothe my ire, but there''s no point. I can see how his shoulders fall limp, how his jaw hangs loose, and how his breath comes at a smooth, relaxed pace. He''s thankful he doesn''t have to fight anything, the bastard.

    "I''ll tell you what this is," I scoff while folding arms together. "It''s just Dad trying to keep me ''safe and sound'', just like always!"

    "So then why am I here?" Eric asks a good ques¨C No, no he does not!

    "Bear," I pivot to the quiet mountain, "how''s it fair that Sticks gets to go and fight when he''s the one who said he''d lead the cow?"

    "It isn''t," Bear quickly grunts back, more than a little anger in his gaze.

    "Exactly!" I nod, a widening smile on my face, "It isn''t fair to me and it isn''t fair to you! So," my smile twists into a wolfish grin, "why don''t you and me even the scales a bit?"

    Eric''s eyes narrow in lock-step with Bear''s, save for entirely different reasons. Eric levels a stare of suspicion my way while Bear feels a certain sort of cautious excitement. While my ideas may not have the track record of Sticks'', I''ve brought my fair share of adventure into our lives.

    "Let''s sacrifice the cow ourselves!"

    "That''s a terrible idea," Eric hardly waits for my words to settle before taking an axe to them. "We''d never make it, for one."

    The sounds of violence spring forth from the battle-line as the first wave of wild-beasts crash against our kin and kith. Ordstirr surges as a dozen different tricks and kunna erupt into action, deftly obscuring our view of the battle.

    "See?" Eric says as he waves a hand at the growing cloud of dust, leaves, and swirling blades, "We need this army to even reach the Heart, what makes you think we could make it with only a fraction?"

    "A smaller party would be more nimble," I retort, hands on hips, "we''d be able to avoid and sneak around the beasts."

    "Even if that were true," Eric continues, his frown digging deep above crossing arms, "do you even know the way to the Heart?"

    "Does Dad?"

    Eric blinks, "W-what? Of course he does! What kind of a question even is that?"

    "Are you sure?" My scowl deepens as Bear shifts, lips thinning as he shrinks in on himself ever-so-slightly, "He doesn''t seem to know his own children all that well, so how well can he know the way to the Heart?"

    "What''s gotten into you lately?"

    "What''s gotten into me? What''s gotten into Dad?! We go through all this trouble to heal him and he''s back to his old ways within months!"

    "He''s not back to his old ways, if he were, I wouldn''t be back here. We''re being treated the same way." I pause as Eric''s words find fertile ground and Eric leans in, seizing the initiative, "Besides, you''d be betraying the trust of the group if you did that, Halla. That''s wrong, that''s nid."

    "I..." ...shit, Eric''s right, Gods-dammit, he''s right. If I were to take the cow and sacrifice it myself, I''d be putting personal glory over the success of the group. A dreng does not do that. A dreng seeks out glory, yes, but he does not trample his allies to do so. That is nid, that was what I was proposing and that is what Eric saved me from, Gods-dammit. "I''m sorry, Eric. You''re right."

    Eric opens his mouth, happiness in his gaze, only to pause as his ears perk up. Half-a-second later, my ears follow suit as I realize what I''m hearing¡ªor rather, what I''m not hearing.

    The forest is quiet.

    The forest is empty.

    The swirling vortex of violence is gone and the cloud of combat-dust with it. In its place is nothing but the vacant swaying of leaf-laden trees.

    Wait, leaf laden? But, it''s... It''s winter...

    The air is thick, weighed down by the heady aroma of burning herbs. The hairs on my neck and arm stand on end as gooseflesh washes across my body. A shiver passes up my spine as my mouth dries faster than a drought at the heights of summer.

    The cow upon Bear''s shoulder writhes frantically, mooing with a certain desperation known only to prey-beasts. Bear refuses to budge, his grip only tightening as, though we wish it not, the cow''s panic confirms our grim suspicions.

    Animals have a certain sensitivity towards magic and spirits, one that makes them especially vulnerable to their predations. As such, the wise man pays heed to the mood of his beasts, for they know better than he the circumstances of the spirit world.

    A warning whisper winds through the air, carried by the swaying of the branches and the shuffle of the leaves, one not meant for our ears yet heard by them regardless, "You are unwelcome here, Witch."

    Well, fuck.

 Chapter 25

    "Witch?"

    I''m not sure which of us uttered that word, but it hangs in the air irregardless of its maybe masters'' wants. What weapons we have shine free in the summer sun, their naked skin bared for all to see. A spear and a pair of saxes, a greater armory there has never been.

    "Where are we?" Eric hisses out a whisper as he slides to my left, taking a defensive position at my rear. Likewise, Bear circles around my right so as to guard all our backs. "And how did we get here?"

    Eric''s not expecting an answer to either of those questions, that much I know for certain. However... A certain wriggling thought snakes its way from the depths of my memories. While boys learn the art of violence and how to build and work a farm, girls learn the subtle arts of how to keep a farm in good standing with the world of spirits, amongst other things. Though I''ve long abandoned the womanly path, I still recall the lessons.

    "This is the spirit world, it''s always the opposite of our world," I whisper back an answer, the truth as thick on my lips as the scent of danger on the air, "and... And I think the Hading pulled us here."

    "Spirits can do that?" Eric hisses his surprise, brows lifting high.

    "Only the most powerful," I rapidly reach the limits of my spirit-lore as I''m met with endless memories of staring out the smoke-holes, of hours spent daydreaming instead of learning.

    "The Hading is an Askafroa," luckily, Bear seems to know a thing or two about spirits. Which I guess makes some sense; his father is a Berserk, after all, "the guardian-wives of certain ash trees."

    "Askafroa are some of the most dangerous spirits, yeah," Bear''s words jostle my memory some, knocking free a few more scraps of lore, "very quick to kill anything they deem as threats to their husbands."

    "That''s all well and good," Eric hisses, his voice collecting annoyance as it leaves his lips, "but how do we leave?"

    "I..." I sigh, shoulders falling ever-so-slightly, "I don''t know."

    "We''re being watched," Bear''s words are calm, yes, but still they bring a shiver dancing across my spine. He lifts a hand and we follow his pointing finger to meet the gaze of a large, black-feathered bird¡ªa raven.

    This raven is no ordinary bird, that much is readily known. It stands as tall as a child and observes with a cunning beyond some adults. The edges of its body has a sort of hazy, mist-like appearance that seems to double back over itself, like it''s both here and not-here at the same time.

    The raven cocks its head at an angle, piercing gaze locked to ours. No, not ours, mine. It''s looking straight at me, seemingly ignoring the presence of Bear and Eric both.

    It shifts, lowering its body while fluffing out its wings, like it''s preparing to make a dive. We tense, lifting shields and weapons, only for a storm of sound to erupt from the forest around us.

    A bear growls, an owl hoots, and a seal barks; all a warning, but not one aimed at us, no. This warning is meant for raven ears only.

    The raven pauses, waits for a trio of heartbeats, and disappears in a flash of feathers. With the flight of the raven, so too do the animal sounds depart, leaving us all in silence''s sudden embrace.

    "What," Eric asks after swallowing, "what was that?"

    "I, I don''t know," I begin while taking a breath, "but I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with that witch."

    Eric grumbles, "Great, witches and spirits."

    "We can''t stay here," Bear says and I''m inclined to agree.

    "Seconded," I nod and share a brief smile with Bear.

    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Eric rubs at his nose, "And where would we go?"

    That''s a good question, but it''s one I have an answer for, "The Hading pulled us into the spirit world, right? So, she can get us out of it too."

    "That''s a terrible idea, it''s the longest of long shots and filled to the brim with danger," Eric sighs and lets his head fall, "but we''ve not got any other option, do we?"

    "We do not," Bear says with a confirming nod.

    Eric clenches his jaw and nods. He takes a deep breath and musters up his ordstirr, crimson light pouring out from his thread-wrapped hands as he claps them together,  "I know an old sailors'' trick for finding direction by reading the winds," he says by way of an explanation as leaves rustle and fallen twigs ride high on freshly swirling winds, "even if we don''t know the exact way, we''ll know what direction we''re traveling in."

    "North is deeper into the Hading, so," I tense as realization strikes, "Wait, no, it''s south!"

    Eric blinks, "South?"

    "Spirit world, everything''s reversed."

    Eric grunts, a frown on his face, "That''s annoying." His frown deepens as he pauses, "Wait, does that mean it''s only the directions that are reversed or is it everything about it that''s reversed? Like, instead of a big blob of thick forests surrounded by farms and ringed by a valley, it''s a ring of thick forests surrounding a bunch of farms and a valley at the center? Or are the forests thin because they''re reversed? Is it a mountain instead of a valley? Untamed wilderness instead of farms? Or is it both?"

    I blink, "I... I don''t know."

    "I suppose we will soon find out," Bear remarks as he shrugs, the cow rising and falling with his shoulders.

    "I suppose so..." Eric and I say at the same time. We share a brief glance before shrugging and setting out.

    <hr>

    "Not everything is reversed, looks like," Eric''s idle comments are like hammers in my ears as we walk through the woods, "the trees aren''t upside down, after all. Or maybe they are? What happens if you were to plant a tree upside down? Would the roots grow leaves?"

    I stifle a groan as best I can, but it''s a near thing. When Eric is faced with sickly, mounting dread¡ªthe kind of fear that grows slowly, that comes with a dawning realization that you''re in the shit now¡ªhe starts to ramble. He can''t help himself, whatever errant thought climbs into his mind will soon ride his mouth-winds, so I try not to hold it against him.

    Still, having Eric in my ear certainly doesn''t help with how slow we progress through the spirit world''s Hading.

    "You should ask your father if we get back," Bear says while the cow on his shoulder stays limp, passed out with fear. "He is good with plants."

    I shudder, memories of a dozen different plant-based tricks flashing through my mind, "You don''t know the half of it."

    Eric catches my shudder with a slight chuckle, "Does Dad do the trick with you where he ties your shoelaces to the grass?"

    I don''t bother hiding my groan, "Or the one where he throws seeds at you and they take root in your skin?"

    Eric retches, a full-body cringe crashing through his body, "Oh, Gods, I''d almost forgotten about that! Why''d you have to go and remind me?"

    Smiling, I go to answer only to stop as I catch Bear''s look. His eyes are soft, the corners ever-so-slightly moist, and, if I''m not mistaken, there are even a few hints of... of jealousy in his gaze?

    A blink and it''s gone, replaced with the calm control he takes such pride in.

    I bear a frown only for a scant few heartbeats before turning my attention back on Eric, where I''m nearly knocked off my feet at his face.

    With ash-like skin, Eric breathes at a quick pace as he suddenly stops mid-stride. Fear keeps his spine straight, his entire body corpse-stiff with dread terror. His eyes don''t move, their steel hue dull and lifeless as his lips tremble.

    "I know this place," he whispers as the wind picks up, sending fallen leaves swirling around us. A formless, shadow-shape moves at the edges of our vision, but nothing reveals itself no matter how fast we turn our heads, "t-this is where it happened."

    What moisture there was disappears in an instant as the air soon tastes of salt. My lips crack, dry as a bone while my tongue puffs up and a sickening thirst claws at my throat. Blood pools from chapped lips, the wounds stinging as salt rubs its way in. The hoot of an owl, the growl of a bear, and the bark of a seal ring out as warning sounds, yet even our guardian-spirits sound distant, a hollow sort of bravery.

    "W-whe," I cough, throat drier than any desert while my breath struggles to break free, "Where what happened?"

    "Where he met me."

    Ancient, yellowed eyes gleam from the darkness. Death stalks us this day.

 Chapter 26

    When the hunter takes to the wilds, rarely does he pay any heed to the minds of his prey. Though the hunter will deny this, stating that he knows his prey well, the truth still eludes him. Though he is certainly aware of their habits and mannerisms, he does not truly comprehend the mind of the prey.

    That is, unless he finds himself another hunter''s prey.

    Glowing yellow twins gleam from the shadows, each lacking the mark of a pupil or iris yet making their identity clear all the same. Eyes formed from lumps of rough-carved rock sit tight within shadowed sockets, nestled in the embrace of their master''s hidden face.

    In the eyes of a man, you can find an untold number of thoughts and feelings, lies and truths. They are the window of the soul and show all the desires and opinions of a man far swifter and far more truthfully than through his mouth.

    These ancient eyes bear nothing but a cold, bone-chilling lust. Not for the pleasures of the flesh or anything so banal, but for a very simple desire, a primal truth of the beast. There is no great treasure or forgotten mystery that garners this lust, no; he wants, so he shall have.

    Seal''s barks, owl''s hoots, and bear''s growls ring in our ears yet the eyes stare unblinking, uncaring for the warnings of lowly spirit-beasts.

    And yet...

    All men die. When a man is born, when he takes his very first breath, the Norns decide the day he will die. Fate is certain, there is no escaping it, but no man may know the day of his demise. Any day could be his end, so he must greet each as if it were his last.

    When faced with the unavoidable uncertainty of one day dying but never knowing when it will come, there''s nothing left for a man save holding his head high and staying true to his word.

    With shield and sax in hand, I fix the beast''s yellow eyes with my own stare of steel, "My name is Halla Steinarsdottir and I will have the name of he who holds my gaze!"

    Silence reigns supreme over the land as my beating heart fills my ears. Stone-carved eyes flicker for a moment before that same beastly voice filters through the leaves.

    "My name is all around you. It is in the air you breathe and on the winds you taste, child of the char." The air dries my throat and the wind tastes of nothing but salt. "It seems the Norns have plans for you, o'' walker of two worlds, for your father and his father before him performed for me a great favor. A debt I owe, a debt half-paid, a debt now fully squared away."

    Moisture returns to the air as wind-borne salt stops stinging my eyes. The eyes of death glint once as power hums through the trees.

    "Go Free"

    And then nothing. The eyes disappear, the oppressive aura with them, and I can finally breathe again.

    "Gods," Eric whimpers as a shiver runs head-to-toe through his body. His spear shakes, numb fingers somehow keeping hold of his weapon, "is it gone?"

    "No," Bear says, his nostrils flaring wide as he sucks down deep pulls of air, "but it will not bother us anymore."

    A frown lingers on all our faces as worried eyes keep to the shadows.

    "Eric," I eventually begin, my brother twitching at my voice, "it said you met it once before."

    "I thought it a bad dream," Eric mutters as he shakes his head, "now I know it wasn''t."

    "What do you know of that thing?"

    "Nothing, no more than you." He swallows as he takes a breath, "Let''s... Let''s just move on, okay?"

    Nobody feels much need to argue against such a suggestion.

    It is said that the Hading is full of evil spirits, and I guess we just met one of them.

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    But... But what was that about Dad, and my grandfather, doing that thing a favor?

    When the opportunity presents itself, whenever that may come, I will ask Dad about this favor he did.

    <hr>

    In the aftermath of our meeting with the beast, our petty fears and worries seemed like so much ash on the wind, made insignificant compared to those citron eyes.

    The Spirit World just... It''s just not as scary anymore, and so we walk with heads held as high as we can muster. There are still threats in the Spirit Hading, yes, but they just don''t seem quite so terrible anymore.

    With that said, and though our passage is swift and unfettered, we still lack much in the way of directions. We have a goal yet no path to react it.

    And yet...

    "Does..." Eric pauses, head cocked as he looks askew at a certain patch of lichen, "does that look like an arrow to anyone else?"

    I arch a brow as I follow his gaze. Sure enough, surrounded by thick layers of lichen, is a patch completely devoid of flora. Sharp edges meet in right angles as the stark shape of an arrow points us away from the direction we travel.

    "That is an arrow," Bear asserts with a solemn nod.

    "Do we... Do we follow it?" Eric seems a great deal more subdued after our encounter with the beast, always pausing after he starts to speak as if worried he might say the wrong thing. His eyes flick to me, seeking certainty in a wild, untamed world.

    Could Eric be suffering from a spirit in his heart, like how Dad was?

    ...I''ll give him a few weeks before bringing it up, just in case I''m thinking too far into it. I might not remember much from my womanly lessons, but I do know that for every time a spirit is responsible for something, countless more occurrences have nothing at all to do with the spirit world.

    "Well," I frown as I look between the arrow and the path we''re on. While there might not be much in the way of great differences between the two, that doesn''t mean that there won''t be further down the line. Still, "we might as well, right? It''s not like we''ve got much in the way of alternatives."

    "That''s true," Eric mutters as he sighs, "damned spirits."

    Turning off the path takes us up and over a hill, where we''re met with a long tree branch jutting out from an otherwise branchless trunk. Leaves cover only a single side of the branch, resembling something like a particularly hairy arm. The resemblance is only strengthened by the gnarled group of twigs forming the shape of a hand pointing the way.

    After exchanging a glance, we continue following the will of the Hading. Are we on the path to freedom or are we just following the whim of some evil spirit''s games?

    ...The only way to find out is by seeing it to the end. May the Gods smile on us.

    <hr>

    The oak-borne hand led us to a dilapidated signpost pointing back the way we came, which only muddied the waters further as the tree was nowhere to be seen when we returned. In its place was a birch stump and an earth-carved line leading away from the birchy grave. Following the line led us to a storm-snapped tree, its blackened limbs pointing the way forward.

    For hours we followed the Hading¡¯s whims, for hours we wandered without a clue of where we were going. And yet, even as the sun travelled across the sky, even as the moon climbed in its wake, and even as the twilight beasts observed our passage with their glinting gaze, our bellies rumbled not and our eyes kept bright and ready.

    Eventually, however, all things must come to their ends.

    A twisted, bramble-formed hand leads us into a thick copse of trees. Surrounded on all sides by birch and elm, we look carefully for the next signpost in our journey.

    Unfortunately¡­

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing here!¡± I level a scowl at the darkening sky while kicking at the earth, my shoes cleaving away great clumps of dirt with every swinging strike. ¡°All that wandering, all that trust, for nothing!¡±

    ¡°No, no,¡± Eric chuckles, his eyes showing no hint of mirthful vigor, ¡°We¡¯re just not looking hard enough, that¡¯s it!¡± Turning on the nearest birch, he starts peeling away at the bark with an almost animalistic ferocity. Fingers bloodied by nervous chewing claw at the trunk, his lack of nails lending little aid to his effort.

    I scoff, readying a salvo of insults at my foolish brother¡¯s stupidity, only to pause as the glint of an eye catches my attention. In the branches of the tree Eric mauls is a black-clad figure, a feather-cloaked shape perched within the leaves.

    A raven meets my gaze as I tense; a mix of boredom, idle curiosity, and a deep desire to see its duty through gleams strong behind its eyes.

    ¡°Raven,¡± the word slips free of my dry lips, the single syllable stalling my companions¡¯ motions as they too tense.

    Something akin to humor sparks behind the raven¡¯s gaze before it suddenly flaps its wings and takes to the air. Wings spread wide, it makes a lazy loop of the copse before disappearing beyond the trees.

    This¡­ This is it, isn¡¯t it? This is the last direction we¡¯ll get, the last signpost on our journey.

    One way, or another, we will see the end of this story.

 Chapter 27

    Beyond the copse of trees is something that could not be the case. An impossibility, something fundamentally incapable of being true. And yet, our eyes do not deceive us.

    A tree¡ªno, no, not a tree; that word doesn''t nearly do the monument before us justice. To call this a tree would be to call the ocean a puddle, a mountain a hill. This could no more be confused for an ordinary tree than I could a frog.

    Its branches reach towards the heavens, all beneath it in heavy shade. Its trunk towers high over all lesser beings, stretching further into the sky than any building¡ªmortal or otherwise. Its roots drive deeper through the earth than any mine could ever sink, yet still they find the time to form the walls of a natural spring at the base of the trunk.

    This is an Anchor Ash. This is one of the nails keeping Midgard bound to Yggdrasil. This is the Heart of the Hading.

    And it is wounded. It is sick. It is dying.

    Upon its trunk is an injury like no other, a terrible gash carving a chasm through bark and deep into the wood. Like some impossibly large giant had taken an equally impossibly large axe to its surface, the wound yawns wider than any sea wave. Rot eats away at the edges of the wound, eager mouths devouring vital flesh. Sparks of spiritual power drive away what it can, yet it is only a matter of time until the Anchor Ash meets its end.

    "You who enter my home," a voice like the wind through the leaves, like light filtering through the canopy, like the gentle rustling of swaying branches, greets us with a cold suspicion. There can be no mistaking this voice as belonging to anything save the owner of these lands, as belonging to the Hading herself, "name your persons and state your purpose. I give you this one warning: any hand raised against my husband will be all that''s left of your corpse."

    Eric stands frozen, completely stilled by terror. Bear''s lips move but no words fly free, his mind struggling to find the words to say. The task of answering the Hading falls to me, then.

    Swallowing my fear, I square my shoulders and lift my head. While the full formal introduction is normally only reserved for the courts of Kings and Jarls, an Askafroa deserves no less than the best, so no less than the best she shall have.

    "My name is Halla, the youngest daughter of Steinarr Freedfire, himself the youngest son of Hallr Blackhand, Master of the All-Fire, Ruler of Gotland, and through his blood I and my kin are Volsungs. Beside me stands my older brother, Eric, and my friend, Abjorn, youngest son of Vidar Smash, himself the only son of Farbjorn World-Treader, and through his blood Abjorn and his kin are Askkennings." I take a deep breath as I proceed to the next step, "We come with peace in mind and with intent to apologize as our purpose."

    My words rumble through the leaves of the Anchor Ash while the Hading prepares a response of her own.

    "I am Hading, Askafroa, and guardian-wife of my husband, Anchor Ash Seven-Zero-Two." The Hading''s voice takes a softer tone as her next question ripples through the air, "For what grievance would you apologize, Granddaughter of the Blackened Hand?"

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    Taking another deep breath, I keep my shoulders square even as I start to tremble. This is it, this is the moment that makes or breaks this entire journey. If the Hading doesn''t accept our apology, then all is lost.

    But I have never been a coward; I sacrificed my hesitation long ago.

    "I apologize on behalf of both myself and my father, who I was separated from on the journey here. I, under the orders of my father, felled many of your trees in the outskir¨C"

    The Hading''s sudden laughter cuts my words to ribbons.

    "Child, are you really apologizing for taking that which was there to take? Those trees I planted for you, your kin, your kith, and all the humans of the world to use as they see fit. More trees will grow in their place, the forest remains for you to use. There is nothing to apologize for."

    I blink, jaw slack alongside Bear and Eric alike.

    It... It is said that the Hading has a soft spot for humanity... But I never realized how far that soft spot truly went.

    So, wait, this whole thing¡ªthe cow, the sacrifice, the entire journey¡ªit was all for nothing? Then what was with the battling beasts and the separation of kin and kith? And, for that matter, what of the warning for a witch?

    "You say there is nothing to apologize for, o'' great Hading, but why then have you sent beasts to assault us if we have not offended you?"

    "Sent beasts to assault you?" The Hading''s confusion is genuine, even I can tell as much, "Dear child, the beasts of my woods are hunting for my enemy, an unwelcome invader of my lands."

    Eric grabs his courage with trembling hands as he lifts his head and speaks aloud, "Is... Is this enemy of yours a witch? We heard your whispers when we were separated from our Dad."

    The Hading pauses and, if she had lips, I imagine they would be pursing right about now, "I suspect I know what misfortune has befallen you, dear children, and wish for you to kno¨C"

    "Hading! Give me back my children!¡±

    To call this sound a mere shout would be an even greater disservice than calling an Anchor Ash a mere tree. It rumbles over the horizon like an all-encompassing avalanche. It batters through the trees like a ship at ramming speed, ripping roots from earth and trunks asunder with voice alone. Rage hotter than any mortal flame drips from each syllable like molten metal, scorching the ground black with its passage. Grass uproots itself to escape the wrathful words as the waters of the grotto begin to boil on the spot. Steam rises as boil-bubbles pop and churn with fear and terror.

    From the edge of the grotto comes a figure draped in flame and splattered by blood. In one hand is a sword caked in heavy layers of gore yet still as sharp as any tongue; in the other is a bundle of food-starved fire, eager to gorge itself on the flesh of man and meat of timber. Sweat-drenched and dirt-crusted hair falls around his shoulders, the brilliant red hue almost indistinguishable from the blood soaking his body. Great, heavy clouds of coal black smoke billow from his maw, gathering in his wake like the wings of a cloak as his steel-gray eyes reflect the blinding light of fury.

    The figure walks forward, his trail told by the scorched-earth of his footprints. The grass sobs as it struggles to get away, eggs hatch long before their time as newborn birds attempt to take to the air, and trees beg the heavens for mercy that could never come.

    Steinarr Freedfire, Captain of the Varangian Guard and Keeper of Plants, has come for his children.

 Chapter 28

    Steinarr Freedfire stalks forward with Crowfeeder at the ready, the bird wing-bearing blade shining bright in the light of its master''s flame. Smoke billows from his mouth, its thickness telling of how deeply he taps his strength. His eyes glow with fiery light as he locks his gaze on his so-named foe.

    "Dad!"

    I''m not sure if I spoke or if Eric did, but it must have done the trick as the one-minded obsession stutters and fails behind Dad''s eyes.

    "Halla? Eric?" Dad''s head snaps towards us so fast I''m almost afraid he''d tear his head clean from his shoulders. His eyes fall on familiar blazing red hair as things happen very quickly.

    One moment, Dad stands at the edge of the grotto; the very next, Eric and I are swept up by strong arms. The sudden impact knocks the wind from my chest as Dad holds us tight, the pressure alone popping parts of my back.

    "You''re alive!" He sobs, voice muffled by our clothes. Eric and I exchange a brief glance before patting Dad on the back, "I was so, so scared." Pulling away, Dad fixes us with a stern look, "Never do that to me again, you understand?"

    I snort as Eric chuckles, but my eyes fall on the other reunion happening in the grotto.

    Vidar Smash steps into the grotto while hauling a beast in his wake. His left arm is gone, swallowed up to his elbow by the beast he''s now dragging behind him. As far as I can tell, his arm isn''t missing or anything, that''s just how he wants to move the wolf-like creature along.

    Vidar leans his axe on his shoulder as he eyes Bear, "You''re alive, eh?" His gaze drifts to the cow on Bear''s shoulder, which still slumbers peacefully¡ªI''m beginning to think that some spirit cast a spell on the creature with how limp it remains. "And you''ve got the sacrifice too, good."

    Bear nods and that''s the end of that. There are no tears, no embrace, just a handful of terse words and a nod.

    That''s... That''s kind of sad, isn''t it?

    ...

    I should probably try to talk to him about it, sometime.

    "Well," the Hading''s voice cuts through the post-reunion glow like a sword through flesh, "I suppose now you do have something to apologize for, no?"

    Dad tenses as his lips thin, "That''s right," his eyes harden as he takes a deep breath, "the sacrifice."

    "Actually, Dad," I start as I muster up my words, "there''s a bit of explaining to do."

    He arches a brow, "Oh?"

    <hr>

    Dad sits silently on a root-formed arch as he listens to the explanation. It''s only when we come to the end that he feels the need to speak, "You''re saying this evil spirit said I did some kind of favor for him?"

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    "That''s what it said, yeah," I answer as Eric adds a nod of his own.

    Dad frowns, his chin resting on his knee-braced fist, "I don''t recall doing any favors for any evil spirits, but perhaps the spirit was in disguise?"

    "Evil spirits can often be quite deceptive, yes," the Hading adds with a dark tone speaking of ample bad blood.

    "And, just to clear things up completely, we do not owe you an apology?" Dad asks as he turns towards the Anchor Ash.

    "For felling the outskirts trees, you have nothing to apologize for," the Hading''s specific words leave my eyes a-narrowing, "For the damage you have done to my grotto, however, I would much appreciate an apology."

    Dad nods as he swiftly stands up and gives the Anchor Ash a deep bow, "I, Steinarr Freedfire, Bondi of Einhollstad and son of Hallr Blackhand, through whom I am descended from the Volsungs, do offer my most sincere apologies for the damage I have caused. I offer you the largest, most productive cow of my herd as compensation."

    With Dad''s words, Bear quickly sets the cow down. The cow stays standing for about two or three heartbeats before promptly collapsing in on itself.

    "Compensation is unnecessary, Steinarr Freedfire, Bondi of Einhollstad and son of Hallr Blackhand, by whom you are descended from the Volsungs, but much appreciated," the Hading offers a slight giggle at the cow''s limpness, "I accept your apology."

    Dad nods as his hand falls to Crowfeeder. In one swift motion, he draws, swings, and returns his sword to its sheath before the cow''s blood-trailing head has time to even touch the ground. Blood splatters the grass as it quickly soaks into the grotto.

    Kerr Skippingstone rises from where he sat at Dad''s side, having made his entrance with little fanfare for he had no missing relatives with which to reunite with, "O'' great Hading, is there anything we mortal men can do to aid one such as yourself?"

    I''m caught off-guard by Kerr''s forwardness for only as long as it takes to recall just how many farms Kerr actually owns¡ªfive farms, to be exact; Kerr is the wealthiest of the alliance for a reason, after all. You don''t get that wealthy without being bold and seeking out ways to make said wealth grow. I should start trying to emulate that, perhaps by making bets on wrestling and the like? During the summer, Asvir tends to get a lot of traffic as people like to rest there while on their way to Jurgdby in search of the fine whetstones Jurgdby is known for. There might be something there for me if I can just figure out an angle to take.

    "As you are now aware, my enemy, the Witch, has been hounding me for quite some time. While I could squash her like the insect she is, she has some manner of spell to conceal her magical presence, preventing me from doing just that. As I cannot leave this grotto without exposing my husband to untold dangers and my beasts have little ability for tracking such an elusive foe, I would be in your debt should you find a way to rid this Witch of her protection."

    Vidar hums to himself as he considers the offer, "Well, lads, what do you say to some witch-hunting, eh? Get the boys together, sweep the forest, have some good times, yeah?"

    Kerr gives Vidar a dry look, "While I would love to assist the Hading in this manner, I must point out that even I have limits when it comes to funding adventures. I used most of the last few years'' profits to properly outfit my huskarls, after all, and need to bring in further harvests before I can supply anymore adventures. With that said," he nods his head as he turns back to the Hading, "I will certainly put a bounty out on the head of this Witch, which will surely draw the attention of the Valley''s young men."

    "My thanks, Kerr Skippingstone," the Hading says as thoughts whirl through my head.

    A bounty? As in, I get paid for killing something? I love fighting and I love wealth, so this really does sound like the sort of job that¡¯s right for me.

    Lets just hope someone doesn¡¯t claim it before me!

    First things first, though, is getting home and taking a bath! I stink something fierce!

 Chapter 29

    Beginning on the twenty-seventh Wednesday of Winter, counting from when the trees first lose their green, Yule comes the same as it always does. Twelve days of levity and merrymaking before, on the final day, gifts are exchanged while we leave the past year in our wake.

    The year, according to the followers of Christ, is 8971 AD and I, Halla Steinarsdottir, am sneaking a skinful of wine from the pantry. As I now number among the vaunted ranks of the thirteen-year-olds, it is only right that I have as much alcohol as I want!

    I snicker in the half-light of the pre-dawn, fingers clasped around the wineskin. With the rest of my family preoccupied with sleeping off the previous day''s merriment and the food coma that accompanies all the best feasts, there''s no one to stop me from having my way with the wine.

    That is, save for a certain jar sitting on a pantry shelf.

    "Well, well, well," the jar begins, spark-like eyes gleaming over the lip of the jar, "what do we have here? Seems we have a thief in our midst."

    "Thief?" My eyes narrow while the jar sits perfectly placid, "this is my house!"

    "I''m sure your father would agree," the jar agrees before adding, "until he noticed the last of his favorite wine in your hands, that is."

    "What will it take to keep you quiet?"

    "Wine-wet my lips and they shall stay sealed."

    "Deal." Uncapping the wineskin, I carefully pour a river of dark liquid into the darkness of the jar''s insides.

    "There we go," the jar wheezes happily, "that''s the good stuff, that is."

    "And you''d better stay quiet," I grumble while fixing the cap back on.

    "Of course! I''m a man of my word!"

    "Uh huh," I eye the ceramic surface with an arched brow.

    Regardless of a certain someone''s antics, I now have a mostly-full wineskin all to myself!

    Slipping out the front door, I''m greeted by the crisp winter air as I take a rest on the front step. While I''d much rather drink inside by the fire, I can''t run the risk of accidentally waking the rest of the family.

    The aroma of sweet wine fills the air as I uncap the skin. Taking a moment to savor the scent, I release a heavy sigh before lifting the skin to my lips and tasting the nectar within. The wine warms my body as I gaze across the snowscape Yule made of Einhollstad.

    Yule always brings great festivities alongside the blanket of snow, festivities that always see much in the way of gift-giving. Dad received a fine, bright green hat from Kerr alongside a new sheath for Crowfeeder from Vidar. I wound up with a second thumb ring to match the one on my right¡ªthough, unfortunately, this ring came without the infusion of ordstirr.

    Well, that''s not quite true. Wealth brings ordstirr and so my reserves grow ever-so-slightly, but it isn''t the same as if it were a Jarl-given gift. After all, Jarls posses the ability to take parts of their own ordstirr and give it out as gifts, thereby fulfilling their end of the bargain between Karl and Jarl.

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    Still, with two silver thumb rings and a silver penny, I''m coming up in the world! Three more years until it''s time to go out and see what fate has in store for me. Three more years until my fate becomes my own in truth.

    At the beginning of the year, I was weak, untested. I knew not the terrors of the world and knew not my place in it. Now, at the end, I''ve finally proven myself. There will be more tests, this I know, and there will be more challenges; but that''s just par for the course of life.

    To be a man is to withstand the tide. To be a man means challenging and being challenged in turn by those around you. To be a man means carving out your place in life and defending it against all who would take it from you.

    You know, Eric just turned sixteen this Yule, so he''s probably going to make the final preparations for the next steps in his life. I wonder what that means for him? I know that some of the other families were parading their daughters, hoping that they might catch Eric¡¯s eye, so perhaps he¡¯ll be looking to get married soon?

    The door creaks open behind me and I scramble. My feet find slippery snow and send me tumbling to the ground, where I meet the bleary gaze of my brother, Eric.

    He stands in the doorway, blinking down at me. His eyes drift to the wineskin in my hand, "Is that the last of the wine?"

    I squint, "So what if it is?"

    He groans, hand reaching out, "Give it here, I need a drink." Hauling myself upright, I pass him the skin while he takes a rest on the front step. "Gods," he coughs after the first swig before passing it back to me, "I needed that."

    Taking a swig of my own and passing it back his way, I ask through a mouth filled with snickers, "Adulthood not treating you well, eh?"

    "Adulthood? Hardly," he scoffs, slumping in the dim half-light of the pre-dawn sun, "What even is adulthood?"

    I blink, that''s a good question, "I dunno, you don''t have to listen to Dad anymore, right? Like, you could leave whenever you want."

    "Leave and do what?" He grumbles into the wineskin, "Farming''s never held my interest, so I doubt any farm I make would be worthy of the name." A sigh slips his lips as he shakes his head, "You know what, Halla? I''m a bit jealous of you and Asva."

    "Jealous?" How in the blood-soaked Valhalla could Eric ever be jealous of Asva of all people? Obviously, being jealous of me is just a natural part of life, but Asva? Really?

    "There''s no pressure for women to go out and make something of themselves. There''s no pressure for you to put your life on the line." Ah, that''s right. Eric has never been someone who seeks out violence, but being an adult means that violence will seek you out regardless. "All I want to do is build and sail ships, you know?"

    "Well, can''t you join a felag and go adventuring with them? That''d be sailing ships!" When the thaw comes, there are always a few young Jarls hanging around the seashore looking for warriors to join their felags, their business partnerships. These young men then sail to other lands to try their hand at some raiding and trading before settling down after a few years of this, once they''ve proven themselves.

    Eric frowns, "I''m not exactly a strong guy, Halla."

    "Who told you that?!" I leap to my feet, anger in my heart. Who dares to utter such lies about my*brother?

    "Nobody did," his lips thin in an attempt at a smile, "All I had to do was take a look in the water to see the truth of the matter. I''m not a warrior."

    I wave a hand at the sword on his belt, a fine weapon given to him by Dorri Rattlespear as a celebration of Eric''s coming of age, "But you have a sword! And you have a wind kunna! Any felag that refused you would have to be stupid to not see the benefits of a man who commands the winds!"

    Eric shakes his head, ¡°It¡¯s not about that, Halla.¡±

    ¡°Then what is it about?¡±

    Eric just shakes his head as he sucks down a last drink and passes the remainder my way. Patting me on the shoulder, he climbs to his feet and staggers back into the house.

    I watch him leave, a frown on my face. I reckon I need to help Eric with his confidence, but how?

    Taking a final drink and finishing off the last of the wine, I nod to myself, a smile on my face. While I''m not especially certain how to help Eric find his courage, I''m sure that Bear and Sticks will have some ideas!