Young Writers Society

Up early, Sigrid dressed herself warmly. The day ahead looked to be a cold one. Frost crusted the ground, and her mother told her to put on her fur lined boots. The throbbing in her wrist had subsided, but the wrap was constrictive and it still pained her to get dressed. Thankfully, she mused, it wasn’t her dominant hand.

After her father yelled at her the evening before, the relative quiet of her mother’s meal preparation was calming. Gingerly, Sigrid pulled on her warmest boots and clumsily tightened her belt across her shift-like dress, frustrated by her lack of dexterity. Between training, chores, and the fight, she couldn’t wait until bath day tomorrow.

“Sigrid, come.” Her mother said shortly from the main hall.

She hurried out of her room and took the bowl of food her mother had left on the bench. The bowl was pleasantly warm and she cradled it between her chilled fingers, stealing warmth gladly. Her mother stalled in the kitchen, waiting for her husband to leave. Sigrid was not the only one he took out his aggression on.

As her father entered the room, Sigrid dipped her head and spooned the mush to her lips, avoiding his gaze. She watched his feet track to the fire for a moment to get warm, then to the kitchen where he grunted a goodbye to his wife and exited the house.

Exhaling, Sigrid sat up straight, jutted out her chin, and pushed her spoon through the stew mush. If she wasn’t so hungry she wouldn’t eat it. Her mother was unlike the other mothers- she could not prepare an edible meal if Odin himself wandered to their door hungry. Lightly pinching her nose with her left hand, she quickly finished the stew off and left the bowl in the kitchen.

“Don’t get yourself injured again,” her mother said quietly, deflated from her father’s appearance. “We used all the good wrappings on your wrist.”

Nodding and grabbing her cloak- the one with the thick sleeves- Sigrid stood outside and waited. The frost cloaking the ground had begun to bead up in small droplets with the rising sun. Down the hill in the village, she saw Folkvar gathering the children. He’d already picked up the Ormrsons and, premature in the lineup, Brandr. Tired of waiting, and wanting to prove she was fine, Sigrid gathered her height and tipped her chin up and marched down the path to the fork.

Otama, who usually joined her while they waited, saw her from her father’s farm and rushed over to walk next to Sigrid. Looking at her quizzically, Folkvar said ‘Happy to have you back” and diverged onto the right fork.

“How’s your wrist, Sigrid?” Otama asked softly, her light red curls bounding as they walked back up the hill. She was a kind girl, quiet and sensitive, but very determined. Her parents had always been farmers, and her grandparents before them, but Otama wanted to gain more status than that. She was tired of farming. Sigrid always assumed she’d make a good shield maiden, and was the closest person she’d let to her. Otama was her self-proclaimed only friend.

“Hurts. But don’t tell anyone.” She could feel it twinge as she tried to help Otama avoid a particularly slippery mud slick on the hill. Otama thanked her and stomped her boots into the slick, splashing Sigrid’s hemline and laughing. Sigrid laughed and nudged her, watched her glide slowly in the mud.

“’Course.” Otama said, wiping her face. “You think it’ll go over well?”

Sigrid kept pace with the group and stared at the back of Brandr’s head. He didn’t talk with anyone; the boy he’d befriended yesterday hadn’t been picked up yet. “I don’t know,” she said, still looking at the back of his fair-haired head. “He tried apologizing. But it’s not him I’m concerned about.”

Otama tried to meet her eyes, but Sigrid kept her gaze forward. If Otama saw her, she’d see her fear. Sigrid had mentioned her father’s instability before, but she didn’t need Otama worrying about her.

The rest of the students were picked up, chatting and reconnecting, but Sigrid and Otama walked together in a comfortable silence. In front of them, Brandr and Ulfr talked quietly, looking back at the girls occasionally when they thought they weren’t paying attention.

Once they settled around the same area on the coast, Folkvar stopped and stretched. He was a barrel of a man, and his shoulders rolled like an earthquake as he reached out to the sides. “Boys, we’ll be practicing maneuvers today. I may be throwing you into some situations. Girls, today will be easy for you- talk through what you’ll want to personalize your shields as. A fearsome shield maiden can leave a lasting impact. Make them remember you. I’ve put through requests for a handful of shields to be made up for you.”

Slowly, the boys and girls split and clamored into tight groups. Bjorn quickly tried to command some attention, his hands up and regal- much like his father, the Jarl.

He tries too hard, Sigrid thought absently. Ormr, Bjorn’s father, was a good man. If it weren’t for his leadership, Sigrid might not have been allowed to stay when she was brought to the village as a baby. Or perhaps even live. His son, on the other hand, had grown up expecting too much status.

“Sigrid, will you be joining us?” Otama asked, standing beside Hjordis a few steps away. Her blue eyes searched Sigrid hopefully. “We can make yours look really tough, like my uncle’s shield. Maybe we could ask him for ideas?”

It was tempting. Otama knew a lot about shield fighting from her uncle Andsvarr, one of the few Vikings in the village to specialize with shield fighting. He was attractive, and kind, and taught Otama well.

A lull fell between Otama and Sigrid, and Sigrid shrugged and bit her lip, conflicted. Sighing, Otama turned and walked with Hjordis away to talk. They’re figure out the image they wanted to portray, and how to design their shields. Hjordis is going to call herself the Valkyrie, she thought with irritation.

“Where will you be, Sigrid?” Folkvar asked, trying not to draw attention to themselves.

“Stay here. Learn.” She dipped her head, trying to find her humility. In the back of her mind, her father’s angry words played back in echoes. She gritted her teeth, hoping Folkvar wouldn’t see. “I obviously have more to learn than I thought. I won’t cause any more problems. Promise.” She looked up into the man’s weathered face and tried to smile demurely.

Folkvar laughed loudly, a hearty definitive laugh. “You have no idea, Sigrid.” He stretched and waved her over to the other boys, “Get on over. We have a lot to cover.”

Grumbling, the boys shifted and let her into their ranks. Quietly she stood between Agni and Gulltoppr, who ignored her- much to her preference. She was determined this time, focused; she’d been made a fool of once, and her embarrassment still stung like a fresh cut. From then on she’d be quiet, reserved- but absorb everything. When the time came, they wouldn’t know what hit them.

The majority of the morning was spent between learning styles and tactics of fighting, going through the motions of each move over and over. Folkvar would instruct, yawn, then walk to the coastline and splash his face with seawater, tying his hair back cleanly. The boys would pair up by age or experience, but Folkvar took special care arranging her and Brandr. The boy was paired with the less aggressive Agni, who habit of daydreaming kept their sparring anticlimactic. Sigrid, however, was the odd number- which Folkvar took to mean that she could train with Ulfr and Anvindr, both almost two winters younger than herself.

The boys favored scrapping and wrestling one another, and would include her when Folkvar was watching. They weren’t bad kids in her eyes- Anvindr idolized his eldest brother Bjorn a bit too much, and Ulfr seemed a bit meek, but they were just not prepared to share the title of Viking with a girl.

She tried not to take it personally, tried to smile and keep a friendly outlook, but it often fell on unresponsive ears. When wrestling the boys, she could feel them hold back and favor her left wrist, worried she was fragile. It hurt, but she smiled through it and continued. They apologized whenever she invariably would grimace, but Sigrid brushed it off. By the time they should have had a break, they were all sweaty and dirty, but they were only just warming to the idea of including her.

Except for Brandr. Occasionally they’d be pushed together by their opponents, and Brandr would look at her suddenly quiet and guiltily- but at least he’d actually look at her. On reflex Sigrid shot him an empty glare and jutted out her chin, walking back to her wrestling partner with as much puffed-up confidence as she could muster.

She was glad when Folkvar returned from a trip to the shore and relieved them of their groups. Sigrid lead the rush to the shore, splashing water on her reddened face, pulling the heat away from her skin. Sucking in deep breaths, she began to notice the weak feeling in her arms and legs. Looking around, the boys did as well, exhaling hard as they heaved themselves to their feet. Bjorn slapped Gulltoppr on the back cheerily, who shuffled on his weak legs and laughed.

The children all knew Bjorn would be the next Jarl- while leadership was not necessarily hereditary, the village accepted that he’d be the most worthy, if he was anything like his father. Other boys looked up to him, and Hjordis had certainly expressed her interest in him- much to her brother Gulltoppr’s annoyance. He seemed a good young man, but Sigrid couldn’t help thinking there was something off about him. Then again, she considered, it could just be that I don’t like him.

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Brandr could feel his limbs begin to ache- the satisfying drain of exertion. All of them were kneeling by the shore and trying to regain some of their strength. The front of his tunic was damp with salt water, and the back of his tunic was cool with sweat. Now that he wasn’t working, the chill seemed suddenly bone cold. Breathing heavily, he pulled himself to his weary feet and looked around.

Before he’d left home that morning, his father had told him to look out for Sigrid. “I don’t much care that she started the fight. You’ve hurt her, and that means you need to make sure she’s healing well these next few weeks.”

“But dad, she’s mad at me.” He’d protested. “It would be uncomfortable.”

His father raised a thick eyebrow. “I bet her wrist is pretty uncomfortable too.”

And that was the end of it. His father had left for the blacksmith’s to repair his sword for the coming raid.

Now, watching Sigrid cool down, he realized how reserved she’d become. Was she upset? She hadn’t protested anything all day.

Ulfr stretched and yawned loudly beside him. “Today was good.” He began, talking to Brandr. “Glad we’re getting into something interesting, finally.” His back popped during a stretch and Ulfr let loose a quivering exhale.

“Feels good to spar,” he agreed, testing the weakness in his legs. “As the days get longer, we’ll probably have more time to cover new stuff.”

“I can’t wait for the midnight sun,” Ulfr remarked off handedly as Brandr half listened. He was too busy trying to decode Sigrid. “The feasts are my favorite.”

Brandr nodded absentmindedly, pressing the cold water out of his tunic and breeches. His father’s words repeated in his head as he watched Sigrid fumbling with cold hands attempting to tighten her belt over her dress, which had become loose and skewed during wrestling. Struggling with the urge to leave her be, out of spite and discomfort, Brandr walked up to her.

“Can I help?” He asked sincerely, standing awkwardly. What should he do with his hands? They felt so ungainly at the end of his awkward arms. He crossed his arms. It felt weird.

Sigrid looked at him skeptically. She brushed it off and continued to fumble, trying to ignore him, until she made a frustrated noise and looked defeated. “Sure.”

Taking a step nearer, he grasped her belt and took great care to keep his distance. He managed to never touch her dress. He’d never been in so close contact with a girl his own age. Tightening the belt, he waited until she said it was just about right and fastened the strap through the metal loop.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, nursing her left wrist.

“’Least I could do.” Brandr replied, playing it off as casually as he could.

Then she did something he didn’t expect. She smiled, a kind of crooked, close-lipped smile that crinkled her eyes. He was struck confused, almost like a blow. Sigrid’s smile faded hesitantly and she chewed her lip, working up something to say.

“Looks like they’ve made up!” Folkvar boomed cheerily, walking down to the shoreline and kids. He threw his gaze up to the sky with exasperation, “The gods must have a funny sense of humor with you two.”

Although previously unnoticed, the others saw both Brandr and the once smiling Sigrid and started a chorus of overly sweetened voices. A pit dropped in Brandr’s stomach, but it was Sigrid’s turn to redden.

“My mother says it is the folk who fight first that marry second,” Bjorn idly remarked, flashing a dark smile at he and Sigrid.

“Shut up, Ormrson,” Sigrid snapped, reddened and getting redder by the moment.

“Now, now. Today was a good day for us; let’s not mar that just yet.” Folkvar tried to correct what he’d started, raising his hands in neutrality. “Go up to the market and find a bite to eat. We’re trying to make friends here, allies. One good Viking cannot raid by himself, we need many.”

Brandr released the apprehensive breath he’d been holding, thankful yet again for their mentor’s intervention. With a grateful silence, Brandr looked at Sigrid and the two quietly hiked up the incline to the market with the rest of their peers, Ulfr joining him and assuming the same silence.

The market was sparsely inhabited by a few farmers on a break and wives gathering textiles and bread to bake for dinner later. The hammer of the blacksmith proclaimed its rhythmic clash, loud enough that Brandr had to raise his voice to be heard as they passed by it.

“Have you two practiced with swords yet?” He asked, ears ringing with the echo of the hammer fall as they neared the bread woman’s store front. Swords were the most glorified weapon of the Vikings, and most of the men opted for it as their primary weapon.

Ulfr responded first, somewhat despondently. “Well, my father’s sword was not set with him when he was burned, but Gulltoppr is the eldest son. He never lets me hold it- says I couldn’t even lift it.”

“I bet you could, Sigrid said reservedly. “Maybe not much, but I bet you could. And besides, he doesn’t have to know that you’ve used it.”

She was trying, Brandr could tell. Ulfr had stopped dead in his tracks, quizzically considering her comment, unsure how to take the idea of deceiving his brother. “Well, thanks…” was what he decided on. “What about you, Sigrid, ever held a sword?”

A mischievous quirk appeared on her mouth. “Not while my father’s around. But if he and my uncle are gone and mom’s distracted- I swing that thing all around the house!” She smiled proudly, all teeth.

The boys laughed, enough so that one merchant demanded to know what was funny enough to deserve interrupting his calling-of-wares. The three children shook their heads, wide eyes and tight lipped smiles trying to look innocent. Bursting into laughter, they fled for the bread woman’s storefront.

The bread woman- Sefa- was of average height, but that was the only average aspect about her. Her warm smile, blonde curls, and buxom build portrayed hearth and home and certainly made it more appetizing to buy her bread. As she worked, the seams of her dress would be tested and strained. Despite marriage, many of the village men found a reason to stop by her shop. She spotted the three children and beckoned them closer with the promise of fresh warm bread, her eyes alight with joy. She was the kind of woman who sang while she worked, no matter the chore.

Brandr and his companions fished in their pockets for coins or trade-worthy trinkets, anxious to be the first to produce something.

“Oh no no, this one is a gift, darlings,” the bread woman cooed. “My young warriors need their bellies full of bread and iron-forged hearts.” She leaned over the counter and the three inched closer, “But the first one is more important.” She winked and proffered a large loaf out for them to share.

Ulfr’s hand shot out like a serpent, holding it to his nose and drinking in the warmth. Brandr and Sigrid pleaded with him, and he young boy reveled in his newfound power for a moment.

“Share it, darlings.” Sefa added more hesitantly. “And remember, this stays between us.” Her smile lit up her round face and brought stars to her brown eyes.

With mouthfuls of bread they nodded and hurriedly shuffled away to split their prize. They ate without speaking, choosing a drier spot to eat beside Brand’s house, blocking the breeze. Aside from picking out the occasional grit-stone from the process of grinding the barley bread, the only interruption was the pleasantly content murmurs of enjoying food. It was gone before it had a chance to cool and harden.

Full of warmth and bread, Brandr leaned up against the wall of his house, dirt and sod settling in his hair. A sudden compulsion to close his eyes crept into his mind, making his eyelids heavy. As they slowly closed he jolted awake, causing Sigrid and Ulfr to snicker.

“Yeah shut it,” he said sleepily, rubbing his eyes. “Bread always makes me tired.”

“Bread makes everyone tired,” Ulfr said, he and Sigrid shrugging agreeably. For the moment it was quiet, broken by Ulfr belching loudly and sending the others into a fit of laughing again. Their weariness was giving them the giggles.

Eventually, as they talked and laughed, they began o see the other boys head back down the shore. Begrudgingly, they heaved themselves to their feet and trudged down the hill. The rest of Folkvar’s topics consisted of oral lessons and knowledge of the raids and their weapons. It was a welcome change for Brandr’s tired limbs. He already knew a fair amount from talking with his father, so he afforded himself the liberty to daydream.

What he didn’t know was the impact the day would have.

Days passed. On Saturdays the village rested and bathed, rinsing their hair from the week’s work and dirt. People would leave the house and walk around with freshly combed and braided hair, socialize and catch up on what they’d done that week. It refreshed them, gave them new vigor for the week to come. Men would go down to the mead hall, or head down to work on the boats. Women would leave behind their chores and spend some time relaxing, or refresh friendships or skills which had been falling flat during the week.

For these free days, Brand would go out after chores and explore the forest with Ulfr and Sigrid. Their cleanliness, hard worked on by their parents, never lasted very long. But it always provided entertainment to see what their parents saw as a presentable look.

Ulfr’s mother, without a husband, had full power over choosing what Ulfr would be cleaned up to look like. The sides of his longer brown hair would be pulled back tight and ties with a cord at the base of his head, grey eyes exposed for the only day of the week. His shyness around others prevented him from showing his face too proudly. Brandr’s father once coolly remarked how alike Ulfr looked to the Jarl Ormr when he was a young man. He didn’t know why his father had said it then, but now- with Ulfr’s hair back- he could. The dark hair and grey eyes wasn’t common in the Northland, and only a handful of families passed it along- only two or three villagers had brown hair when they weren’t related to the Jarl. Ulfr was one of them. It must not have helped that the rest of his family was ice-blonde, providing to his black-sheep position in the family.

Sigrid had the misfortune of having three adults in her household to help primp her- her father, mother, and uncle. Her father insisted that her hair be done up in braids, her mother insisted that she wear her nice dress, but her uncle secreted her a brooch that she loved to wear proudly, pinning it to her dress beneath her collarbone. When she’d first arrive from bathing, her hair would be dark brown with the water retained in her braids, contrasting her pale skin and darker blue eyes. Her freckles were pronounced in the cold, and she would shift under the unusually pronounced look sin her direction. Her usually messy hair was contained, tamed. It didn’t suit her, and Ulfr and Brandr made a point of playfully teasing her, until she’d ruffle her braids and make them a tad messier.

Brandr, luckily, had parents who knew how boisterous he was. His breeches and tunic were cleaned, but not his best, and his hair was combed back and the top was braided away from his face. His mother always preened him too much, but his father managed to convince her it was a lost cause. Overall, while he didn’t particularly enjoy being preened, his family was at least more relaxed about his appearance.

Their days were free to explore and venture into the forest to the northeast, armed with their knives, and make believe stories of their adventures among the erlanders and raiding. Sigrid would go in as a spy, as Brandr and Ulfr were sure that no one would suspect a female Viking, and then the two boys would storm the castles and monasteries of their imagination. The three of them would always escape with riches, defeated and slashing their way back to the homeland. By the end of their mind-raids, their hair would be messy and their faces and clothes would be streaked with dirt. It was more enjoyable the more they looked fresh from a battle, going as far as flinging clumps of dirt and sticks to mimic enemy arrows.

But as their training continued the rest of the week, they steadily became more specialized and strong. Folkvar was doing his best to hone in on each of the group member’s strengths, emphasizing their natural talents. Brandr was better at holding back and picking specific times to engage, Ulfr was soft on his feet and hard to hit, Sigrid was speedy and could avoid. The shield maiden trainees- Hjordis and Otama- spent more time on their own, practicing with wooden swords and their newly designed shields. Sigrid and Otama spent less time with each other, each in their own groups. Brandr felt a little bad about it, knowing that they had been close before they separated into their groups. But when he asked, Sigrid would brush it off. Instead, the boys and she were now leaving training days weak and sweaty; their muscles weary from each day’s work.

Bjorn made sure to put himself in leading positions, considering that his strength and right. The rest of them, although they knew their talents, were not so sure of their roles. Sigrid was warming up to himself and Ulfr, and smiled more, but Brandr could still sense her fierce aspirations. He shared them, and it made them compete.

Eventually, as they covered unarmed combat, they were prepared for armed combat.

“While Vikings should be versed in weaponry, we all have our favorites.” Folkvar’s eyes gleamed with a hungry passion. Just because he wouldn’t be going raiding, didn’t mean that he would set down his weapon. He’d brought examples today, and Brandr looked over them with anticipation. The barrel-chested man hefted a gleaming axe to his shoulder. “Mine are the battleaxe and the spear.”

On the ground or propped up against a tree on the edge of the forest was a small arsenal. A couple of the two different types of spears, two full length swords, a couple of shields, many knives that were smaller than the swords yet bigger than the children’s, two axes- including Folkvar’s, and several helmets were all resting in the mossy soil. The distant sun reflected idly in the curves and points of the metal, reflecting tiny suns into Brandr’s eyes. His hand gripped air, expecting there to be a sword in his hand, and ignored Folkvar’s teachings for a moment. The sword was not beautiful, but it hummed with potential.

“Take one,” was all Brandr heard, rushing forward and grabbing the simple sword which rested against the spruce trunk. It was heavy, and it required effort, but he was stronger now, with leaner muscles to replace twiggy limbs.

The sword was too big for him- that much was clear- but it felt natural to be holding one. He’d always loved swords, even as a baby. Mother loved telling the story of his naming, that ‘as a baby- a newborn- he grabbed the hilt of his father’s sword and wouldn’t stop crying unless we let him!’ He’d act like it was burden to hear it told, but secretly loved it. Brand- meaning sword- was chosen as his name, and it fit.

He drew his gaze from the sword to see what the others had grabbed. Ulfr had claimed a long knife, and a helmet which dwarfed his head. Born hefted the remaining sword and a heavier shield, proudly looking on at the blade. His younger brothers Agni and Anvindr fought over the available axe, but Agni was the only one able to lift it, which left Anvindr with a smaller shield and a long knife. Gulltoppr flexed his arms, gripping a thrusting spear, smiling to himself. But standing off to the side, skeptically looking on at their throwing spear, Sigrid passed the weapon between her hands. It must have been all that was left.

She’s purposefully avoiding the shields, Brandr chuckled to himself. She cannot let herself be seen as a shield maiden.

She locked eyes with him and faked a grimace, darting her eyes to her spear. Brandr shrugged, trying to encourage optimism. The spear was a respectable weapon- Folkvar even said it was one of his favorites- why would she not want it?

‘What did you want?’ He mouthed as Bjorn talked loudly about his father’s raiding fame.

Sigrid tipped her head downward, eyeing the blade in his hand. ‘Guess,’ she mouthed back.

Oh, Brandr thought, strange that Folkvar didn’t bring more. Then he reminded himself that many of the older men were beginning to hone their abilities again for the raids. Many of the swords and other weapons would be heavily used. That’s why his father had gone to re-sharpen his sword.

“Are we settled?” Folkvar asked. His voice was hungrier today, filled with vigor by the prospect of demonstrating with the weapons. They rustled, still excited by their choices, but tried to listen. “The different weapons are all important, but they hold different positions in a battle. If you’ve noticed, I haven’t included any longbows. I will once you all get a little older and have more steady hands. Regardless, these are the tools of our trade.”

His axe rested on his shoulder, and with what looked like no effort at all he let it swing to full extension and gripped it naturally. “A battleaxe does not need to be large- but it needs to be weighted well and kept sharpened.” In a vicious swing, a movement so fluid they couldn’t find where the act began, Folkvar buried where the axe in the tree trunk the weapons had been resting on. “And swung hard.”

Spruce needles had fallen from the tree at the shuddering impact, littering the ground. Brandr switched his gaze from the axe to Folkvar, awed at the big man’s nimble swing. Folkvar was among the biggest and tallest in the village, but didn’t often show off.

Agni grinned cheekily, staring at the axe and then to the one in his hand. The boy, a week or so older than him, was built a lot heftier than him. The axe suited him. He began to speak, but only managed to make small sounds of wonder.

“It takes practice. It takes work. It sometimes takes years.” Their mentor said, nodding to the axe deep in the tree. “But it’s fun along the way. You’ll practice with each other, different partners each day. You might get a little roughed up every once and a while. This is the period in time that our men- and women-” he added, looking at Sigrid, “either rise to the occasion or fall short. Those who don’t make it often become tradesmen. There is no shame, of course, we need them- but this is the deciding time.”

With a tremendous tug, Folkvar pulled the axe free and laid it by the tree. Sap oozed from the gouge in the trunk. “This is what a well-handled weapon can do. You can’t hesitate about that. When we raid, we do what we must to get what we need. Men get cut down in our paths, on both sides, and we give them a reason to call us animals.”

The frank, unapologetic tone took them off guard. They all knew there was death on the raids, that it followed their people like ravens to a kill. On occasion, their raiders wouldn’t make it back. It was a risk. From Folkvar, though, who they had grown too see as a calmer, sensible man- it seemed somehow wrong.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” Agni asked, holding the axe in both hands.

Folkvar looked at the boy with his gray eyes full of consideration. He crossed his arms, pondering, and the scars he bore on his arms suddenly put into context. There were many of them- knotted, thick, slashes and punctures. He cast his eyes to the sky with intent, muttering softly. Finally he addressed Agni, “Yes. And I’ve injured more. But by doing so I was able to bring back livestock, riches, and glory to our gods.”

After a brief, tense silence, a few of the older boys reached into their tunics and pulled out a small metal pendant which hung around their necks. The pendants, small forged Mjolnir, hung down on their breast bones. Brandr would not get his until he turned twelve and became a man. But the moment a boy got his, it was a part of him. Bjorn, clutching the hammer, nodded approvingly.

And, following the Jarl’s son’s example, the others let it lie.

“Now are we going to train or do you want to gossip like a couple of housewives?” Folkvar grumbled and picked up a throwing spear out of habit, sticking the metal tip into the soil repeatedly.

“Train,” they responded in unsynchronized echoes.

“Thank gods,” he said exasperatedly. “Now each of you, pick one of the scarred trees to practice on. They can handle it.” The man grumbled and rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated. He grabbed his axe and his personal throwing spear and took them away from the ensuing practice.

Sigrid and Ulfr walked up to him, excited about the prospect of getting closer to their goals. Ulfr’s helmet wobbled and slid around on his head as he jabbed experimentally at the tree with his long knife. Blowing hair out of his eyes, the young boy looked at Brandr and lifted the smooth, domed helmet off dejectedly and offered it to him. Brandr refused it, saying it would do the same thing on him- he didn’t want Ulfr to think he was too small, Brandr knew that plight.

“I’ll take it,” Sigrid said, taking it with her almost healed hand. While they’d been talking, she’d undone her hair and pleated two new braids to frame her face, leaving room for the helmet. She stuck the spear point into the ground forcefully, sliding the helmet on calmly. She had thick hair which in its unruly state dampened a lot of the sliding of the helmet. Her breathing slowed, and Brandr could see her retreating into her own world. She locked eyes on the two boys and her lips split into a hunter’s grin.

The hunter’s grin was shared by all those who felt a sudden influx of power; regardless of who they were otherwise. The guttural, primal thrill of power, and a thirst for more- which brought on more confidence than much of anything else. Hunters wore it the moment before a kill, warriors wore it in the calm before a battle, and men wore it before brawling. Sigrid wore it now. It was the same hungry, full-of-teeth grin that reminded Brandr of their fight.

“I like it,” she said coolly, to no one in particular. She picked up the spear and tested its heft. Looking at them, spear in hand, helmeted, her stance solid- she seemed a different person.

“Us too,” Brandr replied, taking the liberty of speaking for both Ulfr and himself. The younger boy looked at him skeptically, still not fully comfortable with the idea of a female Viking. Brandr gave him a ‘do not say anything’ look.

Compelled, Brandr grabbed the sword more fiercely and began swinging at the tree. The sword had been a bit heavy before, but now he had to use both hands and still managed to tire quickly. Ulfr joined, quick and nimble as he dug the tip of the knife into the scarred bark.

Bjorn and Sigrid were told to separate from the group, aimed toward the section of free space between the scarred trees which extended into the dense forest, and the small outcropping of trees which separated the market from Ulfr’s family’s house. The two were taught a bit of form- Bjorn with the thrusting spear and Sigrid with the throwing spear, the frakka. Brandr only half watched, busy trying to hack the bark from the tree with double handed strikes.

Occasionally, the children would switch weapons. Brandr tried his hand at an axe and shield, but when a mock fight broke out, he decided that maybe the axe wasn’t his strong suit. Ulfr took the shield from him and continued with that and the long knife. Sigrid and Bjorn, joined every once and a while by others, remained with their spears.

It felt long into the day when they were disrupted, a forced silence falling over the children. Folkvar greeted the man who strode in their direction, bringing an air of command and calm. “Ormr! Interested in seeing our future warriors? I think this newest crop has good, warring blood in them.”

The man, their Jarl, stood with his hands linked behind his back. His dark hair was pulled back tightly, his beard longer than others and neatly trimmed, a thin braid running down the center. His grey eyes scanned the children, faltering on Sigrid a moment doubtfully, then continued. He looked grave.

“A good crop indeed, Folkvar. You are an excellent influence on them.” Ormr smiled tightly, praising the man. “Folkvar, may I have a word with you? This good crop can manage a moment without you, I’m sure.”

His tone perturbed Brandr, and as the others returned to their practice he remained unmoved. He’d respected the Jarl as long as he could remember, and he didn’t plan on changing his mind, but there was something in his tone which seemed forced. A forced calm. Sigrid met Brandr’s eye and gave him a questioning look, which he shrugged off. He was probably just being paranoid; he wouldn’t bother her with his ideas just yet.

Folkvar nodded and walked off with his leader, who he stood considerably broader and taller than. The two stopped out of earshot and spoke beneath a tree, a solemn cloud seeming to follow them. Brandr watched curiously, trying to understand their gestures: folded arms, pointed looks, heavy sighing, a shuffle of feet. Finally Folkvar nodded curtly, looking none-too-happy, and began walking back.

Scrambling to look natural, Brandr lopped another swing at the tree as he changed his footing. He circled the tree like it was an attacker, and struggled to put more ‘umph’ into his strike. In trying to look natural, he felt incredibly awkward.

For the rest of the day, a cloud hung over the usually cheery man. The others noticed, but no one pried. Brandr was ready to burst, wanting to ask. He messed up more often as long as his mind was elsewhere, and it drew from the day. He wanted so badly to ask- but if Folkvar wanted to share whatever it was, he would have.