The soldiers are a sorry sight. I scan their faces as they wait for me to explain why I’ve called them to our sparring grounds so soon after the last raid. They’re huddled together like livestock in the wide clearing, eyes ringed with fatigue, wooden sparring swords limp at their sides. A brisk wind sharpens the dreariness of the cold, gray morning. It’s almost as if the gods are announcing their displeasure.
At the edge of the crowd, my shield maidens—Hetha, Wisna, and young Ranveig—stand tall and proud. There’s only one of them for every few dozen men, but they shine like silver amid iron.
Hetha, as always, is the first to speak: “Forgive me, Alvtir, but why have you gathered us here?”
“You’re wondering why we’re training so soon after the summer raid,” I address all the soldiers at once.
The men shuffle awkwardly. I unsheathe Angrboda and draw it up to eye level. Even in the thin autumn sunlight, the runes seem to glimmer. The blade was made from the gods’ own iron; I myself watched it hurtle down to Midgard from the stars. There are rumors among the soldiers that Odin had the dwarves Dvalin and Durin forge the sword and then sent it as a gift to me to show his favor. I always show it off when I need to bend their minds to my will.
Or to my brother’s will.
“The king has ordered us to return to Iberia,” I announce. “We leave tomorrow. Prepare yourselves for a long journey.”
Murmurs ripple around me, and I catch many a sore glance being shared. But the good soldiers—my shield maidens, and the handful of true warriors among the men—meet my order with fire in their eyes. It makes my heart sink. I’ve trained them too well; they don’t doubt me even when they should.
I hold up my hand, and the murmurs die down. “Pair off for sparring.”
Soon the dull thwack of wood on wood fills the air. I weave my way around, checking their form, their vigor. Assessing who is too old or too young for the journey ahead.
“You’d be dead in an instant on the battlefield!” I snap at one of the younger men as he stumbles away from Ingmar, one of my best soldiers. “Remember your footing!”
“We’re sparring, are we?” a nasally voice rings out. I grimace as Snorri emerges from behind a wide oak trunk.
Loki’s damn insolence. I was hoping the little coward would be too busy searching for his missing father to join. “Some of us,” I sniff.
“Tell me, cousin: Why should the king send us out to sea again so soon after the last raid? Or are you simply looking for a new thrall to warm your bed?” He smirks at his own jest and surveys the men with an air of command that makes me eager to wring his scrawny neck.
I spit on the ground at his feet. “The king’s reasons are his to keep. You’re welcome to join us, of course, but I thought you’d be out searching for your father.”
He goes rigid, and my blood surges in triumph. I lean closer, whispering right into his ear: “Perhaps he couldn’t bear what a disappointment you’ve become, so he leapt to his death from the cliffs.”
Snorri grips the hilt of his sparring sword as a tremor of anger racks his body. “It looks like you still need a sparring partner, Alvtir.”
Ah, finally.
I furrow my brow, feigning surprise. “I would be honored, Snorri, son of Broskrap.”
Snorri interrupts the nearest spar and grabs a wooden sword and shield off one of the soldiers. The two men turn to watch, cheering in excitement as Snorri begins circling me.
I sheathe my sword. Hetha, as though hearing my thoughts, appears at my side and hands me her own sparring sword and shield. After all, the only wounds I need to inflict are to his pride. For now.
One by one, the hirdmen abandon their own matches and turn to watch. Their whoops and shouts create a chorus. Either I’m not the only one who wants to see Snorri receive a healthy dose of humility, or he’s not the only one who wants to see me fall.
Either way, I will show them what it means to be Odin’s chosen warrior.
The wind picks up to a howl as Snorri stalks around me, hatred flashing in his eyes. I allow him to believe he has an opening, knowing he won’t strike until he sees the advantage. Right away he takes a quick jab. I parry it, shuffle forward, and knock my shield hard against his, sending him staggering back. Guffaws from the onlookers bounce off the trees.
Good. At least some of the men are rooting for their stallari.
I grin, baring my teeth. Snorri hesitates, his gaze flitting down to my mouth.
I can’t help but laugh at his cowardice. It’s enough to remind him of his rage and he lunges at me, sparring sword high overhead, but I sidestep the blow. It grazes my shoulder regardless. I bite my cheek against the pain. No doubt I’ll have splinters to pick out later. Perhaps I’ve grown a little overconfident in my old age.
His sparring sword continues downward and ricochets off the ground. Taking advantage of his momentum, I stomp on the forearm of his sword hand, just hard enough to leave a nasty bruise but not break it.
He screeches, the sword falling from his grasp as his body hits the grass with a satisfying thud. He rolls on his side and curls around his arm like a newborn babe. Probably fighting the urge to wail like one, too.
I smirk at the agony on his face. It’s an improvement from his usual snivel. Some paces away, Hetha and Wisna share an amused look, and Ranveig doesn’t bother to suppress her giggle.
Good. No woman worth her salt has sympathy for Snorri Broskrapsson, and he should know it.
The hirdmen, for their part, look away in disgust. Some are pretending to be very interested in the oak leaves withering off the branches. Snorri is a captain, so they won’t add insult to his injury, but I’m sure he can feel their revulsion as clearly as the pain in his forearm. I don’t blame them; I’d be ashamed of any brother-in-arms who succumbed so fully to such a minor injury. They peel off one by one, resuming their own spars.
I turn around, making like I’m going to walk away, as though the match is over. Fighting his shame, Snorri tries to stand too quickly. Just the error I was counting on. I whip around and headbutt him, eliciting another shriek as he grabs his nose, now gushing blood.
“To Alvtir—” Ranveig cries out, raising her sparring sword. I silence her with a stern look. Gloating is a game for nithings. Battle has proven what needed proving; it always does.
“Enough for today,” I say, raising my voice to address the men and women alike. “Go back to wherever you call home. We’ll meet again at midday tomorrow.”
Snorri picks his wooden sparring sword off the ground with his uninjured arm and scurries away without a word.
As I watch him disappear into the forest, I can’t help but wonder if it was wise to make even more of a foe of him. I know better than anyone how destructive the enmity of weak men can be. But I needed to squash any question of allegiance in the men’s hearts. It took years to earn that allegiance, and only a moment’s falter would shatter it. That’s the curse of being a woman who leads: They’re always hungry for me to fail, for a man to best me. And just as a snake strikes when the bear lets down her guard, I know Snorri will try to take the hird from me as soon as he sees an opportunity.
When that day comes, I can only hope that I’ve proven myself worthy of their loyalty.