A thud jolts me awake. In one motion, I sit and grab the knife from under my pillow. My eyes land on a round wooden shield and matching wooden sword resting at the foot of my bed.
“She’s an ugly thing, not much charm to her. But she’ll do.”
I look up at Alvtir’s severe face, surprised to see a touch of warmth lighting up her eyes. She hands me yet another set of clothes—this one undyed, much like my thrall’s tunic, though a little thicker in my grasp. “You start today,” she says.
I leap out of bed and dress quickly. Nerves and excitement flutter in my stomach, but I force myself to scarf down a bowl of honeyed porridge anyway.
The dogs race toward us as soon as we’re outside. “Head east along the shoreline,” Alvtir says, kneeling down to let them lick her face. “You’ll hear them before you see them.”
I frown. “You’re not coming?”
She pushes the dogs away and grabs an ax, not meeting my eyes. Her thin lips are pursed into an even thinner line as she sets a log on the chopping stump. “I’m no longer in command of the hird. Snorri Broskrapsson is the new stallari.”
Dread floods through me, rooting me in place. “Snorri leads the hird?”
She gives a swift nod as she raises the ax above her head. The whack of her blade splitting the log in two rattles my bones.
Snorri is my commander. The porridge threatens to come up and I clench my teeth, fighting the urge to retch.
Alvtir looks up sharply. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
The words tumble out. “I can’t train under Snorri. I hate him. And he hates me even more. He’ll try to kill me the first chance he gets.”
She grabs the split piece of wood and places it back on the stump. “Would you rather go back to being the princess’s thrall?”
She’s right. I don’t have a choice. I grit my teeth and force my feet to carry me to the trail. When I reach the edge of the clearing, I spare a brief look back. The striations in Alvtir’s arms writhe as she yanks the ax out of the stump.
The buzz of male voices grows louder as I cross the encampment and approach the wide clearing where the hirdmen are gathered. The field is a swirling mixture of mire and weeds. I reach the edge and dozens of pale men turn to stare at me.
“That’s the Úlfheðinn?” someone says.
Úlfheðinn. The mysterious word echoes in my mind.
“I didn’t know she was an elf,” someone else whispers.
I glance around, searching for a break in the throng of men. All men. My breath quickens. Where are the shield maidens?
“Yafeu!” A clear voice breaks through the buzz. I’m relieved to meet Ingmar’s cool gaze a moment later. He takes my arm and leads me through the crowd to the other side of the field. Once we’ve put a little distance between us and the rest of the men, my anxiety begins to subside.
“I believe you’re looking for these two.” He leads me over to two women and a large man conversing in front of a wide oak tree near the field’s edge. As we draw near, I realize it’s the same two women from the boat—the willowy, mouse-haired one, who tended to my wound, and her quiet companion, who reads water like Freydis reads the runes.
“Ah, the woman of the hour,” the first says, turning to me. “Welcome. I’m Hetha, and this is Wisna.” She gestures to the sturdy woman with short blond hair leaning against the tree trunk, who nods in greeting. Their postures are relaxed, their smiles easy. I feel my shoulders drop an inch as I nod back.
“And I’m Dag.” The large man reaches out and grasps my forearm in a firm shake. His playful green eyes and plump cheeks give his face a boyish look, despite his thick black beard and hair. It’s a face that hardly matches his enormous stature. His nyama is also friendly, and despite him being a full two heads taller than me, I can tell he poses no threat. “We’re honored to have an Úlfheðinn join our little band of nithings,” he says.
That word again. I frown. “I’m Yafeu—not Úlfheðinn.”
They laugh heartily at that, leaving me even more confused.
“Here comes Ranveig,” Hetha adds. I follow her sight line to the wiry girl approaching us with quick, bouncy steps. It’s the same girl I saw with them when the hird left for the last raid. Bright-red hair engulfs her head, flitting in the breeze like flames. Her body is all angles, from her knees to her face, which is folded into a scowl. She looks around my age, give or take a year. She stops in front of me and looks me up and down with obvious disdain. I can’t help but stare at the intricate patterns tattooed on her arms as she folds them across her chest and spits on the ground.
“Ranveig,” Hetha begins, “this is—”
“We have a saying here, Úlfheðinn,” Ranveig cuts in. “Where wolf’s ears are, wolf’s teeth are near.”
I meet her scowl with one of my own. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re the ears—and I’m the teeth.”
I open my mouth to reply, but a voice much sharper than my own pierces the early-morning haze instead.
“Heill, Víkingar!” Snorri’s voice.
“Heill!” The hirdmen respond in unison.
Snorri steps in front of the crowd. A white-hot hatred floods me at the sight of him. Instead of the simple training clothes we all wear, he’s dressed in his full suit of armor. It’s as if he wants the men to know he’s ready for battle at any moment.
He fixes me with a smug grin. I return the expression, doing my best to put all the venom I feel in my heart into my gaze.
He wastes no time. “As some of you may have heard, Alvtir has been stripped of her command,” he calls out. “The king has chosen me to be his new stallari.”
Murmurs rip through the hirdmen. Hetha and Wisna share a look of shock. Ranveig bites her lip and glowers at the mud. I can feel the waves of rage flowing from her nyama.
I scan the faces of the men around me, searching for the limits of their loyalty. Some look pleased, but many of them, especially the older men, seem clouded with confusion. Perhaps they don’t know what to feel; I wouldn’t either if I had grown to manhood with Alvtir as my stallari.
Snorri frowns. Clearly, he was expecting a bigger reaction. “Things will be different from now on,” he continues. “For too long, we have chomped at the bit, suffering under a woman who forbade us to act like men. She called herself Odin’s chosen warrior, but we are Thor’s men, one and all!” He grabs the hammer around his neck and holds it up for emphasis.
The response swells. Cries of agreement fill the air, egging Snorri on.
“Would Odin put reins on Thor, the mighty protector of Asgard? Would he deny his own son his warrior nature?”
“No!” the men bellow. The ground begins to tremble with the force of their stomping.
“So why should we, the protectors of Agder, be denied our warrior natures?” Snorri challenges. “Alvtir had us following her woman’s code, but I say, no more! We men deserve to take what we want! We’ve earned that right by serving our king in battle!”
My throat constricts as cheers erupt from the hirdmen. They raise their sparring swords in the air and shout their glee to the gods. I turn to Hetha and Wisna. A look of foreboding passes between them, and then to me.
Snorri raises his hands for the men to settle. He may not be a great warrior, but I can see now that he does have skill. He’s almost like a griot, the way he plays on the men’s emotions, inciting their indignation along with their lust for violence. He controls them masterfully.
All the worse for me.
His eyes find mine, and he shoots me an ominous smile. The clamor dies down. He lets the eager silence stretch out. The men are like fish on a hook, waiting for him to reel them in.
“We have a new shield maiden today,” he says at last. “You should know that everything you’ve heard about her is true.”
Murmurs go up around me. I narrow my eyes at Snorri. What game is he playing now?
“I was there at the princess’s wedding. She killed ten men with only a dull kitchen knife.” He gesticulates theatrically. “No doubt she’ll be the one training us today.”
A fire sparks to life in my core.
That’s not true. He’s setting me up to fail. I can’t live up to that story—no one could. I figured Snorri would try to have me killed, but he’s cleverer than I thought. First, he’ll let me die under the weight of my own reputation.
“Bet I could take her!” someone calls out.
My hands curl into fists at my side. I clench my jaw so forcefully that my cheeks begin to ache.
Snorri chuckles under his breath. “Today, we’ll start with sword practice,” he says decisively. “Pair up!”
Of course, Snorri would choose to start with sword practice. Swords are far costlier than daggers or axes, which is why you only see them in the hands of a rich king’s army. He figures I don’t have any familiarity with the weapon—and he’s right.
I turn to the women, desperate to avoid sparring with one of the hirdmen, who look a little too eager to test their mettle against the new shield maiden. Hetha and Wisna have already found an open space and squared off. I look at Ranveig, but before I can open my mouth, Dag appears out of nowhere and taps her on the shoulder.
“Spar with me?” he asks.
“Some other time,” Ranveig replies coolly. Dag’s round cheeks flush pink, making him look even more boyish. She catches my eye. “Úlfheðinn, let’s go.”
“My name is Yafeu.”
Ranveig’s scowl contorts into a wicked grin. “Yafeu, then. Shall we begin?”
She tosses her shield to the ground, and I follow suit. I brandish my sparring sword in front of me, trying to remember how Alvtir held hers back in Anfa all those moons ago. The long weapon is top-heavy and clumsy in my unskilled grasp.
Before I can blink, Ranveig leaps forward with her sparring sword raised high above her head. I raise my own sparring sword instinctively to block, but the force of her blow is too strong. The sword is knocked from my awkward grasp. She stays the wooden shaft a hair’s breadth away from my neck and holds it there for a long moment, her chin lifting in silent triumph. Then she backs off and readies herself to go again. I grab my weapon from the mud, my face hot.
Ranveig steps forward abruptly and jabs the tip of her sword toward my abdomen. I jump to the right, dodging the blow, and slice at her side. The wood scrapes her biceps then collides with her sword with a dull thud. Our eyes lock as we push the edges together with all our might. My arms begin to burn from the inside out. I grit my teeth and push harder, ignoring the pain.
Ranveig grins again, then leaps back. My feet slip on the mud and I fall forward, dropping the sparring sword and breaking my fall with both hands.
A chorus of snickers sends the heat back to my cheeks. I try to push myself up, but the acute pressure of a boot pressing into my back stops me short. Rage flares up inside me, spilling over the dam. The laughter grows louder before Ranveig lets up.
I pick up the sparring sword and jump to my feet, not bothering to wipe the sweat from my brow or the mud from my tunic. I notice the hirdmen forming a circle around us, amusement writ large on their faces, as though they were watching a particularly entertaining chicken fight. If Snorri cares that they’ve ceased their training, he doesn’t bother to tell them. I glare at him as he leans against the trunk of an elm with his arms folded across his chest, a smug smile painted across his face.
This is exactly what he planned. He wanted them to watch me be bested so easily, to erase any semblance of respect they might’ve had for me.
I focus on Ranveig, struggling to keep my composure. Was she in on this plan with Snorri, or does she have her own reason for humiliating me? I don’t know what I could have done to earn her contempt.
If only we could spar without this useless weight of a weapon!
But I can’t. Not until Snorri decides I’ve been humiliated enough for one day.
This time, I focus on dodging Ranveig’s blows, instead of trying to beat her at her own game. I keep my sparring sword up defensively, staying light on my toes. The girl is in much better shape than I am, and is extraordinarily nimble, much to my dismay. She gets several good thwacks in with the flat of her sword, and the men burst into laughter every time. I don’t know which hurts more, but at least I don’t fall on my face again.
Finally, after my sparring sword and my pride have been whittled down to a toothpick, Snorri relents. “Move to hand-to-hand combat!” he shouts.
I drop the wooden sword with relief. My arm is sore from finger to shoulder, and I can already feel the bruises blossoming across my torso.
Ranveig tosses her own sparring sword and immediately raises her fists. I smile and return the gesture, eager to give her what she’s asking for.
Ranveig may be handy with a sword, but I’ll be teaching her a few things about the weapon of the body.
Just as she starts to approach, Ingmar steps between us, facing me.
“Pair up?” he asks, his liquid eyes hopeful. “That is, if you can find another partner, Ranveig.”
I grimace, frustrated. He wants to spar now? Now that it’s finally my turn to throw that preening flamingo of a girl into the mud?
You’re not saving me from anything, I want to scream. But I know he thinks he’s doing me a kindness.
“She’s all yours—whatever’s left of her,” Ranveig spits. She spins around triumphantly, crashing right into Dag’s barrel of a chest.
“I see you need a partner!” Dag says eagerly.
Ranveig groans, annoyance sharpening her features even further. “Fine,” she says through gritted teeth.
Dag looks as happy as a hippo in a mud-bath. Ingmar shoots me a knowing smirk, and I feel my frustration ease. Maybe Ranveig is getting what she deserves after all.
We move to a patch of dry, weedy grass, less slippery than where Ranveig and I sparred.
“Don’t go easy on me,” I say as we face off.
“Don’t go easy on me,” Ingmar retorts.
I open my mouth to argue with him further, but the playful glimmer in his eyes stops me short. “I won’t,” I say instead.
“Good.”
Then he lunges.
I sidestep his attack with ease, then feign a punch that fools him into a defensive posture. I put the real force into the second jab, exactly as Papa taught me. I stop my fist at his side so as not to hit him with any real force.
Ingmar’s eyes widen as he takes in the position of my fist, hovering right at his kidney. He’d be rolling on the ground in agony if I had followed through with the blow. He breaks into a wide smile that meets my own, his eyes alight with exhilaration.
I celebrated too soon. Immediately he grabs my fist and twists me into a hold with my arms behind my back. I can’t break free—if anything, the more I struggle, the more it seems to secure his grip. The firmness of his chest against my back sends a tingle down my spine. He smells like resin and salt, the woods and the sea rolled into one.
“You’ll have to teach me that sometime,” I say breathlessly.
“Anytime,” he pants.
Ranveig’s grunts fill the air. I glance over as she rains her frustration down on poor Dag. Other than them and Hetha and Wisna, the rest of the soldiers drop all pretense of sparring and push in around Ingmar and me, itching to see how this new match plays out.
We face off again, and soon we’re trading blows and parries in equal measure. The hirdmen murmur and cheer, this time with approval.
Their calls morph into a song, and it starts to feel like we’re dancing. I throw a high kick that he ducks with ease. He whirls around to strike, and I use his own force to shuffle him to my other side, but he regains his footing immediately and sends his fist toward my cheek. I recover quickly. In one swift movement, I throw a spinning back kick, grabbing his neck with the back of my knee and twisting his body to the ground. Ingmar hits the grass with a grunt and I thread his arm between my legs and press the back of my legs to his chest, raising my hips and pushing the inside of his elbow toward the sky. I give him a look that says I could break his arm if I wanted.
“That’s enough for today.” Snorri’s voice rings out from somewhere beyond the circle of riveted onlookers.
I release Ingmar and jump up, still buzzing with energy. I offer him a hand. “You’ll have to teach me that sometime,” he says as he takes it, pulling himself to a stand in front of me. His blue eyes gleam, reminding me of the way the light hits the fjord in the early morning. I gaze up into them, a full head above my own, feeling a warm sensation spread from my core.
It takes me a second to realize that I’m still clasping his hand. I drop it quickly and look away, releasing a breathy giggle. “Of course.”
“Until anytime, then,” Ingmar says, bowing politely.
“Well done, Shield-Breaker.” Dag claps him on the shoulder. “And you, Úlfheðinn! Anyone who knocks Ingmar on his ass is a friend of mine!”
Ingmar laughs, and I can’t help but join. Then I can’t help but sneak a glance at said part of Ingmar’s body as he walks away.
After a moment, it occurs to me that Dag said anyone, not any woman. I decide I like this Dag very much.
The men gather their sparring weapons and chatter among themselves as they disperse, casting curious glances my way. At least I haven’t made a total fool of myself today. “She teach you a lesson, Ingmar?” one of them quips to Ingmar as he passes.
“Just as Snorri said she would,” Ingmar retorts.
A chorus of guffaws rises up from the men. I look around for Snorri, eager to see his hatchet face turn red at this twist of his words. But he’s nowhere to be found.
With a sigh, I reach for my own sword and shield. My back aches as I bend over, and I let myself fold into a stretch. For once I welcome the cool breeze drying the sweat on my skin. I’m sore from head to toe already, and it will only be worse tomorrow. But it’s a welcome soreness. It’s the feeling of growing stronger, more intoxicating than any ale.
“Yafeu!” Wisna calls out.
I stand as she and Hetha approach.
“We usually eat dinner with Alvtir after training,” Hetha says.
“Oh.” I search for Ranveig behind them, but she’s nowhere to be found.
“Ranveig’s not coming,” Hetha states coolly, reading my thoughts.
Hmm. I wonder if she has a family of her own to eat with, or if she’s simply avoiding me.
On the walk back to Alvtir’s, I find myself opening up to Hetha and Wisna as easily as I did to Ingmar yesterday. Gradually, the trials of the day ebb from my mind like the tide of the fjord, replaced by a feeling that is warm, expansive, and altogether new.
By the time we reach Alvtir’s longhouse, the long fingers of sunset are reaching in through the open door. Stillness greets us. The fire has long since snuffed out, the ashes turning white on the hearth. The henhouse is shut, the garden empty. Even the dogs are gone, presumably out with their owner, wherever she is.
Her absence doesn’t seem to trouble Hetha or Wisna. Wisna disappears to gather firewood while Hetha sets a pot above the hearth. They move with the ease of familiarity, and it strikes me that they must have done this a hundred times before.
I clear my throat. I’m not used to this feeling of idleness. “I’ll look for something to eat,” I say, heading to the storage vats at the back of the longhouse.
“There should be some salt fish soaking in a barrel back there. We’ll boil it with whatever else you can find.”
I change into my thrall’s tunic, resolving to wash the training clothes before bed, then gather the fish, some greens, and an assortment of dried herbs. I insist on cooking the stew, noting that Hetha and Wisna are my own guests in Alvtir’s absence.
“She doesn’t have many spices, but I tried my best,” I say apologetically as they take the steaming bowls from my hands. I watch intently as Hetha takes her first sip, closing her eyes and furrowing her brow as she weighs the flavors on her tongue.
“Is it all right?” I ask.
“All right?” She slurps down another spoonful. “You’ve spoiled us, Yafeu!”
“It’ll be even harder to choke down Alvtir’s cooking after this,” Wisna adds.
I grin delightedly as they scarf down the rest of their bowls. I take some time to savor my own meal, feeling particularly pleased with myself.
“How long have you known Alvtir?” I ask when they begin to slow.
“Almost eight years,” Hetha says, ladling extra chunks of fish into Wisna’s bowl.
“And you’ve been in the hird that long as well?”
Wisna nods. “Neither of us could stand the thought of a husband,” she says between bites.
“Or of being away from each other,” Hetha chimes in, placing a hand on Wisna’s knee. With a rush of understanding, I remember observing their tenderness toward each other on the journey here. They really are only for each other.
“It’s not an easy way, but it’s our own,” Wisna says.
I can’t help but smile at the sentiment. “It sounds like a good life.”
“And you?” asks Hetha.
“Me?” I echo, confused.
She gives me a sly smile. “You and Ingmar are well matched. Perhaps in more ways than one.”
My cheeks grow warm, and I feel grateful for my dark skin.
“Oh, don’t pester the poor girl,” Wisna gruffs between bites.
“He’s just a friend,” I say quickly. I sit up straighter, trying to assume an air of maturity. “I…respect his zeal for battle.”
Neither of them looks convinced. I try to change the subject. “Has Alvtir ever…had a companion? In that way?”
A silent moment passes. “War is Alvtir’s only companion,” Wisna says finally. “At least, as far as we know.”
“You’re the first person to get past her guard,” Hetha adds.
A sudden nervousness writhes like a snake in the pit of my stomach. “What do you mean?” I ask, slightly defensive.
“She’s generous with us, and we know she cares, in her own way,” Wisna says. “But she’s never shared her home before. Not even with a thrall.”
“No wonder Ranveig is so jealous of you,” Hetha adds.
I frown. Ranveig—jealous of me? Two days ago, I was nothing but a maidservant. A lowly thrall. And now I’ve earned the jealousy of a shield maiden?
I choose my words carefully. “I don’t know why Alvtir would care about me any more than the women she’s fought beside for years.”
Hetha and Wisna take that in with amused expressions. “I do,” Hetha replies. A slight smile rests on her lips as though inscribed there, and I wonder if I’ll ever see her without it.
I’ve just slipped into bed when the door swings open. I sit up, meeting Alvtir’s stoic gaze. “How’d it go?” she asks nonchalantly, running a dirty hand through her dark hair. There are black smudges all over her clothes.
“Why aren’t there more of us?” I ask, ignoring her question. “Why aren’t there more women in the hird?”
She sighs and removes a worn pouch from her belt. “After I took on my last ward, Ranveig, my brother forbade me to recruit any more women.”
She tosses the pouch into my lap, then takes a seat on the bench across the hearth. I blink down at the pouch, uncomprehending.
“Balli didn’t want his hird filled with women on account of his feral sister,” she continues, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “He told me I was spoiling too many ripe young women. That their place was in the bedroom, not the battlefield. In truth, he was embarrassed.” Alvtir scoffs as she reaches for her pipe and starts packing it with herbs.
So that’s why she didn’t make me her ward until now. I’m almost grateful for the assassins—if they hadn’t tried to kill Freydis, I wouldn’t have had the chance to prove myself in front of the king.
I look down at the pouch and unwrap the cords of dyed sinew that hold the soft skins in place. A glimpse of iron emerges from within the folds.
I inhale sharply as Gu’s magic flows through me from the smooth, dark blade, filling me like a drinking horn. I raise the dagger tenderly and hold it up to the fire. The heavy antler hilt is carved into the outline of a wolf. There are no runes or inlays on the blade; just perfect precision. Tears threaten at the bottom of my eyes. The sheer quality of this forged blade is far more captivating than if it had some ornate design etched into the metal, like so many of the weapons and tools sold at the market.
Speechless, I lift my eyes to Alvtir’s. She takes a puff of her pipe, the corners of her lips twitching up at my reaction.
A storm of rage and confusion starts up inside me. “But…you didn’t have to abandon me.” The words spill out, words I’ve been holding back ever since Broskrap’s barn. “You didn’t have to leave me with that vile man. You didn’t have to make me a thrall at all. So why? Why do that to me? Was it some kind of sadistic test?”
Alvtir’s expression betrays nothing. She lets out a cloud of smoke and speaks slowly as it clears. “I do not take a ward lightly, Yafeu. When I led the raids, I fought under a code: I do not harm women or children. I saved you from that man in Anfa for one simple reason: because I could. And that was more than anyone else would have done. You were no one to me, just some foreign thrall girl. I sold you to a man I thought I could control—a man I believed wouldn’t harm you, at least not in the way that the man I killed would have. Again, that was more than another would have done. You were nothing to me, until I happened to see you take Broskrap’s life. That’s when I saw your true potential. Only then did I realize that Odin had led me to you in Anfa, just as he led me to that very pond so that I might witness your bravery and prowess. So I gave you to Freydis to keep you safe, to bide the time until I could think of a way to convince my brother to go back on his decree. But you are much more than I realized, even then. You are Úlfheðinn, a warrior inhabited by the spirit of the wolf, capable of feats no ordinary soldier can achieve. I am a berserker—a bear-warrior. Odin chose you, as he chose me, to triumph over our enemies and carry out his will.”
I find myself speechless again, reeling at her harsh candor.
Úlfheðinn. So that’s what that word means. Alvtir believes I am blessed by the highest of the Majūs’ gods…now. But before I had taken a life, I was nothing to her. I was nothing to any of them.
“If you’re as close with the gods as you think you are, you would treat all their creations with respect. Regardless of their use to you,” I retort.
“My gods don’t show such compassion to those they cannot use.” She takes a puff from the pipe and leans forward, resting her forearms on her knees as she blows out another cloud of smoke. “Before I made myself Odin’s vessel, I was nothing.”
“That’s no excuse.”
Alvtir only nods, gazing at the fire as if into another realm.
I want to tell her that she doesn’t have the right to say who chose me, or for what. I want to tell her that I don’t believe in her “Odin,” that I give thanks to Gu, Agé, and Mawu-Lisa for my gifts. But then Mama’s words bloom in my mind: The spirit of the painted wolf remains by your side. Remember to honor her, and she will guide you on your path.
It doesn’t matter what Alvtir or the others believe, then or now. What matters is that I am honoring the spirit of the wolf by finding my own way, as best as I can. That’s something my parents might agree on, for once.
“You’ve a dangerous path ahead,” Alvtir continues. “Every shield maiden had to prove that she was worth five hirdmen to gain half the respect of one. With Snorri in command, you’ll have to be worth ten.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I bite back, thinking of Snorri’s deception today, carefully designed to undermine that very respect. I consider telling Alvtir about it, but I’m sure she won’t spare any pity. She was the very first woman to join the hird—not just as a soldier, but as a leader of men.
I study her as she stares at the dying flames, and for the first time I notice the weariness in the lines of her face.
“Where did you make it?” I ask, motioning to the blade in my lap.
She cocks an eyebrow. “How do you know I made it?”
“You’re covered in soot.”
She looks down as if noticing her dirty clothes for the first time. “Ah, so I am.” She jerks her head toward the door. “Why don’t I show you?”
The cold air bites my cheeks as I follow her past the henhouse and into the forest, staying close to the small aura of light from her soapstone candle. The hounds paddle happily behind us, the sound of their pants chasing our footsteps in the darkness. We come to a shed and she kicks the door open.
I step inside, instantly recognizing the crunch of hammersmith flakes under my boots, the sharp scents of coal and slag. As my eyes adjust, I take in the tools hanging from the beams, the bellows pointing to a stone table covered with ash, the anvil beside it.
My heart swells to bursting.
A forge!
“This is yours?”
“Built it fifteen years ago,” Alvtir replies. “Angrboda was forged here by my own hand.” She unsheathes her sword and holds out the flawless blade for me to admire. The runes carved down the center almost glitter in the candlelight. “She was made from the gods’ own iron, sent down in a ball of fire from Asgard.”
Iron from the skies! “I knew I sensed Gu’s magic in the sword,” I murmur.
“Gu?”
“The god of iron,” I explain. “My people are blacksmiths. My ancestors learned the craft from Gu himself, and my father passed the sacred knowledge on to me.”
“You surprise me yet again, Yafeu.” She spreads her arms wide. “You can use the smithy whenever you please. I’ll buy some iron at the market.”
Elated, I look around the forge with a new sense of purpose. “You won’t be disappointed.”
She flashes a mischievous grin. The points of her teeth look strangely sharp in the candlelight. “I know.”