They had gathered in the mead-hall; for wood supplies were running low, and for the smithy there was too little charcoal to warm their bones; and for the thegn’s modest hall at the center of the palisades, too little firewood again. It was much too large for their meager stores.

They gathered in the mead-hall where they all could sit and huddle around a single hearth, and drink ale, to stay warm instead.

The ordinary, mundane folks of the town, the craftsmen and merchants and farmers, must have thought they would recognize everyone at this most dire of civil meetings, marked by hunger, and by that wretched, ubiquitous cold. They wore their shock in their faces then, when their “local” population included known criminals; níðingar; those who swindled and stole; those they thought had been exiled, or at least outlawed, long ago. And those men had the spines to show up here, now, in the village’s time of most urgent need?

Among them was Hrífa Rat-eater, so named in effigy by these people who had declared him unfit for their ways of life. He seemed agreeable in sitting at the far end of the hall, quite far from the flames—with the rest of the undesirables—where the sturdy warriors near the thegn and his radiant warmth would have shunned him. While a strange odor followed him about, and assailed the noses of those he sat beside, it was not egregiously unpleasant, rather like a vague, uneasy dread as compared to a true marrow-quaking fear.

None knew how he caught word that this news, this message, might be of relevance to him; nor what went through his big bony head to make him think that he would want to come hear it. He had come far from whatever cave or ditch he claimed for himself, somewhere surely far on the other side of the island, or long down the coast. Nevertheless, here he was, and his whispers were intended for no ears but his own. Few heard him and thus he seemed amicable; polite, even.

The others’ whispers, however, carrying spite and condescension on their belligerent airs, he often enough could hear very well. Old, fat housewives especially liked to feel important, like they were scrubbing the community clean, by sending their subtle jabs his way, driving him back as the rabid boar with wing-lugged spears. His was a contaminating presence indeed, especially as he squatted so near their daughters and rowdy sons; to one he was a threat and the other, a bad influence.

Or perhaps he could not hear them whatever. They relished that they evidently could spin the aspersions of their choosing, gossiping and slandering and besmirching, without consequence. If their husbands slapped them then they needed to wait for such moments as this before they let loose their inner pecking hens.

Hrífa stuck a small copper spoon in his ear, excavating wax as he watched the wooden throne at the other end of the mead-hall; though terribly rude, a Norseman still he was, and their hygiene bested all others in all the kingdoms. If the thegn, his huskarlar, his goðar, noticed the Rat-eater at all, they tried to pay him little mind, and by Hrífa’s eyes, largely succeeded. Perhaps as his own form of subtle insult—or perhaps he simply paid their mores and folkways no mind, even as he sat in their hall, after how callously they had cast him out—he moved for a tankard of beer, and filled a tall pewter mug for himself. If anyone objected they lacked the courage to express this disapproval; and once again, he paid their defamations no mind. He was not the first fugitive in Iceland nor the most depraved.

Excited didn’t even begin to describe her feelings. Overwhelmed perhaps…Jubilant, exuberant, a little sick to her stomach perhaps... Ásdís could barely contain herself, her constant shifting and wriggling on the bench she shared with others of her age or sex causing irritated glances to be thrown in her direction.

But what did Ásdís care? If the rumors were right then this was her chance!

Finally to prove herself, to be free of the shadows of her family and to, for once, stand on her own and show that she too was a warrior. Her honor and bravery were of equal measure to those in the community she so looked up to.

The fact that the opposite end of the hall was filled with miscreants and cripples was of little notice to Ásdís. The darting looks into the shadows at the back were missed by the youngest Bright Eye, too fixated was she on the group of important warriors bantering near the hearth.

Her future was right there. She could smell it. Taste it. Eagerly she leaned forward. What were they saying? Furtively Ásdís looked about her father, surely he was here? It was too important a meeting to miss.

He stood resting against the far wall, his typical thoughtful expression replaced with something between dislike and disbelief. The winter had been a hard one, it was true. It was true all the more that the strong hands and arms were needed to ensure the survival of their people… But this? Sending untrained, untested whelps, and the leftovers? Cast offs?

How could this be right?

Ásdís smiled as her father looked her way. She would make him proud.

And that was the worst of it. His youngest, off to seek her fortune and make her mark on the world with a bunch of fledglings and criminals. Adlif could barely contain his contempt for it all, crossing his arms over his massive chest and staring at the group of men bickering at the center of it all.

If he could he would have kept her away, but Ásdís had her mind to this folly and there was naught Adlif could do or say to make her budge. At her core his daughter had iron. A fact that typically made a father proud, today he was silently cursing their lot.

The chieftain was not a particularly powerful man except by the measure of this peasants and freemen; though a þegn, most of his lands were empty, with few inhabitants paying few taxes. Maybe this was the root cause of his ostentatious nature; for he wore the best clothes he could, in the finest green dyes afforded from faraway lands; and he sat in the nearest thing they had to a throne, a tall wooden chair, cushioned in stuffed linen, carved at its facets with runes and snaking dragons. When he had quaffed the very last of his beer, of which the village possessed a startling abundance, he turned the cup over, and smacked its lip repeatedly into the table, pretending at being a sort of gavel.

He was tall and burly, as befitting this people; he was measured the strongest warrior in the tribe, and one of the wiser. His wavy grey hair, stained by the last few flecks of black which in his youth had filled his mane, draped luxuriously like ivy off these hulking shoulders. And in his acrid green eyes, he peered across his room of subjects, waiting patiently, if with a certain smoldering angst.

Typically Ásdís could care less how long the elders took to come to a decision. Typically she would be chatting away with her friends and companions, laughing and joking just as loudly as the rest, betting and needling and ultimately having a good time. Typically such things were of no consequence to Ásdís and so it did not matter if the chieftain was swift with his proclamations or as slow and dragging as the oldest mule in the soggiest pasture.

Today was not typical and as soon as Fjalfar set his cup down Ásdís was leaning forward, her eyes keen, her lips pressed together tightly as a thrilling fear swept through her body. He would announce his reason for bringing them here. The Chieftain would speak and finally Ásdís would know her place.

Her eagerness to hear was not shared. Women, mothers and the likes, in the back bickered and bantered more, what did they care if it took a few more minutes for Fjalfar to be heard? And men also laughed and drank, oblivious to Ásdís’ plight. Only the young like herself were completely silent.

In what seemed to be hours but could only be seconds the room came to some semblance of quiet. Quivering Ásdís glanced to her father before feeling her eyes whipping to Fjalfar. Why did her father look so grim? Shouldn’t he be as expectant as she?

This thought was quickly forgotten as the Chieftain finally opened his mouth to speak.

As he stood, suddenly Fjalfar towered over his wife who sat beside him, a fragile little thing with a face much too kind and homely; not at all matching the ferocity of the man who had deflowered and claimed her as his own. And on the other side, the chieftain loomed too over the huskarl, his bodyguard, who propped between his knees a massive axe on a handle nearly as tall as he. Underneath his peaked helmet they could see only the soldier’s wispy black beard dangling from his chin; they knew it was Úða, but they could not see his short jet hair, nor his eyes which seemed infinitely deep in their darkness like a malevolent nighttime sea.

Fjalfar’s eyes like a predator’s scanned the crowd in vain for those rebels, those irreverent toads, who dared defy his authority, and on such a drastic day. If authority alone did not quell them, he thought, then sheer power must; he shall scream til his voice has inundated theirs and drowned them!

“The ship’s hull has been scrubbed of barnacles,” he roared, “and its deck flooded of rats. It has been painted anew, and given a new sail, free of holes and patches.”

He had pressed his hand, weighed down with silver rings, augustly to his breast. Only if the crowds’ volume subsided did his in turn.

“She’s as fine a ship as we ever have seen in this place! But now she needs a crew, equally fine, to sail her.”

At this announcement arrived a scoffing laughter from the rear of the crowd; issued forth by someone obscured from view, who this false invisibility bequeathed too great a confidence. Fjalfar positively scowled, flashing his age-yellowed teeth, fury forming in his brow and the corners of his thick lips.

“It is true that our greatest warriors shall not embark in this week,” he growled. “It is true that some of the men in this room are—disgraced.” He had paused, choosing the word diplomatically. “But among them shall be our own kin, our own blood and honor! Do not be so quick to besmirch the entire crew, for the sake of the few whose names you find ‘unsavory.’ And further, when this ship embarks, no longer shall they be criminals and children, witches and traitors; no, they will be our salvation, and warriors, united all under a single sail. So I say again: do not meddle lightly with their honor, which may yet be restored, so that you’re rendered a talkative fool!”

Adlif knew the avid look on his daughter's face, knew the hungry stare and the narrowing of her eyes. She was drawn in, captured, by their Chieftain. Bitterly Adlif acknowledged that Fjalfar was a master of the word. He could rouse even the dullest of crowds, and this collection of youth and honorless men were keen for the opportunities this ship, this task, afforded them. They ate up Fjalfar’s words and waited on bated breath for more.

His daughter was easily entrapped by their brave leader’s words. She wanted to prove herself so badly, it was clear. Adlif wondered if he had done Ásdís a disservice by keeping her so sheltered all her life. Had he forced her hand now? If only he had let her try as her siblings had, perhaps now she would not be so willing to plunge head first into this foolish mission.

These thoughts were atypical for Adlif and he frowned all the more for them. His life had been so straightforward until now...It was not like the warrior to question their chief, or even more so his daughter.

Ásdís was completely unaware of her father’s struggles. Her eyes shone and her cheeks flushed with excitement. This adventure was the start for her, her way to stand alone on her own two feet and show the world she was more than just the youngest Bright Eye, more than mediocre, to stand in the spotlight and not share a speck of it with her brothers or sisters. The glory, the riches, the titles… It would all be hers.

Visions of the raiding parties she would lead blinded her to the looks of incredulity and mockery of Fjalfar’s finest warriors. Had she only brought her head out of the clouds perhaps Ásdís would have known...Would have noticed that these tried and true men did not think this a worthy cause. Perhaps then she might use her brain and wonder why it was that no one but herself had faith in this mission.

Alas, as one in the heat of passion is likely to do, she saw only the shining future for all she hoped it to be, rather than the dark and decidedly ignoble path it promised.

Fjalfar heard the minute mumblings, and to a degree had expected them. He let his eyes, like spring saplings shooting up from the melting snow, roll up toward the ceiling, the noises wearing on his patience which always was so threadbare. Of course, he had not gained a reputation as a ferocious raider just for calm, collected airs; for mercy and patience!

“The prevailing argument amongst you hushed whisperers—who once again, I see, lack the courage to come up here and say these things to my face, for all to behold—is that we should send our best soldiers, our seasoned víkingar! But now I ask you of cowardly whispers: should the winter thaw, who then will till and tend our fields, while our young, strong men are in Bretwalda or Frankia? Who shall push the plow and tame the aurochs? That’s right: the very people who you have set out to decry today. Whatever fate the nornir have spun for us, they have called for us to place our faith in these, the forsaken of our people.”

Ásdís was taken aback by those words. Forsaken? She was not forsaken! Surely she was untested...It was true...But only because no one had deemed her worthy of testing. That was purely a miscalculation on THEIR part, not hers!

Looking about she finally realized that many felt the same way as their Chieftain: that this was a gamble. Feeling her cheeks flush with displeasure Ásdís had the misfortune to look in the direction of her father and see the same discontented look in his features.

Even he did not think she would succeed!

Ásdís was spared the opportunity to speak out against the naysayers as a mother in the back finally cried out “And what of our children!? Who will tend to the fields if they do not return?” Many around the woman, more mothers, nodded in agreement.

Fjalfar searched the crowd desperately for this outburst. As the whispers and mumbles around her grow bolder, they worked to obfuscate her voice; but he saw her, and he smiled. Amidst his sharp and manly features the warmth of his smiling cheeks could strike some off balance.

“’Who,’ indeed,” he murmured, quietly enough that he may have said it only to himself. “Yet no matter who we send, we may find salvation or doom. Only the gods can know. I am blind to the ways of fate, and so I must throw my lot, and make my gamble. I will pray; I will make my sacrifices to Óðinn; and then I will send them forth.”

He knew she was right, even if she wasn’t; that wary old mother, who cared far too much for the welfare of her child (as all mothers ought). But so was he. It was a risk, but so was sending the raiders, or sending no one whatever. When night set upon this story, only the valkyries could judge his soul’s worth; only the nornir could say whether his choice was wise.

Abruptly, through the tumultuous resistance of the mead-hall’s naysayers, his hand lashed viper-like from his bosom. “Rise up, heroes! I want to see who among you seek the glories of other lands.”

Just as Ásdís was wondering if the old woman had been right, was she abandoning her people to seek glory only for herself? Was she ultimately being selfish and a coward by not staying and helping…? Fjalfar’s words had her instantly on her feet.

She wanted to be a hero so badly, to be more than just Ásdís , to be more than just a small girl in a family with many girls. Was that so wrong?

The grim look of determination in Ásdís’ eyes made Adlif feel some relief. Ásdís was clever enough, bold enough. She’d fare well...She’d survive surely and bring honor to her own name. And then the wandering and the wondering would end and his last child would know her place in the world.

This might be a fool's mission but that did not mean Ásdís could not find her way. Uncomfortably Adlif nodded in acquiescence to his daughter's wishes, trying to find pride for this choice but finding only misgivings.

Uneasily Adlif watched as his daughter strode up to the gaggle of youth and the likes forming around Fjalfar, she was smaller than many, her shoulders and hips narrower, her arms slender in her plain wool dress. Immediately Adlif had the urge to rush forward, to grab Ásdís by the neck and haul her back home. She was too rash! Too young! Too small! She couldn’t do this.

Grappling with his own insecurities Adlif stood unmoving, braced against the wall.

Be reasonable… He told himself. Ásdís was not the youngest nor the smallest. She was a woman grown really, she was no fool. Surely she was over zealous at times and passion gripped her tightly, but his daughter was capable of more than just wandering around the pastures, chatting with the swine…

Ásdís herself had none of these worries or doubts. Their great leader asked for heros and she had stepped forward, pride bursting from every pore of her.

Too far away to properly hear the chieftain—though it was something vaguely related to ships and sailing, Hrífa knew—he squinted, as if his hearing and his vision were somehow symbiotic; he leaned back and forth in his seat, trying to look past all the bare heads and skullcaps and bonnets, too. He decided he needed to get closer, and as he stood, he was the second person to do so, after a particular spunky farm-girl. But as there came a third, a fourth, a tenth, and beyond, it struck Hrífa as just mildly odd.

I suppose the chieftain needs to speak louder, he thought; look at how many people couldn’t hear his speech! Even a few from the front!

The chatter of the crowd did not grant the chieftain any boons in that regard, naturally.

Hrífa was going to slip along the wall and catch the chieftain’s words from a sideline vantage, but as these children and ne’er-do-wells gathered in the center of the mead-hall, near the hearth, he realized he probably ought to fit in. Further, he feared the hound-like bloodthirst of that huskarl, who would suspect him perhaps of trying to get too close.

As he joined the crowd he pushed along its side, hoping to be close enough, or else getting up at all was a damned waste, he knew. By happenstance Ásdís acknowledged his presence before he hers, and without having to turn around…

Ásdís initially pleased to have been the first to stand and join the chieftain was now slightly vexed by the press of bodies around her, easing back she found more space and glanced around. A tall man was near her. She didn’t recognize him immediately and wondered how that could be, their tribe was not so large as to not know one another, at least by sight.

These thoughts did not trouble Ásdís much and she smiled excitedly up at the fellow who, since he was in the queue to join the ship, would be her fellow shipmate.

“I am going to make a great warrior!” She proclaimed breathlessly, cheeks hot with a flush and eyes wide. Feeling generous in the moment she added “You will too.” and clapped the man, her brother in arms, on the arm.

Hrífa needed a moment to realize the girl was talking to him; he’d seen her face, pretty and just slightly plump, in his sharp peripherals, and as he turned to face her, he blinked. It took much too long to blink, as he squinted his eyes and pried them open again in jagged motions, as if coercing them from his own body.

“That’s nice!” said the Rat-eater, and she sensed no sarcasm in his enthusiastic reply; nor did he intend any. “Is that what the crowd is about?” He tried to gesture sweepingly around him but found he lacked the room. He only ended up bumping someone in the back, which thankfully this person appeared not to notice; for indeed, they were smashing themselves all up toward the throne like a longship dashed on the rocks jutting from the sea.

Ásdís gaped at the man for a moment before a jubilant laugh escaped her. Too loud and too harsh, neighbors turned to glare at the noise but quickly turned away. How could he not know what he was signing up for!?

Grinning at the silliness of it all Ásdís ignored the press of bodies forcing her closer and closer to her companions. On the ship they’d be this close anyway; quarters would be tight.

“Of course that is what we are lining up for!” She piped eagerly. “Honor! Bravery! A chance to win our names and shields…” She had a dreamy look in those bright round eyes, as if being strapped into a wooden death trap was the finest thing she could ever dream.

Adlif had lost track of his daughter for a moment, only a moment. But when he found her again she was socializing with the seiðmann of all people! The damnable girl was too friendly, too trusting! Had she no brain? No wits?

“Ásdís!” He shouted above the den, determined to tell her that no daughter of his would consort with a witch. But the dozy redhead was animatedly gesticulating to her companion, pushed closer and closer to the man as the crowd around her compressed. Of her father’s cries she heard naught.

“Isn’t it glorious?” She wanted to know, beaming up at her companion. “I’ve never left home before…” The smallest frowns curved her lips as a knot of worry gripped Ásdís tightly. But just was quickly as it came it was gone, replaced with good natured enthusiasm. “Have you?”

“Once or twice,” the Rat-eater said. “There are lots of trees and rocks.” He appeared sincerely convinced that this detailed description would be of value to her.

He was peering over his shoulder now; if he was not already so drained of his colorful humors, he would have been seen to pale in his epiphany. He had realized, at last, that as he stood, in his current predicament, he was volunteering to become a raider, and to earn oníðingr status through blood, steel, and the salt of the crooning sea. Strangely this prospect did not excite him much—mayhap he had acclimated to hermeticism, and in fact had grown quite fond of all the privacy and silence he commanded all for himself—but as he tried to push back through the crowd, he found that he could not.

“Oh—oh, dear.”

The people behind him prevented his escape. Like a finger-trap toy, he could enter but not leave, not without great struggle. And suddenly it was already too late to leave, for Fjalfar had thrown out his arms in a great embrace for all his saviors.

“Today the ship is packed and loaded. Tomorrow she raises her sail, and embarks for the kingdom of the Franks!”

Probably too few people cheered, clapped, and otherwise celebrated for Ásdís’ tastes; for Hrífa it was far too many. The cruel reality had struck him that he just made an oath, and to break it might earn him a proper outlawry, ousted from his little home in the woods, driven away from all his animal friends! As most of the crowds left, the heroes were ordered to stay, and meet their new captain.

“Well, I was good with a spear once,” Hrífa said to his new friend. His smile was not very assuring, but he clearly seemed eager to take his situation in stride.

Adlif shifted uncomfortably on his feet as the rest of the people started filtering out of the mead-house. It was expected he would as well. If he stayed and warned Ásdís off her current companion the contrary creature was likely to disobey him purely to prove she could.

If he left, and let her learn on her own the erroneous nature of her choices…

But it was not in her father to just let his child walk alongside unsavory characters such as the witch… The crowds pulled and pushed until Adlif gave in and went with the tides of people training out of the hall. His daughter would not leave today. He still had time to tell her.

Blissfully oblivious to her companion’s distress Ásdís was glad the bystanders would be leaving. She could meet their captain and make a good impression, show him she’d be a strong arm given the proper tutelage.

It did strike her as odd that the tall man was ONCE good with a spear but considered himself no longer able… For the first time she really looked at the man. He was tall to be sure, but of a more lanky set than most men she knew. His clothes sat oddly on his frame and while Ásdís wouldn’t think them dirty, neither would she think them clean. She hadn’t seen him limping but then she hadn’t seen his approach...Perhaps he was one of the ill or crippled joining the crew?

“If you were once handy then you shall be again!” She proclaimed assuredly. “I am Ásdís Bright Eyes. I will help you regain your renown with the spear…” Her eyes narrowed in wicked humor “And you will help me distinguish between the rocks and the trees…” Her confidence while misguided was apparent, and while she barely could handle a spear with any particular effect Ásdís felt no fear of the unknown. At least not at this very moment. Perhaps a foolish trait for a girl barely into womanhood to have, but then Ásdís had never been considered particularly wise.

“All right. Looks like it’s time to go,” said the man, looking around as the people diffused away. He did not need her approval or her permission; he started walking to the exit even before she noticed and tried to catch up.

“Wait!” she said. “Didn’t you hear him? We’re supposed to stay, and—!”

Hrífa had swiveled on his heels, scanning the room once more. He shrugged. “I reckon we’ll get more than enough of him once we’re on a boat with him. Right?”

And so he appeared to vanish; of course. Because Ásdís fancied herself a good girl, now a loyal and obedient soldier, she knew she had to stay, whether she wanted to or not. Yet eagerness nonetheless continued to imbue her actions. So she stayed, and Hrífa was gone behind the doors of the mead-hall.

Outside there were parents waiting, women armed with hugs and kisses and men with their shirts of mail, their helmets polished to a mirror sheen. If they were wealthier men they offered their adventurous relatives swords, seaxes, and good axes; if poor, these children and undesirables could only afford to take their wood axes, their sickles, and their pitchforks.

Inside, meanwhile, the last man in the mead-hall who was not plagued by níþ or by old festered wounds had stayed behind, leaning cockily against the throne still warm with Fjalfar’s scent. Tall, strong, and beautifully blond, with his hair and beard done up in elaborate death-braids, he was Hralding, their new ship-captain.

Ásdís watched as the tall man disappeared, he hadn’t even introduced himself, in disbelief. Where could he want to be that was more important than being here? Now? This hall, meeting the captain. This was her destiny surely! She’d meet it head on.

Turning to see the captain she recognized him immediately. Of course Ásdís had never had reason to approach Hralding, let alone speak to him, but he was easily identifiable. Tall, broad, fair, ice in his veins or so she had heard the other warriors say. He was an accomplished man and Ásdís found herself lingering at the back of the pack, watchful as Hralding considered his new crew.

Was he amused by the lot? Angered? Hopeful? Ásdís could not tell, his expression too guarded and hidden from view for her to guess at his thoughts. Surely this was no small task to be under taking, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t excited by it all.

Ice blue eyes fell over her and Ásdís could feel a blush covering her cheeks, green eyes meeting the icy stare of their leader for a moment longer than they ought to have before she dropped her gaze to the ground. Her stomach fluttered nervously and the redhead frowned. She was a warrior! Not some fickle maiden turned to puddles by some man’s gaze.

Straightening her back Ásdís told herself firmly to look up, chin up. She belonged here.

Out beyond the hall Adlif was making his way slowly back to the farm, weary with the days events, with the knowledge that his daughter would be leaving at first light. His gaze was fixed on the path before him when the tone of the villagers behind him changed. Murmurs and whispers took on an accusatory tone.

Adlif turned to see what had changed his peers and saw the witch shuffling out of the mead hall. The coward was not even staying to meet the captain. Ásdís’ father straightened, and turned to intercept the witch.

“What were you doing with Ásdís?” He wanted to know, his tone sharp and displeased.

"I'm afraid we won't have much time to whip you lots into fighting shape," Hralding said. Though he wore a stiff, bitter countenance, his voice bounced about with playful inflections. As he walked he seemed to lack a destination, loosely circling what remained of the mead-hall's congregation. "Which of you have fought before?"

Of course he expected the worst: of those who could fight in a proper shieldwall, all were cowards and liars who could not be trusted to use their abilities in disciplined command. Nay, his crew was filled with those who had the talents but lacked the goodwill, and vice-versa: those eager to serve, obey, sweat, and bleed, but who would fall like sickled rye at the blade of the first decent warrior they met over there. Still, Hralding kept any pessimism to himself, for he had been given a task and it was not in his style to fail those who depended on him. He nodded with hesitant approval at any raised hands.

"And you all know why you're here," he continued. "I'll tell you forthright: I don't care if it's for the community, for treasure, or for your own fractured ego. So long as we agree that we are now a team, and I'm the leader of this team, all of you are welcome here. Whatever you fight for, fight obediently and we shall have no quarrel."

---

---

As he walked, Hrífa gnawed his fingernails against each other, trimming them down without need for a knife or a scissor. He worried only as to what he would do when he had one long, sharp nail remaining, with no others to cut it. It had not snowed in some time, so what snow laid on the ground was much trampled down into hard, dirty roads leading through the village. As Adlif stopped him Hrífa turned antsy, feeling this dirt seeping through his shoes and into his woolen socks.

"Eh? Who?" He jogged his memory. "Oh; the girl! We spoke about trees."

Acutely aware of Hralding circling the group Ásdís made an extra effort to stand up straight, her shoulders back, assuming what she could only hope was a look of self-assuredly calm and readiness at what was to come. In reality the way her green eyes flickered to Hralding belied her inability to look away and eagerness to please him.

Yes she would be a warrior for the personal glory, and yes she was joining to help their tribe, but now she had a mighty leader who she would fight for diligently. She would never give him reason to quarrel with Ásdís. She’ d make herself, her family, her tribe and her mighty leader proud.

Any doubts Ásdís might have had previously evaporated at the stirring in her heart Hralding caused. Surely this was the loyalty and preeminence she heard the older warriors speak of? What it was to truly be a Viking?

Adlif frowned deeply, the lines and crinkles of his face becoming stone at the witch’s dismissive tone. Did he think Adlif would believe such a falsehood?

“Trees…” He repeated as if the witch might reconsider his story and choose the honorable truth rather than these womanly deceits.

“Whatever it was you spoke of…You will leave Ásdís alone.” There was no doubt in her father’s voice, the threat there not even thinly veiled. He leaned closer to the witch. While they were a similar height, Adlif was by far broader. “She is a good girl and you are not to corrupt her with your…your devious ways.” The larger man loomed over the witch for a moment longer then straightened his shoulders. If the witch was truly a coward as rumor had it then this warning should be enough to keep his daughter out of harm’s way.