"Civilizations may rise and fall, but the enduring legacy of a sword is the indomitable spirit it instills in those who wield it."

  - Xenophon of Athens, "The Sword and the Soul: Musings on the Art of Combat"

  The manor was far larger than any building Aina had ever seen before. It housed all of the Jarl’s family plus their closest advisors, important guests - of which she was inexplicably considered a part of - and servants, which was a mix of thralls and townspeople. Most of the lower staff didn’t actually stay in the manor, which made sense to Aina. Behind the manor was the true heart of the Jarl’s compound: A barracks for the House Guard, cooking sheds, storage buildings, stables, barns, and a small forge were arrayed to support House Hofstad.

  Aina passed a few outbuildings and an archery range - currently unused - and followed the sounds of clashing metal and shouts from the far back corner of the property, where there were few buildings except the town wall a few hundred paces back. The sounds of wood clashing and shouts of encouragement from a group of burly men gathered in a half-circle. Aina wasn’t tall enough to see past them, so she walked around the circle until she reached the end of the line. A circle of dirt and ice, shoveled clear and stomped flat, formed a fighting floor where two men were swinging thick branches as if they were swords, or maybe axes; she wasn’t entirely sure.

  The practice sticks were being blocked by large shields that Aina doubted she could even lift for more than a few minutes, let alone fight with. The pair went back and forth, bashing at each other in a way that made Aina fairly sure the sticks were either axes or maces. She wasn’t entirely sure, however, because she wasn’t exactly trained in sword fighting either. The men around the circle were shouting and jeering, alternating between rooting for one or taunting the other. Aina couldn’t make sense of who was cheering for who. She spotted Runolf in the middle of the warriors around the ring. He nodded and signed, albeit crudely, “Hello.”

  “Hello,” she said back.

  A scant minute later, one of the men stumbled back. Aina wasn’t sure how he’d lost his footing - there was plenty of ice patches and loose stones, but he could have just as easily misplaced a foot and tripped himself. His opponent ruthlessly jumped at the opportunity, and tapped him lightly on the head with the wooden stick. Cheers and boos alike signaled the end of the fight, and the victor helped the loser to his feet, and they both rejoined the circle.

  Runolf stepped out. “Well done, lads. Hrok, what do I keep telling you?”

  “Mind your footing,” said the loser almost sullenly. He took off his wool cap and scratched the back of his head, which made Aina realize Hrok wasn’t much older than she was - gangly and young under the thick leather jerkin and heavy winter clothes.

  “Broddi, reckon if you’re that ruthless in the yards, I ain’t got much to share with you on that fight. Keep it up.”

  The winner nodded to Runolf in acknowledgement of the praise.

  Runolf continued. “Lads, we’ve got a new person to train with us a bit. Aina there got rescued by the Stormlord on the road. Sven, you know enough Hunter Speak to translate?”

  “Enough,” said a thin man with a long mustache and hairline that had receded much too far for someone his age.

  “Great. Well, Aina here is mute but not deaf. So Sven will translate.”

  Aina was uncomfortable with the curious stares aimed her way. “Hello everyone.”

  “Aina here is a hunter from the villages. She’s got her second Forging.”

  The curious looks sharpened with a note of respect, a look Aina hadn’t received before. Her fellow villagers had written her off as strange long before her first Forging, and she’d never felt the need to share her second with them.

  “So, Aina, as a hunter, you ain’t been much on training to fight, have you?”

  “Just assholes who wouldn’t leave me alone,” she said, and the warriors laughed.

  Runolf smiled and said, “Care to show what you can do with those seaxes on your belt?”

  Aina frowned. Were they just trying to mock her? Was she to be the butt of their jokes? The laughter seemed friendly enough, and no one was glaring at her. She mentally shrugged and stepped out onto the fighting circle.

  “Do you want to try a shield?” asked Runolf.

  Aina shook her head. The shields were heavy and would be unwieldy. Her Motion Forging helped with agility and movement, and she’d be sacrificing all of that for scant protection she had no idea how to use for her benefit. Instead, she drew both seaxes.

  “Here,” said Sven with a laugh. “No one wants to lose an eye here.”

  He tossed her two sticks roughly the length of her blades. The men laughed and Aina glanced at them suspiciously. They were definitely laughing at her this time. She sheathed her blades and picked up the rough branches. They were surprisingly similar in weight - at least close enough for sparring purposes.

  Runolf didn’t call on any of his men. Instead, he picked up a similarly sized stick to the two she carried. “Alright, kid, let’s see what you’ve got. Broddi, call injuries.”

  Aina and Runolf circled each other. Her heart beat wildly, for she’d never fought a real warrior before. Runolf charged at her, a powerful blow jabbed straight at her chest. With the preternatural grace of her first Forging, Aina slipped to the side with ease, and swung her left stick at his extended arm.

  Runolf was too canny for that, and grabbed for her arm even as he retracted the jab. Aina was forced to jerk away to avoid being snatched, for if he managed to pin her down, she’d lose her only advantage in the fight. She spun away before darting back in. Runolf stepped back and kicked out at her.

  Aina took the blow, but rolled back with it and flipped her feet up in a back handspring that was so close that Runolf almost took a blow to the chin. Aina came up and threw her right ‘seax’ at him. Runolf batted it out of the air with ease and charged forward with a renewed attack. He alternated between powerful swings and lightning-fast jabs, weaving into each other into a solid offense that Aina couldn’t begin to counter.

  Instead, Aina relied heavily on her Forging. She dove and rolled, spun and jumped. Twice she had to resort to dangerous acrobatics to avoid final blows. Her heart raced and her world shrank in until it was just her and Runolf. He was better than her, and it wasn’t even close. She was going to lose if she didn’t find an opening soon, but Runolf left no flaws to exploit that she could see. How could someone with no Forgings at all be so good at fighting? Then, in a desperate bid to end the fight, she turned a dodge into a forward somersault that brought her up inside of Runolf’s guard blade first.

  The stick tapped against Runolf’s side. Broddi called out “Injury for Runolf. Defeat for Aina.”

  Aina was about to protest, when she felt Runolf’s sparring stick tap against her neck. In her bid for a win, the adrenaline had won out and she’d not felt the ‘fatal’ strike. All around her, she heard the men murmuring things like “Motion Forging” and “look how she moves!”

  Runolf stepped back. “Well done, Aina. That was a great demonstration of what folks with a Motion Forging can do. You need to work on redirecting enemy strikes and making them pay for trying to get you.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  Aina stepped out of the circle, tired from all the acrobatics. She was still a bit weak from her illness, but the food and sleep had worked wonders. She got some respectful nods from the warriors around her, and they parted to allow her into line next to Sven, rather than return to the end.

  Runolf worked his way through each of his men as they paired off, giving pointers and scolding when they repeated mistakes he’d corrected before. Around midday, a servant came out with a basket full of bread, which was passed around. Aina got a large loaf all to herself, and managed to eat most of it.

  “That’s a hell of an appetite, girl,” said one of the warriors.

  “I don’t see anything left of your bread,” she retorted as she tucked the crust into a pocket.

  She earned a few chuckles at that. The first fighter from the morning, Hrok, added “She sure told you, Bjorn.”

  After lunch, Runolf rounded them up to go haul timber from a warehouse to the barn. The archmage had apparently ordered the barn be repaired and put in good order for his villagers. The men of the village were hard at work cutting and shaping the wood into planks and beams, but every available hand was needed. Aina attempted to jump in and help, but she was a head too short and not nearly strong enough to help with the largest timbers. Instead, she was given the smaller branches that could be made into staves, battens or any number of thinner wood pieces.

  Despite this concession, Aina was soon running out of energy. Her endurance had taken a major hit with her illness and long exposure to the cold. She stubbornly shouldered small logs and trimmed branches and shuffled along with the much larger, healthier men in Runolf’s throng. By the end of the afternoon, Aina was completely wiped out.

  Runolf gave her a respectful nod after the day’s labor was complete, and Aina hobbled back to her bed. Thankfully, Granny had spotted her tired condition and brought her some stew and bread to her room.

  “They run you right ragged, they did,” said Granny cheerfully. “You get yourself filled up, and I’ll bring in a bowl of water so you can clean yourself up. I reckon if I put you in a tub right now, you’re sure to fall asleep and drown yourself.”

  “I’m fine,” protested Aina, but a big yawn stole over her and put lie to her words.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Sure you are, honey,” said Granny as she patted Aina’s arm.

  Later, the soft bed and warm blankets soothed her to sleep in scant moments. It wasn’t until the next morning that Aina realized she’d accidentally left her seaxes on the chair rather than under her pillow. She panicked for a brief second before it occurred to her that she already had them back in hand and that she was safe.

  A hearty breakfast later, she was back in the training circle with Runolf and his men. Aina’s muscles screamed in protest, and her every movement was stiff. When Runolf called to her, she gamely made her way forward, but instead he left the other men to pair off and spar, and taught her how to stretch out sore muscles.

  “You got some grit, kid, an’ I respect that. You’ll get better, especially if you push yourself like you did yesterday. You gotta stretch though, or you might injure yourself. My uncle taught me. Here, do this.”

  Runolf demonstrated, and Aina followed. After the series of movements, Aina’s muscles did protest less, and she did feel a bit better. That was, until after lunch they were asked by the Stormlord’s steward, Viggo, to go gather milled stones from the mason’s yard. This time they had a wagon with a team of horses and a drover. Aina did her best, carrying the smaller stones, but her muscles screamed at her for the hard work.

  There was a camaraderie amongst the soldiers that was stronger than Aina had witnessed amongst the hunters, and one that, to her surprise, Aina was being welcomed into. The hunters had been a tight knit group because they’d always known each other. These varingjar, however, had bled together and trusted each other with their lives. They were rough and crude, but not mean. Aina’s willingness to work had obviously left a positive impression on them, just as their openness to her despite her gender had endeared them to her.

  To Aina’s surprise, she was less exhausted that evening, and sat with Runolf’s men in the Jarl’s grand hall. Aina had never seen such an impressive room. The walls were decorated with large furs and trophies - spears and shields from past raids and wars, old swords, skulls of ferocious monsters, and even the hide of a selkie. There were huge wooden pillars paired up down the center of the room. Between them three huge two-sided hearths stood, with stone chimneys above them to channel the smoke out of the room. Large tables formed a rough circle, with benches only on the outside. This left the inner circle to the servants and the hearthfires. At the head of the room was the Jarl’s table, and it was taller with proper chairs covered in furs and pillows rather than a bench.

  Back behind the tables were another row of benches against the walls, although these had furs on them to hide the bags and crates under them. The servants without households of their own and the many thralls owned by the Jarl slept on the floor in here at night, and their meager possessions were tucked away from view under the benches through the day.

  Aina’s table was in the middle of the room, and she was seated the furthest from the hearth. The Stormlord greeted her warmly as he went by, and made a few polite inquiries to her before moving on. She watched as he stopped and spoke to several people - a few she recognized as part of the Jarl’s household, others looked like regular peasants like her. Some of them were servants, others House Guards. The serving women seemed thoroughly charmed, but despite the rumors she’d heard, he didn’t seem like he was deliberately trying to entice any of them for companionship. Rather, he was respectful and polite, and took his seat at the table next to the Jarl’s, in between Viggo and Runolf before striking up a conversation with Lady Solveig.

  Dinner was a raucous affair, a chaotic event that left Aina enthralled. A stew made up of jerked meat and root vegetables was the main course, along with bread lathered in fresh butter, pickled carrots, and wheat mash. Tall drinking horns of ale were poured out liberally, and they were far stronger than the small beers that Aina was accustomed to. She ate heavily but drank sparingly as she watched the evening unfold around her.

  Three skalds were brought in first. One played a lyre with a bow, which gave a deep, yearning sound, while another played a horn flute that was bright and cheerful. The third had several small drums that he accompanied the other two with. They took turns singing songs to the cheers of their audience. In between songs they’d tell stories or ribald jokes.

  As she watched the performances, Aina listened as the men talked about their wives and sweethearts, their family, and sometimes even their children. What was obvious was their choice to not discuss the growing gnoll threat. In the last two days, she’d heard the whispers from the warriors and the frightened looks in the eyes of the Stormlord’s villagers. They’d seen and fought the gnolls twice before ever arriving in Buverik. Now the rumors spreading around said that the town militia had been spotting gnoll scouts in the distance.

  But the real thrill of the evening was the sense of camaraderie in the hall. There was a clear divide in the room between the Jarl’s household and retainers and the Stormlord’s much smaller retinue, but it wasn’t a hostile one. Rather, it was friendly and mildly competitive. Barbs were light-hearted and taunts more amusing than enraging. The usual braggadocio of young warriors was more often met with laughter than annoyance, and the ale flowed.

  For once in her life, Aina was welcomed into it all. While she couldn’t contribute much to the conversation, the men she was seated with didn’t exclude her either. When her plate began to empty, one of the men flagged down a servant. Another made sure her ale was kept full, even though she was barely sipping at it.

  Underneath the layers of ribaldry and loud talk, warm food and smooth drink, was the twin feelings of dread towards the seemingly inevitable fight with the gnolls and the strange energy that excited everyone around her as the winter solstice approached. The Jarl, it appeared, liked to have a large feast on the solstice - and she’d never been to a proper feast.

  Later that night, after she’d retreated to her room, her heart warmed by a feeling of acceptance - even if she knew it was fleeting, and she’d be expected to do peasant work any moment - she let herself think how this could be nice.

  The Stormlord stayed sequestered away in his quarters for the next few days, and rumors went around the training yard that he was working some powerful magic. Rather than be frightened by it, however, the varingjar seemed proud that their new master was an archmage doing mysterious and ineffable things.

  For Aina, that same time period was a blur. The brisk exercise and copious amounts of food, along with the comforts of being able to sleep well worked wonders on her health. She felt stronger each day and she almost couldn’t see her own ribs when she took a bath. The only thing that still bothered her was the new skin on her chin was overly sensitive to cold now that the frostbite had been healed away. Granny gave her a green cloth that she tied across her face like a bandana to block the wind. Aina found she liked the extra warmth and the fact that her face was now hidden. It suited her desire to go unnoticed and unrecognized.

  On the fourth day, there was nothing to haul for the villagers. So Runolf put Aina and Sven on the spot, and had her begin teaching the varingjar Hunter Speak. She was shocked at first, and embarrassed that they’d do this just so they could understand her. She was relieved when Runolf pointed out the value of warriors being able to communicate silently, or talk over the din of a battlefield. Aina was surprised to find the warriors learned swiftly. Hunter Speak, at its core, was pretty basic. It skipped all the filler words and focused on things and actions.

  Of course, they learned all the crudest words first, and began to insult each other.

  The first bit of real excitement happened when the Stormlord emerged from the manor around midday and went into the barn while the varingjar were lounging behind it eating their lunches. A few of the villager women were eating with them, and they were all sitting around in the sun that had deigned to make a rare midwinter appearance.

  The Stormlord vanished into the barn, and a scant few moments later, a commotion started from inside.

  “He’s working magic again! In the barn!”

  Suddenly the varingjar were crowding into the barn, and Aina went with them. The Stormlord was staring at a sprig of holly for some reason. His fingers moved in swift, sharp bends and turns that was not unlike her own when she did Hunter Speak. It was almost like he was moving around something no one else could see. Then a glow from the holly turned into a crystalline light for a second or two, before vanishing into the sprig. The Stormlord repeated this a few times. Aside from a few glowy lights, Aina couldn’t tell anything was happening at all and soon lost interest. Then the Stormlord wandered off towards the manor and Runolf trailed after him.

  This turned out to be a blessing, for the varingjar were left to lounge around the barn in a rather lazy afternoon. This soon turned into boredom, and the warriors turned to the ages-old tradition of all soldiers since the dawn of time - gambling. Bone dice were brought out, which Aina didn’t find interesting at all. But another group of warriors was betting on knife throwing, and that was far more interesting.

  The woodpile outside the barn was stacked high with split logs ready for the hearthfire. Two large logs were stacked vertically, ostensibly for splitting, and someone had carved a rough target into one of them. A group of men, including Sven and Billy-goat Bjorn were taking turns while loudly bragging. They were decent at the skill, rarely missing the target, but their accuracy left room for improvement in Aina’s opinion.

  A loud cheer went up, and money changed hands. Then Bjorn spotted Aina.

  “Ah! Our new kid! Aina! Come show us whatcha got!” Bjorn gave a cocky grin, and one of his friends slapped him on the shoulder.

  Aina shook her head. “Wouldn’t be fair.”

  Sven interpreted, even though several men chuckled before he finished translating. They really were picking up Hunter Speak quickly, Aina thought.

  Bjorn didn’t laugh, though. Instead he said, “Yeah? Then put yer money where yer mouth is, girly. I’ll bet three to one I’ll out throw you.”

  Aina frowned. She had no money to bet, and no desire to show up the warrior. Then she saw the appraising looks of the warriors around her. They respected talent and strength above all else. She had no great strength to speak of, of course. She’d earned some respect from her willingness to try, but that only offset how green she was in combat. Aina’d only held her own by the grace of her Motion Forging. If she backed down to this challenge, she’d burn up any goodwill she may have gained. Worse, she’d look craven.

  “I have no money to bet with,” she confessed.

  “I’ll stake you,” signed Sven back.

  She hid a sly grin. “I’ll do it.”

  Aina stepped forward to the cheers of the men, who were always interested in some entertainment, especially on a slow winter day. Bets were quickly placed among the spectators, and then it was time to start.

  Bjorn grinned. “Well girl, hope yer ready for a beatin’.”

  With a flourish, Bjorn threw the first knife, which hit the target just off center. Aina watched as his second blade tumbled through the air to land on the outer edge of the target circle, just barely inside enough to count. Then Bjorn stepped aside and two similar daggers were pressed into her hands by Sven. Aina tossed the first knife lightly into the air to get a feel for the weight and balance, ready to earn some easy money.

  Having Motion as a First Forging was not about being graceful or acrobatic or agile, although its passive effects naturally improved all of those. Rather, the Motion Forging was about movement as a whole. Motion was an understanding of how a muscle retracted to move a limb. It was how a wheel could move a cart, or how a ball would roll down a hill. It was an arrow in flight to slay a deer, and how the shifting of the center of mass in a blade affected how it would move.

  Aina’s understanding of her forging had grown since she’d received it as a young child, so her deeper comprehension lent to an understanding of Motion, which in turn improved her own passive benefit from the gods. The talent meant she could shoot her bow with better accuracy, which had kept her and her mother fed, and gave her an advantage for any skill that demanded good reflexes.

  With one last light toss, Aina held both blades in the same hand by the tips. With a perfectly timed flick of the wrist, both daggers tumbled through the air and stuck into the log. They bracketed the dead center of the target. Neither hit dead center, but only because their hilts were so close together that it was physically impossible for either one to touch that point.

  Silence reigned at the woodpile for a moment, then the audience cheered at what they’d witnessed.

  “Care to continue?” asked Aina smugly. Bjorn shook his head in disbelief, and handed over a few pennies.

  Runolf reappeared just as the hubbub was dying down, and the warriors fell silent.

  “The Stormlord is going to start doing magic wards on the town walls tomorrow. Bjorn, Broddi, and Sven. You're with me, we’re on guard duty while he works. Aina, you can come as well, if you’d like.”

  Aina jerked at being called on. Her, on guard duty? She was no warrior. Then she recalled what the archmage had said when they’d had the conversation a few days before. She was to be given the freedom to see what they were all about, and if she wanted to sign on to his service. It was so different after so many years of disinterest or neglect from those around her, but she did have two Forgings and she was close enough to her majority. Being treated as an adult felt strange. Now was a chance to learn and maybe pay back the kind treatment she’d been offered. Really, there was only one response to the request.

  “I’ll help.”

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