The town centre was bustling, almost overflowing, Freya had never seen anything like it in her twenty winters, everyone seemed to be here. As they had been ordered to be. She dodged round the blacksmith’s apprentice – a boy a few years younger than her called Rhodri, he had a keen hand that had made many spear heads for her over his apprenticeship. She managed to dodge her way past the crowd into the front row, coming to the object of everyone’s attention.

  Three warriors stood in the clearing, talking amongst themselves as they studied a paper. Freya recognised one of the warriors, the local Oathsworn Bjarn who had been the Thane’s representative for the past five years. Bjarn’s bulk remained impressive even alongside other warriors, their mail armour and swords worth more than everything she had ever owned.

  The two strangers shared little in common, one of them was clad the same as Bjarn, mail armour with a helmet strapped at the hip, a one-handed sword adorning the other hip while his round shield and spear laid against a wall behind him. Another Oathsworn, though not one she knew. The third warrior was different.

  He was the shortest of the three, standing around the same height as the men of the town, but well built in the way that professional warriors always are. He had no spear, a far more embellished hilt on his sword, and a long axe gripped in one hand, its haft leaning on the ground. The weapon was rare, two-handed war axes were only used by the most experienced warriors, those who in time would join the ranks of the pack itself in order to continue their service for generations to come.

  He was a Housecarl, representing the pack and authorised to raise armies in its name, and in service of its lords. The finer cloak, long axe, the jewellery adorning his clothes, all of it had been earned in blood and battle.

  Freya knew then that whatever tidings he brought were not good. The Housecarl finished speaking to the Oathsworn, stepping away from them and clearing his throat. The noise shouldn’t have been loud enough to silence the majority of a town, yet everyone fell as silent as the dead at the action. “I come as representative of Ulfrir Thorinson, high king of Jarvik and leader of the pack!” His voice boomed across the square, deep and rough as gravel it held more authority than any she had ever heard, more than even the Thane himself.

  “We are at war, in my hand I hold a warrant, written in the king’s own hand! I am tasked to raise troops from the holdings North of the Stix, of which this town is a part of.” The people looked to one another, unsure as they muttered. The men would leave then she thought, not looking forward to the work in the months ahead without any of the able-bodied men. She would be fine, and her trade would double given how few of her fellow hunters were women, but her workload to support other families would dramatically increase.

  “Tomorrow morning all able-bodied men will report to this centre, bring weapons and other equipment if you posses it, as only basic equipment will be issued.” He paused, running his eyes across the crowd while Bjarn met her eye, something like concern showing. “Additionally, women with useful skills will also report here, this includes healers, hunters and craftswomen of militarily useful skills, any able-bodied women unoccupied at home should also report. Bjarn will remain here to answer any questions you have about eligibility. That is all, make your preparations.”

  All hell broke loose then, people shouting questions, complaints and rage in a cacophony of chaotic noise that drowned out any attempt at speech.

  Shit, Freya thought, her heart racing as she ran through what she had to do, what she had to prepare. She had expected a war, word had arrived three days prior about the invasion, Ulfrir had already set off with his standing army to reinforce the Stonehold – the fortress guarding the mountain pass heading north into Jarvik’s interior, at least according to the town gossip, she hadn’t been there to hear it herself.

  The men being called to go made sense, was expected. Many of them had prepared, making shields and stocking up on what equipment they could afford in good time. Others had been in denial, they were the ones apoplectic with rage in the square.

  Freya hadn’t prepared, she hadn’t expected to be called, women almost never were.

  Almost.

  She regretted not making a shield, just to be sure. Not buying a helm nor any form of armour – not that she could afford more than a basic gambeson. Freya turned on her heel and made her way out of the town as quickly as possible, heading for her hut on the very outskirts – she had things to do, and as her father had once taught her, idle hands invite the malicious spirits.

  By the time dawn broke she had barely two hours sleep. The night having been spent in a frantic rush of preparation. Her spear had been gathered, the two spare heads packed into the sack she wore for long hunting trips, her knife freshly sharpened and oiled in its sheath and travel food prepared. She hadn’t had the time to do a proper cleanse of spirits, nor had a witch to bless any fetishes for protection. The bone carved with protection runes hanging around her neck was the only protection she had, a gift from her father’s time in the army. Alone it would mean little but in the shield wall the combined effect of many small runes might be enough to provide some protection against enemy sorcery.

  Truth be told, if she had to face an enemy sorcerer without a witch or priest on her side she was good as dead anyway, defence against the god touched required significantly more potent runes that what she had ever seen cast.

  She had little faith in these measures, but it was something. By the time she arrived in the town the majority of the tradespeople had woken up, already working. Not much could be made in time for the leaving, but existing stock was being bought on mass from the smith’s, Bowyer’s and the Baker’s. Food for the march, Freya supposed. She approached the counter where Rhodri was working, the smith himself too swamped to see her. “Rhodri!” She called, watching the boy make his way over to her, ignoring the calls of a man fed up with waiting on the smith.

  “How can I help you Freya?” He asked, trying his best to sound older than he was as he always did when she was around. He was a nice boy she knew, having always been reasonable and kind but recently had developed something of an interest in her. Despite the four years between them.

  “I need more pins, and any spare spear heads you have, narrow heads ideally. “She flashed him a smile afterwards “Thanks for coming to me so fast.” Rhodri beamed back before disappearing into the workshop for a minute, coming back with a handful of pins and two more heads, one broad and one narrow. Better than nothing, but only one narrow head wasn’t ideal, broads struggled with thick armour.

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  Both might however be needed in the days to come, spears tended to snap when thrust deep in flesh, catching on bone against violently resisting prey the head could come loose, an old haft beginning to split apart. No good hunter only possessed a single head. The reverse would be true of soldiers, she was sure.

  She handed him the small slab of silver, overpaying slightly as she usually did when she took her custom here. Take care of those who take care of you, another one of her father’s lessons. Rhodri accepted it, then looked worried for a moment before spitting it out. “You know you don’t have to go right? Married women don’t have to go if their husbands are exempt.”

  Freya snorted, then looked at Rhodri again. “True, I’m not married though am I Rhodri?”

  “You could be.” He offered, eyes deadly serious. She shook her head at him with a smile.

  “I appreciate the offer Rhodri, if you offer again in a couple year’s I’ll even consider it.” She saw the sadness in him, placing her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll come back if the gods are kind, take this in the meantime.” She pressed a tooth into his hand, taken from a bear and worn as a trophy for years since – her first bear.

  “This is from my first bear, keep it until I come back and then we can talk again.” He nodded, hand closing around the tooth in a vice grip. “Now go and work, I’ll see you soon God’s willing.”

  “God’s willing Freya, I’ll pray for you.” She let him go, and turned to leave with a nod of thanks, heading towards the centre. No more putting it off.

  She wanted her father.

  Bjarn met her there, taking her name down in a piece of paper and pointing her into a corner of the square where others sat on the ground, waiting for all the preparations to finish. The whole process was faster than she expected, feeling almost like some sort of livestock being organised. Bjarn took names while the Housecarl directed a half dozen new Oathsworn to organise a baggage train of three wagons, food and purchased equipment being loaded into the back. They left shortly after midday, the sun on their back as they crossed into the countryside and headed towards their muster point, Fort Styx.

  Days on the road wasn’t something new to Freya, having spent most of her life out in the wilds hunting her brand of prey – predators mostly. Many of the others fared worse, the very young in particular were tense and short tempered, failing that they were visibly nervous. She could hardly blame them, all things considered.

  All her life she had lived by the lessons her father had taught her, and her brothers. Be calm as stone on the hunt, decisive like the Wolf, thoughtful like the gods whose careful litanies the god-touched Witches and pack priests had passed down for generations. Still occasionally she found panic welling up, threatening to overwhelm her as her mind strayed to the coming violence.

  Burying the panic was hard, her breath coming shorter and faster while she wrestled the thoughts away, thinking of happy things like home and the isolation of nature. Then breathing, counting them as she slowed them down with long practiced force of will until eventually, she was back again, coherent and able to process the ongoing march.

  It was after her third of fourth outbreak that Bjarn appeared, falling in at her side while she finished the last of her deep breaths. “How do you fare Freya? Not the first time I’ve noticed you doing this.” Bjarn didn’t sound unkind or angry, but the question was firm underneath the genuine concern, this wasn’t the Bjarn she knew from meeting in the market, this was Bjarn the Oathsworn checking up on one of his soldiers.

  What a weird feeling Freya thought, being a soldier was not something she had ever been prepared for. She looked to Bjarn in his armour and realised again how unprepared she really was.

  “I’m not sure what to make of any of this Bjarn, I was taught to track and hunt, not fight in the shield wall!” There was no lie, Freya wasn’t taught how to kill men, why would a woman need to know how to fight in a shield wall? They hadn’t been called to service in generations, and the few volunteers were far fiercer than her. Glory seekers.

  “You’ll learn.” He said simply with a shrug. “I’ve seen far less fierce menfolk manage Freya; do you mean to tell me you can manage a bear but not a man in battle?” She had earned some small amount of local fame to her name for that feat and had repeated it since. But the tales were often exaggerated, and a man was far smarter than a bear.

  “We both know that wasn’t a fair fight Bjarn.” It hadn’t been, the beast trapped and killed over many spear blows, unable to answer. The danger had been real, her heart hammered as the beast roared and swiped its claws into the gaps of its confines. It had died with a miserable sound of despair as she finished it off with yet more spear blows.

  Hardly a hero’s victory.

  He snorted. “Then don’t make the next fight fair Freya.” Bjarn laid eyes on the spearhead of her weapon pointedly before he moved on. “We’ll talk about this later, before the drills this evening.” Bjarn moved up the column, joining another Oathsworn in conversation. Freya would be first to admit if asked that she was glad to have Bjarn around, his capability was beyond doubt as a warrior, she had seen him fight with young men hoping to be Oathsworn themselves someday, not only could he defeat them with near comical ease, but he clearly was an attentive and knowledgeable teacher afterwards.

  Bjarn was kind outside of his trade too and could often be found in very informal conversation with townsfolk or sharing drinks on the evenings. There had been a time where a younger Freya had seen Bjarn as potential for something far more than a friendly acquaintance – though that had never been pursued.

  They stopped to make camp in the evening, parties being ordered around to construct the few tents that had been brought, most of them would instead have to sleep under the stars. A prospect which had angered one man so much he had attempted to come to blows with one of the Oathsworn, who promptly broke his nose in a commotion that served as the collective entertainment.

  “Lucky he only broke his pride.” Bjarn had muttered, turning back towards her. “We’ll do our first drills in about an hour, teach you how the shield wall works, basic spear work and such.” Bjarn had taken her to one side, his interest in her oddly more significant than most of the others, including those who she knew had been to war before.

  “What is this Bjarn? You’ve not singled me out to give me a schedule, have you?” Freya was frustrated, day had been long, and her patience had long since ran out. He paused, eyeing her before dipping his head in a nod.

  “I do not think you are well suited to the shield wall.” She felt a surprising pang of anger rising at the dismissal, his tone had been strictly professional, and she knew him better than to assume he had intended to be dismissive.

  But still she heard the weak that he never said, her grip on the shaft of her spear tightening until her fists were white. “This is no insult Freya.” He interrupted her growing rage. “I know you are good in the wilds, a position in a scout claw would allow you to serve more than one in the shield wall would.”

  That was an unusual request, the scout claws were made up of driven volunteers, usually veterans of many years’ service and served as the scouts of an army, or when necessary, irregular forces who would raid or delay enemy forces as needed. There was no insult here.

  She stared at him for a pregnant moment, then dipped her head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed insult where there wasn’t.” She made eye contact again “I’ll serve where you ask me to, Shield wall or Scout claw.”

  “If you had to choose?” She snorted at the question.

  “I would make a better scout.”

  Bjarn smiled and pat her on the shoulder “Then a scout you will make, I’ll let Sven know.”

  Freya frowned “Sven?”

  “The housecarl.” He said over his shoulder.

  So that was his name she thought.