Finnbogi twisted his face into a friendly smile in case they caught him looking. Up ahead their clothes and weapons were laid out on the shingle. Bodil and Sassa’s neatly embroidered dresses were hanging on poles. Both garments would have been Sassa Lipchewer creations; she spent painstaking hours sewing, knitting and weaving the most stylish clothes in Hardwork. She’d made the blue tunic and stripy trousers that Finnbogi was wearing, for example, and very nice they were too.
The four men’s clothes, tossed with manly abandon on the shingle, were leathers, plus Garth Anvilchin’s oiled chainmail. Garth’s metal shirt weighed as much as a fat child, yet Garth wore it all day, every day. He said that it would rust if the rings didn’t move against each other regularly so he had to wear it, and also he wanted to be totally comfortable when he was in battle.
In battle! Ha! The Hird’s only battles were play fights with each other. The likelihood of them seeing real action was about the same as Finnbogi travelling west and taking on a dagger-tooth cat. He knew the real reason Garth wore the mail shirt all the time. It was because he was a prick.
Despite the pointlessness of it, many of the hundred or so Hardworkers spent much time learning to fight with the weapons brought over from the old world. All four of the bathing men were in the Hird, the elite fighting group comprising Hardwork’s ten best fighters.
Finnbogi had expected to be asked to join the Hird last summer when someone had become too old and left, but Jarl Brodir had chosen Thyri Treelegs. That had smarted somewhat, given that she was a girl and only sixteen at the time—two years younger than him. It was true that she had been making weapons, practising moves and generally training to be a warrior every waking hour since she was about two, so she probably wouldn’t be a terrible Hird member. And he supposed it was good to see a woman included.
All Hardwork’s children learnt the reasons that Olaf the Worldfinder and Hardwork’s other founders had left the east, sailed a salty sea more vast than anyone of Finnbogi’s generation could supposedly imagine, then travelled up rivers and across great lakes to establish the settlement of Hardwork. Unfair treatment of women was one of those reasons. So it was good that they were finally putting a woman in the Hird, but it was a shame that it had robbed Finnbogi of what he felt was his rightful place. Not that he wanted to be in the stupid Hird anyway, leaping about and waving weapons around all day. He had better things to do.
Out to sea, Wulf the Fat dived under—he could stay down for an age—and Garth Anvilchin caught sight of Finnbogi on the beach. “Hey, Boggy!” he shouted, “Don’t even think about touching our weapons or I’ll get one of the girls to beat you up!”
Finnbogi felt himself flush and he looked down at the weapons—Garth’s over-elaborately inlaid hand axes the Biter Twins, Bjarni’s beautiful sword Lion Slayer, Wulf’s thuggish hammer Thunderbolt and Sassa’s bow which wasn’t an old world weapon so it didn’t have a name.
“And nice outfit!” yelled Garth. “How lovely that you dress up when you go wanking in the woods. You have to treat your hand well when it’s your only sexual partner, don’t you, you curly-haired cocksucker?”
Finnbogi tried to think of a clever comeback based on the idea that if he sucked cocks then he clearly had more sexual partners than just his hand, but he didn’t want to accept and develop the him-sucking-cocks theme.
“Fuck off then, Boggy, you’re spoiling the view,” Garth added before any pithy reply came to Finnbogi, curse him to Hel. Garth might be stupid but he had all the smart lines.
“Leave him alone,” said Sassa Lipchewer. Finnbogi reddened further. Sassa was lovely.
“Yes, Garth,” Bodil piped up. “Come for a wash, Finnbogi!”
“Yes, Boggy boy! Clean yourself off after all that wanking!” Garth laughed.
Wulf surfaced and smiled warmly at Finnbogi, the sun glinting off his huge round shoulders. “Come on in, Finn!” he called. Finally, somebody was calling him by the name he liked.
“Come in, Finn!” Bodil called. “Come in, Finn! Come in, Finn!” she chanted.
Sassa beckoned and smiled, which made Finnbogi gibber a little.
Behind them, Keef, who hadn’t acknowledged Finnbogi’s presence, continued to split the arses of imaginary enemies with his axe Arse Splitter.
“I can’t swim now, I’ve got to … um …” Finnbogi nodded at the stump on his shoulder.
“Sure thing, man, do what you’ve got to do, see you later!” Wulf leapt like a salmon and disappeared underwater.
“Bye, Finn!” shouted Bodil. Sassa and Bjarni waved. Garth, towering out of the water, muscular chest shining, smiled and looked Finnbogi up and down as if he knew all about the wasp, why he was wearing his best clothes and what he had planned for the stump.
“I don’t know why you give that guy any time …” he heard Garth say as he walked away.
He didn’t know why the others gave any time to Garth Anvilchin. He was such a dick. They were okay, the rest of them. Wulf the Fat had never said a mean word to anyone. Bjarni Chickenhead was friendly and happy, Sassa Lipchewer was lovely. And Bodil Gooseface … Bodil was Bodil, called Gooseface not because she looked like a goose, but because Finnbogi had once announced that she had the same facial expressions as a clever goose, which she did, and the name had stuck. Finnbogi felt a bit bad about that, but it wasn’t his fault that he was so incisively observant.
He walked on, composing cutting replies to Garth’s cock-sucking comments. The best two were “Why don’t you swim out to sea and keep on swimming?” and “Spoiling the view am I? You’re the only person here with a good view because you’re not in it!”
He wished he’d thought of them at the time.
By Stephen Aryan
THE AGE OF DREAD
Mageborn
Magefall
THE AGE OF DARKENESS
Battlemage
Bloodmage
Chaosmage
Praise for Stephen Aryan
“[Stephen Aryan] enlivens his tale with abundant politics, intrigues, double-crossings, and plot twists to keep the pacing brisk and whet readers’ appetites for future installments.”
—Publishers Weekly on Mageborn
“A propulsive combination of thrills, mystery, and magic.”
—B&N Sci-Fi & Fantasy Blog on Mageborn
“A vivid and rousing adventure with the kind of magic that punches you right in the face.”
—Jen Williams on Battlemage
“This is epic fantasy for readers who appreciate extra helpings of carnage with their backstabbing.”
—Publishers Weekly on Battlemage
“Stephen Aryan puts the epic into Epic Fantasy. This is a ground-shaking debut, full of fiery promise.”
—Den Patrick, on Battlemage
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Magefall Page 41