She couldn’t let anyone know about the claw marks on her boundary walls. Too many tragedies had befallen her already. The animal attack had left her disfigured, her kin had crossed the Rainbow Bridge to enter Valhalla, leaving her alone and now her farm was crumbling around her. If she had any hope of turning things around, she would have to fight the Norns of Fate, the giantesses who controlled the destiny of man. Fight like her father had taught her.
She could remember him putting that very practice sword in her hand after the claw marks on her face had sealed with scabs. He’d asked if she wanted to be claimed by any beast, to which her answer was no. Then you must be more ferocious than your enemy, he’d said.
Ásta thrust the sword into the sack once more and roared. Her scream was carried off in the wind. She panted and leaned over with her hands to her knees, unable to shake her feeling of unease. Even though she had a plan, she worried it would unravel like everything always did. Forever unlucky.
Wind bent the grass to the ground. The flat stone Torin had used to tunnel with was covered with dirt. He brushed out the hole he’d just dug and studied its dimensions. Its two-fists-wide cavity slanted into the earth at an angle and resurfaced only an arm’s length away. The edge of his uncle’s fishing net was propped on two sticks on either side of the burrow’s entrance. Careful not to knock over his trap, he set his tool down and pushed himself off the ground.
His honey-yellow hair danced around his head as the breeze adjusted course. He turned his eyes to the sky, searching for signs of the fledgling gyrfalcon he’d followed into this valley. It had been a long day’s travel already, and he needed to return home. It wouldn’t be wise to return after his uncle had started his journey for the Althing, the yearly social gathering where Snælanders settled disputes and conducted business like marriages, trades and alliances. He needed to hurry up or go back empty-handed.
Torin unbuckled his leather belt and dropped it into the grass. A spot of white barely noticeable to the naked eye could be seen amongst the ebony rock on a distant bluff. He kept his attention on that point as he slowly pulled off his cream-colored tunic, untied his leather shoes and dropped them beside his belt. His muscled arms tugged down on the waist of his pants, and soon he was as he’d been brought into the world—naked but for his silver arm ring and the pendant of Thor’s hammer that hung around his neck.
He combed his hands through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. Goosebumps rose on his skin. Every pore tingled with sensation as he felt himself change. The familiar tug on his arm hairs continued until they grew light, and he could no longer feel his fingers. His legs bent, lowering him down, and his rounded chest touched the ground.
Eyes open, he snapped his beak, chasing away the strange sensation that lingered where his nose and mouth used to be. He glanced down at his white-feathered legs and at the arm ring and necklace that had fallen into the grass. Clicking noises rattled from his throat. Torin braced himself against a gust of wind, then scurried forward with his plan in mind.
It had taken him years to adjust to such a different body, one so unlike his own, and it wasn’t very hard to stumble around on purpose. He pulled out one wing, letting the tips of his mottled gray feathers drag against the blades of grass. He knew this posture, coupled with his stumbling walk, would tempt any predator with an empty belly. That’s what he was counting on.
His eyes remained on the porous rocky bluff and his target. Two years ago he’d nearly paid the ultimate price for not respecting the gyrfalcon’s ability to hunt. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
The activity of limping around the opening of the trap was repetitive, but no more than digging out the tunnel had been. His stomach was beginning to complain. It didn’t faze Torin, as he was used to it—putting in a hard day’s work and eating a late meal was normal. Plus, he needed a new eyas, a new fledgling falcon for training. Especially if he was going to sell all of his experienced hunting birds at the Althing.
He never let himself grow weary from scurrying around. He continued holding his attention on the white speck on the distant bluff. When it finally took to the skies, Torin hurried to the mouth of the tunnel. His avian eyesight allowed him to see everywhere but his blind spot—behind him. He positioned himself and waited for the gyrfalcon to circle.
Torin had put into motion a very dangerous hunt. Speed was essential. He didn’t want to injure the animal or make a wrong move and lose it. Neither did he wish to risk his own neck. The signs that the raptor was preparing to strike were clear. He was fortunate it wasn’t a cloudy day, because he could see the white form against the cobalt sky.
Just as the hunter dove toward him, he darted into the tunnel. Something tugged at his tail feathers, and he felt his quills breaking free from his body. It didn’t slow him, but instead spurred him to go faster. He followed the channel until daylight touched his back. As soon as his body was clear, he called to his human shape. He didn’t wait for the transition to complete before he spun around, moving back toward the other opening and his assailant.
His flesh would have tingled if he weren’t consumed with the thrill of the chase. A screech passed from his beak, then turned into a man’s cry. His feathered arm reached out for the propped-up net, tipping it onto the snow-white gyrfalcon. It was over within seconds. Torin groaned in the dirt before pushing himself onto his hands and knees and crawling forward to check on the raptor.
It snapped at him between frantic flaps when he reached for it. It didn’t appear to be injured. In fact, it was quite spirited, but he knew it would calm down soon enough. He tossed a square of fabric over the bird, and within seconds, it settled.
Torin picked up his pants from the ground and got dressed. Then he put his armband around his bicep and his necklace about his neck. After buckling his leather belt, he opened the satchel that was fastened to it and removed a small, dark leather hood.
The animal had remained relatively still while he got dressed. Now, he carefully reached for the edge of the fabric that covered the falcon. He could tell from the direction of the lump which way it was sitting, so he began to lift the net and cloth away from its tail. When its back was exposed, he gently placed his free hand against it, holding it down. The head was uncovered, and as quick as Torin could move, he tried to slip the hood over the raptor’s eyes. He wasn’t fast enough to avoid his flesh getting marked by the youngster’s strong beak.
“Ah!” Torin growled and tied the hood to the bird.
Once he was done, he picked up the animal and tucked it under his arm, holding firmly onto its talons. He glanced at his hand. The bite wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding. This was a sign of good luck, finding an eyas before the trip to the Althing. Just what he needed.
He walked through the grassy valley to the place he’d tied off his horse. It hadn’t noticed his absence since it had been feeding on fresh summer greens. With his free hand, he held onto the saddle and jumped onto the chestnut’s back, keeping the raptor safe against him. After settling comfortably, he nudged the animal forward.
The sun had passed its daymark some time ago. It was nearing midday, he observed. If he were the type of man who liked company, the long trip back home might have bothered him, but he preferred being alone and away from his uncle’s longhouse. It was quiet when he went out in the valleys searching for gyrfalcons.
His young cousin had begged to join him, but he worked alone out in the wilds. Hróaldr was learning the trade after witnessing the amount of silver and gold that lined Torin’s purse. But Torin had never exposed his special gift from the gods—the ability to turn into his fylgja, or animal familiar. It was his secret strength, which made his catching and training abilities unparalleled. His uncle, Fólki, conveniently wanted his youngest focused on battle training during his twelfth summer, since tensions between the chieftains of the southern territories had increased. That had provided the perfect day out alone for Torin.
The ride across the volcanic, pockmarked hills was uneventful, except
for the herds of sheep and cattle he encountered. Daylight streamed against his shoulders the entire way, giving no sign of breaking for the night measure. The sun rarely fell below the horizon for very long during summer.
The forested area near his uncle’s farm came into view. He tried not to look upon it. It only reminded him of the grove that surrounded the place he was born. A place he hadn’t revisited since he’d left it nearly ten years ago with his young stepsister to live with his father’s kin.
Torin approached a clear spring in the rocky fields outside the confines of the farm. He climbed from the back of his horse and led the animal toward the cold water for a drink. While the animal quenched itself, he wandered out to collect some flowering dandelions as he always did. He returned with them grasped in his hands and stood at the place they’d found her body. His sweet innocent sister. He dropped the yellow blooms into the water and watched them float a short distance before they sank to the bottom.
He forced himself to stop here every time he passed by even though it put him in a sour mood. It was, after all, his fault she had died. She’d been his responsibility to look after. His father had told him so when he’d left them for the summer raids. The raids he never returned from.
Torin had never felt the sting of a blade sinking into his flesh, but he imagined this was what it felt like: an axe to the heart. Something he carried wherever he went. The guilt that he’d killed his mother and sister, both. One from childbirth, the other because of his selfish curiosity. Instead of going to the spring with his six-year-old sister, he’d gone to watch the puffins nesting.
He lifted his bladder of ale to his lips. It was enough to keep his mouth from drying, but it didn’t provide the numbing sensation he sought.
When Torin arrived back at the farm, a hazy twilight had set on the landscape. He entered the gate, leading his horse behind him with the falcon tucked under his arm. He unbuckled and lifted off his riding gear from his mare. Then he went to the animal shed to retrieve an empty mew. Torin coaxed the bird onto the perch inside the cage, secured the latch and carried the young falcon with him to the longhouse.
Beside the home was a wooden rack that held strips of flesh. The shark meat had been unearthed from the ground to dry so that its poison was leached out before it was consumed, but Torin preferred it best when it left him dizzy and drunken. He reached out to cut off a piece. Its aroma was strong and potent, curling in his nostrils. Without a care, he popped it in his mouth and chewed it well before swallowing, knowing its effects would set in soon to help him fall asleep.
He turned back to the home. The half-light touched the stalks of grass that grew on its roof and outer walls. Grateful that the door was left unlocked, he ducked through the thick wood-lined entrance room and bolted the lock behind him. He moved into the great hall, careful not to wake anyone sleeping along the long built-in benches that ran the length of the space. Although the hearth’s fire at the center of the room had gone out, it was still quite smoky. Enough light shone through the hole in the roof for him to find his way safely across to the opposite end of the hall.
In a smaller room reserved for valuable animals, he set the mew down beside the others that housed his trained raptors: a safe place away from the door where one would not be tempted to take such valuable possessions.
He crept back into the great room and found a place beside his younger cousin on the fur-lined bench to lie and prop himself against the wall. Thoughts of his sister’s limp body filled his mind, along with memories of the farm that was lost to him. He would likely never have his own land to tend as his father had. Not while he had a place with his uncle. Even if he married, they would come to live here. A place that was haunted with painful memories. As soon as his head rested on the wooden wainscoting, his muscles began to relax and his mind grew foggy. The dizziness born from the shark’s poison touched his mind and made it swirl. He could no longer hold onto his pain or guilt. Everything grew foggy, and sleep came to him soon after.
“Torin!”
His eyes snapped open.
Hróaldr’s face was inches from his own. The twelve-year-old’s dark-blond hair was brushed neatly against his head, and his blue eyes were wide in excitement. “You brought one back! I knew you would.”
Torin cleared his throat and nodded at the boy, which brought on a throbbing headache. The women at the center of the room who were preparing breakfast glanced at them, and he gently shoved the youngster away from him so he could wipe the sleep from his eyes. It didn’t feel like he’d gotten much rest. He probably hadn’t.
“You found me out,” Torin grumbled, still feeling the effects from the shark meat. “I will need your help while I am away. The eyas is young and impressionable—just like you.”
He poked his finger into his little cousin’s chest. Hróaldr slapped it away and lifted his chin. “I am not so young, and I cannot be swayed.”
“That’s my boy!” A voice boomed from across the room at the doorway.
Hróaldr ran to the older man who filled the threshold. Fólki’s light-brown hair fell past the shoulders of his yellow tunic, which was decorated with an intricate design of ravens and knots lining its neck. A well-manicured mustache covered his upper lip. His booming laugh filled the space. “I did not know if you would be forced to pay taxes for not going with me this year! I would rather have you as an advisor, taking your father’s place, than have your silver.”
“I thank you, Uncle,” Torin responded as he stood up and swayed, stumbling off the bench, joining Fólki on the dirt floor.
His uncle raised his eyebrow at him, and his lightheartedness evaporated. “Have you gotten into the mead or were you eating ill-prepared shark again?”
Torin didn’t answer. He knew how disappointing he was to Fólki. Somewhere in his heart he cared, but his guilt overshadowed it and demanded payment.
“Father?” Hróaldr asked.
Fólki ignored his son to add, “How can I find you a wife if you are swaying on your feet like a drunkard?”
Torin had always known it was only a matter of time before his uncle pressured him into marriage. It seemed like every week he heard the threat. It appeared to be unavoidable.
“I do not know why you dislike the idea of finding a woman. Do not your aunt and I provide you reason enough to seek your own union? Or your cousin Ingvar and his wife? Do we not seem pleased with each other? It might be the thing you need so that you stop dragging yourself about the farm like a lame sheep.”
While Fólki spoke, Hróaldr seemed to be having a difficult time being patient. The boy hooked his thumbs on his belt and lifted his chest. Just as he was about to speak, his father interrupted him. “I will not tell you again that you will not join us at the Althing. You are not yet close enough to being a man—next summer you may come. Providing I do not throttle you before then for going on and on about it. Go tell your brother I am just pulling your cousin from bed and we should be prepared to leave shortly.”
Hróaldr’s chin touched his chest in defeat. He gave Torin a pitiful look before brushing past his father to go outside.
“He looks as sad as you do right now—although luckily not as ill.” Fólki chuckled, clapped his hands together, then braced his thick fingers to his hips. “Go splash some water on your face and gather your things quickly. There is not time for a bath. And do not forget a full purse—you will need it to pay the bride price of some lucky woman.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Torin answered, not wanting to agitate him. Fólki wasn’t just family, but Torin’s gothi as well—one of the nine chieftains of the southern quarter. No matter how uninterested he was in settling down, it wasn’t worth his leader’s anger.
He tried to shake off his dizziness before entering the animal room at the back of the house. It was empty of prized livestock now, but come winter it would be full. He lifted two cloth-covered mews from the floor, one containing a seasoned and trained gyrfalcon and the other a white-tailed eagle.
Although he h
ad enough silver saved up to pay the bride price of a good woman, he was sure to make a fine profit off the gyrfalcon as well, as they were the most prized birds of Snæland. The eagle’s worth wasn’t nearly as high, but they made better companions—if you liked getting harassed by your pet.
All of the falconry equipment was stowed in his leather bag. From his wooden chest, he pulled out another silver arm ring, which he slid up against its match on his bicep. His purse, full of silver bits, was clasped to his belt. Frida, Ingvar’s wife, handed him a warm tasteless flatbread, which he ate quickly before it hardened from cooling. Tiny grains of stone crunched against his teeth, so he chewed carefully to avoid breaking a tooth. While he swallowed the last bite, he picked up his sword, shield, leather bag and mews.
Torin’s aunt, Guthrún, appeared by his side and spoke quietly to him. “I can see you are in one of your moods, but please do not resist your uncle. He only wishes for you to be happy.”
Torin sighed and closed his eyes, which brought on a dizzy spell, so he set his gaze on the woman who had helped raise him from a boy instead. He mumbled, “It is not my will to resist him. There must be some other way.”
“Other way?” she questioned, laying her hand on his forearm.
“Besides getting married. I could go on the summer raids—”
Guthrún frowned. “But it is too late now, and you have never taken to seafaring like your father before you. Come now—is having a wife such a sour thought?”
Before he walked outside, he answered, “It is the thought of being bound to a woman I’m sworn to protect—and failing her like I did my sister.”
Just beyond the gated farm, the other men from Fólki’s clan, his kinsmen, including his cousin Ingvar, were gathered with their gear already strapped to their horses. A few of them laughed and pointed at him as he hurried up. “Looking ill and dirty, as usual.”
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