As soon as the spear had left Breca’s grip she knew it would hit its mark. The spear left his fist: a hiss as sharp iron sliced through air. A dozen reindeer stood grazing in a glade, a thick-antlered bull watching over the herd of cows and calves as they chewed and scratched moss and lichen from trunks and boulders.Ī shift in Breca’s eyes, an indrawn breath that he held, followed by a burst of explosive movement his hips twisting, his arm moving. Spring sunlight dappled the ground through soft-swaying branches, reflecting brightly from patches of rimed snow, winter’s last hoar-frost kiss on this high mountain woodland. Hard words are needed for this hard world. Muscles bunched in Orka’s jaw, hard words already in her throat. He stood to her left, solid and huge as a boulder. “Wait,” Thorkel breathed through his braided beard, a cold-misting of breath. She opened her mouth to scold him, but a hand touched her arm, a huge hand where Breca’s was small, rough-skinned where Breca’s was smooth. He is too gentle for this world of pain, Orka thought. “Death is a part of life,” Orka whispered into her son’s ear.Įven though Breca’s arm was drawn back, the ash-spear gripped tight in his small, white-knuckled fist and the spearhead aimed at the reindeer in front of them, she could see the hesitation in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. CHAPTER ONE ORKA The year 297 of Friðaröld, The Age of Peace
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