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She taught me a similar spell, but this time calling and dispatching fireballs.

We worked through ice, fire, water, and even stone in rounds until there was nothing left of the dummies.

Then Byrgir and Crow joined us, and the two of them showed me a simple repelling incantation that they often used to push combatants off balance.

We drilled for hours. The excitement and energy of the three of them kept me going, though I was shaking with the effort. Even stone-faced Crow seemed impressed and energized by it, in his own reserved mien.

Finally, when my legs were trembling and my shoulders aching, El put a stop to our training and led us home.

I limped up the stairs for a hot bath, leaning hard on the railing.

I had never felt power like that, had never tried to control anything that felt so much bigger than my own mortal body. The resulting ache now was bone deep.

∞∞∞

Warm, clean, and exhausted, Byrgir took me to a weapons smith to help me choose some blades. We were greeted by the swordsmith, an older man with a soot-stained, gruff smile. He greeted Byrgir with a slap on the back.

“Byrgir Ulfarsson! One of my most lucrative customers.” He tossed me a wink. “Been a while since you graced this humble shop with yer talent.”

“My talent for spending money you mean, Gundrad?” Byrgir shook the swordsmith’s hand and clapped his shoulder. “Good to see you.”

Gundrad laughed, a deep belly laugh that rolled through the shop. “Likewise, likewise. That big ol’ bastard of a two-hander still treatin’ ya well?”

“She’s mighty bloodthirsty! Still the best sword I’ve ever swung. As well-balanced and sharp as the day you forged her for me, never lost an edge. And you know me, I’m hard on weapons.”

“Aye, that you are, kid, that you are!” The swordsmith laughed and clapped Byrgir on the shoulder again. “Now, what can I help ya with?”

“We’re looking for something for Halja here.” Byrgir gestured to me. “But I’ll gladly test your wares while she shops.”

“Aye, for Halja! Pleasure to meet you, young miss. Tell me, what’re ya after?”

Byrgir answered for me. Not rudely, just smoothly saving me from a question I didn’t have an answer for. “Set of daggers, maybe some hand axes, but I’m really looking for a sword suiting her size. And I don’t want standard Keeper’s effects either, Gundrad. Show us something special.”

“Something special! Aye, I have plenty-a that.” He turned a skillful eye on me and muttered, “About five foot six, one hundred and thirty pounds. Hold out your arm. Straight, like this, good. What I thought then. Hand-and-a-half should do.”

Two days in this city and I had already had more strangers blatantly assess my body than I had ever experienced before, at least to my knowing.

But it did not feel rude or predatory in any case, only practical, helpful even.

I was learning to appreciate my body beyond just how it looked, but for what it was capable of.

To view my body as something with purpose, with skill, like a tool that could protect me and others.

Something deserving of specified equipment, fine clothing, and good food.

Not something that’s most important function was to be viewed or consumed by a man.

Byrgir turned to me. “Gundrad is a master of his craft. No better weaponsmith anywhere in Elvik.”

“Ah, yer bound to make an old man blush talkin’ like that, ya will!” Gundrad laughed again. “Weapons been forged ’ere since this city was all elves, or fae folk, and we’ve done our best to keep their old ways alive.”

“It looks like there’s hundreds of years’ worth of weapons here.” I looked around at the endless racks of daggers, spears, pikes, swords, and axes. It seemed like anything with a blade was made here.

“Aye, been makin’ weapons a long time. Have a look at anything ya please! But if yer gonna swing it, take it outside.” Gundrad bustled off into the shop, and Byrgir led me through to the back courtyard, to the side of the outdoor forges.

Byrgir picked up weapon after weapon from the racks of finished products in the courtyard. He skillfully twirled battle axes, hand axes, daggers, and swung two-handers through the air so fast they sang. He handed me some daggers to try, and showed me the proper way to grip them.

Gundrad returned with two assistants carrying armloads of steel. They arranged them on a long wooden table, and Byrgir walked the length of it as he absentmindedly twirled a vicious hand ax at his side. He paid most attention to the array of swords.

He pulled one from the table and handed it to me.

“See how she feels,” he said.

I took it with one hand and immediately felt ineffectual and awkward. I adjusted my grip on the leather-wrapped hilt and gave it a light cross swing, then another.

“Slide your hand down a bit.” Byrgir corrected my grip. “How is it?”

“Heavy,” I said. “Feels like I want two hands on it instead of one.”

“You could wield it that way, if you wanted. But I want something that feels natural in one hand. Light enough that you have one hand free for spells when you need it, but something strong.” He turned toward Gundrad, who nodded.

“Then, Miss, I suggest ya try this.” He slid a bundle wrapped in burlap off the table and held it out to me, then pulled it back before I could open it.

“What’s yer budget, Ulfarsson?”

“On the Ironguard tab,” Byrgir said.

I shot him a look, but he ignored it and nodded toward the bundle Gundrad presented to me. I carefully unfolded the wrapping.

Inside rested a flawless blade, edges wavy and oil-slick rainbowed from the heat of the forge.

On the blade was engraved a raven, wings outstretched in flight.

Below the raven, just above the guard, was etched a complex stave, its top and bottom halves a mirror of one another.

I recognized many standard bindrune patterns within, but the intricacy of it was impossible to decipher at a glance.

“Raven, to guide the dead ya send from the battlefield to the Underworld,” Gundrad said, pointing to the blade with thick fingers stained black.

“The rune’s Hagall, nature’s power and wrath.

Also a blessing for success in yer trials, worked into a sigil with other bindrunes.

Taken all together, the sigil is the balance of life and death.

The unstoppable coming storm, and the peace thereafter.

A completion of the natural cycle. As above, so below, and that. ”

“Did you design it?” I asked.

“Aye, I did. Carved it myself. Bet ya didn’t think these ol’ sausages could work so tiny, eh?” Gundrad laughed and wiggled his thick fingers. I smiled.

I gripped the hilt and lifted it from the box. It was, indeed, much lighter than the previous sword. The black wrapping gripped my hand as I held it. It warmed with the heat of my palm, becoming increasingly supple, almost tacky, in my grasp.

“That’ll never slip, never slide from yer grip, Miss. No matter the rain, mud, or blood, she’ll stay put. It’s treated with pine resin in the tanning process. The warmer and sweatier yer hands get, the better she grips, without ever getting sticky.”

I swung the blade once, twice, three times. Byrgir set down the great sword he’d been trialing, watched how I moved with it.

“I don’t know shit about swords,” I said to him, “but this one feels good.”

∞∞∞

We purchased the beautiful hand-and-a-half bastard sword with the raven and stave engravings, three cruel-looking long daggers, a delicate misericorde, and a set of two hand axes. Byrgir chose the catalog of weaponry based on my responses to each, and I blindly trusted his expertise.

We trained daily after that, my body quickly adjusting to the new types of stress.

For the first few days I learned footwork and simple defense without weapons.

Then we added my new arsenal of weaponry, to my deep frustration.

I was terrible with the weapons, and with hand to hand combat.

Thinking quickly enough to remember the name of each strike as Byrgir called them was difficult enough, let alone executing the proper technique and putting enough power into my blows each time.

But the frustration and challenge of being a complete beginner at something was enjoyable, in the way slow, humbling work was.

The smallest improvements felt like victories.

Byrgir and Crow were excellent coaches, and were quick to make adjustments to my training when I felt overwhelmed or they saw my frustration building too much.

They kept me on the edge of my ability, always pushing and learning, but never so defeated that I wanted to give up.

The skin of my right hand was soon thickened with calluses from the rough grip of my sword.

And for all the rain we trained in, for as much as I sweat, that grip never slipped.