"I'm gonna be the greatest warrior ever!"
              I leapt atop the big gray rock and brandished my imaginary sword at my deadly foes.
              "I'm gonna captain my own dragonship!" little Kal shouted, and he stabbed at me, his invisible blade piercing my heart. I clutched my chest, cried out, and rolled my eyes: my most realistic death.
              "I'm gonna be a jarl and command fleets of dragons!" Halgrum shouted from the deepest spot, splashing merrily despite the water's numbing cold.
              "You fools!" Derek laughed as he swung back and forth on our hanging-rope, shaking the tall, creaky oak shading our favorite swimming hole.
              "What're you gonna be?" Kal asked.
              "King!" Derek announced proudly.
              "You can't be king unless your father was king!" Halgrum argued.
              "I'm going to seize Norway and steal his crown!" Derek smiled.
              "How?" we asked.
              "I'm gonna wait 'til you fools get everything, then kill you ... and take it all!"
              Complaints and defiance chorused, but Derek only sneered.
              "A man is master of all he can slay!" Derek recited the quote our fathers had drummed into us.
              We cheered; that was our favorite saying, frequently shouted by every boy in the village.
              Suddenly Halgrum shushed us.
              "Thron ...!" Mother's voice echoed across our fields.
              "Thron's in trouble!" Halgrum laughed.
              "You're not supposed to be here either!" I retorted.
              "Little baby better run home to mo-o-o-mmy!" Derek chided in his infantile, sing-song voice.
              "Thron ...!" Mother's distant shout sounded angry; all of the boys laughed.
              Cursing with the worst swear-words I knew, in a vain attempt to look manly, I pulled my dry clothes over my chilled, wet skin, and dashed across our fields, between our many long, almost-ripe rows of turnips. I couldn't hide my wet hair; I'd be in trouble, but it'd been days since we'd swum at the swimming hole, and summer was almost over. Harvest would mean endless chores, and then heavy snows would freeze our pond frozen solid.
              "There you are!" Mother said as I entered our musty, sod-roofed house. "I told you to finish your chores!"
              "I fed the pigs!" I argued.
              "Did you sweep?" Mother demanded. "All the way into the corners? And don't forget the pantry; it needs a good cleaning before harvest."
              Indignantly I grabbed our broom while Mother settled Urd into her crib, and then sat in her chair and picked up the new red blanket she was knitting for Urd. Her needles clicked softly amid the scrapes of my sweeping bristles, but then a strange sound came from outside; ragged, panting twitters of delight, and the slaps of bare running feet.
              "They're back!" Ingrid cried, breathlessly bursting inside our house. "Branwulf's dragon is sailing into the fjord!"
              "Father's home!" I shouted, throwing down the broom.
              "Thron, comb your hair and put on your new tunic," Mother threw aside her knitting, but I ran to my bed, yanked up my stained, gray blanket, and shoved my hand inside its scratchy, matted straw. My fingers closed upon my prize: my new wooden sword extended a handswidth longer than my arm, and gleamed from innumerable polishes. Carved out of dense walnut, I'd heated, sanded, and sharpened it until it was razor-sharp and hard as steel. Father would be impressed, perhaps enough to take me on the viking next summer. After all, I wasn't a kid anymore.
              "When did you make that?" Mother demanded. "Put it away!"
              "I made it for Father!" I argued.
              Mother quickly unbraided her long, curly red tresses and brushed them. She'd have burned my sword for firewood long ago, had she seen it, yet I caught a strange, worried look in her eyes as she hurried.
              "Put on your striped tunic ... and you can bring it," Mother said.
              I hesitated, uncertain. Mother was usually strict, especially about my toys. She never allowed me to play with real weapons; she even yelled when she caught Garand and I stick-fighting. But I wasn't going to miss the opportunity to save my new sword from the woodpile, not if all that I had to do was change clothes. I flipped back the lid of my cedar chest; inside lay my two other trousers, my nightshirt, winter stockings, and my new striped tunic.
              "Ingrid, wash the dishes and sweep the dirt," Mother said. "Everything must be perfect when Thorir gets here."
              "It'll be ready," Ingrid promised.
              Mother threw off her apron, then struggled into an overdress that I'd not seen since the day she'd finished sewing it, bright green with wide red snakes twisting around the collar, sleeves, and hem. She checked herself in the mirror again, carefully examined her slender, motherly face, pushed on her bushy red hair as if to shape it, smoothed her dress over her hay-beige chemise, and then lifted Urd from her cradle.
              "Father's never seen Urd before, has he?" I asked.
              "No, he left before I birthed her. I hope that he isn't angry; his last request before he sailed was for another son."
              "What ...?"
              "Nothing, Thron. Put on your leather belt and winter shoes."
              Quickly I drug my stiff wool tunic over my head. It was thick and scratchy but striped black and gray, and had a yellow torse sewn around its collar with fanged sea-dragons facing each other. Mother said that it'd give me the strength of real dragons, but I could only wear it when we went someplace special. I had to dig under my bed for my winter shoes and force my feet into them; I didn't like shoes, but I wanted to look my best for Father. Then I buckled on my wide leather belt and slid my prized walnut sword into its place so that Father would see it at once.
              "Do we have any fresh meat?" Mother asked.
              "Only what's left of the pheasant we smoked," Ingrid said.
              "Start a stew with it. Thicken it with two eggs, the good flour, and use the last of the spices; Thorir's first dinner home can't be boiled turnips."
              "Do you think he was successful?"
              "We won't make it through the winter if he wasn't. Wait, Thron."
              Mother turned to face our idols and bowed her head. I looked also; beside our door hung a small rack of painted ceramic figures, our family's tribute to the gods.
              "Blessed Frigg," Mother prayed, "let all be well. Please."
              She paused, silent, and then Mother wrapped Urd in the plaid blanket that Father'd brought back from Scotland. I ran outside, but Mother ordered me to wait. I pushed aside a dirty pig and opened the gate for her, then closed it behind us.
              Lots of people travelled our path. Mother had taught me to count to a hundred, and afterwards I'd counted everything in our village. We had two docks, fourteen farms, three ranches, and eighty-three people, when the men were home. During the summer, after the plantings sprouted, most of the men went viking to get treasures. Father had gotten me a brass chain with a real copper coin on it last year, and I didn't take it off until Mother had to sell it. I couldn't wait to see what he got me this year.
              Hal and Smidr rode past, Hal racing away from the fjord, Smidr riding toward town. We moved aside for them, but both knew Mother and waved. Hal was my old friend; he used to live in our barn, and he waved cheerfully to me, too. Smidr actually stopped and spoke cordially to Mother in his deep, growling voice, but he barely glanced at me. I watched amazed; Smidr was our smith, and us boys called him Smidr the Sword-Maker. He also forged cooking pots and plow blades, but who cares about those?
              Mother walked too slowly for me. She finally made me come back and hold her hand; I complained, but she threatened to send me home, and I knew better than to defy her; my leather belt had more uses than holding my walnut sword.
              As we neared the butcher's, something I'd never heard before stung my ears: Lady Hodkins, Derek's mother, was crying, but like I'd never imagined, a miserable, drawn-out wailing. I'd never seen a grownup cry in public.
              "Merta ...!" Mother shouted, dropping my hand to run to her. Mother grabbed her ... as if Lady Hodkins would've fallen without support.
              "The Danes!" Lady Hodkins sobbed. "The Danes ...!"
              "Thorir," Mother said firmly. "Did you see him?"
              Dumbly I stood there, confused. See Father? Why did Mother need to ask? Father always came home on the ship. He'd have wonderful gifts, tell great stories, and we'd all be happy.
              Sobbing uncontrollably, and despite Mother clutching her arm, slowly Derek's mother collasped onto her knees on our dirt path.
              "Thorir!" Mother demanded desperately, shaking her arm.
              Suddenly a scream burst from the village. Something was wrong; Father's homecoming hadn't gone as planned. My eyes widened; something was wrong with Father!
              "Father!" I cried, and I bolted toward the docks.
              "Thron ...!" Mother shouted, but I dashed ahead. Familiar houses blurred past my vision, but I didn't stop until I'd pushed through the crowd standing before our two narrow docks, watching as men unloaded the great dragon.
              "Stand back, boy," warned one of the men, but I couldn't wait.
              "Father!" I cried out.
              "You're Thorir's boy, Thron, aren't you?" the man asked. "Wait here. Your father'll be off soon."
              I gasped, seeing their cargo. A man lay unmoving on a shield between them; he seemed to be sleeping, but he wasn't breathing, looked ghastly pale, and strangely ... familiar.
              "Is Garad here?" the man asked me.
              My throat constricted. Slowly, as if through a winter fog, I remembered the dead man's face: Holbarki, Garad's father. My best friend's father was dead.
              "Father!" I shouted.
              Garad's father moved on, carried past the crowd of onlookers, which I was barely aware of despite their bitter chorus of sobs and whispers. Another pair of warriors came down our narrow dock carrying a large round shield; upon it lay a dead man I didn't recognize, but I couldn't take my eyes off him. Chalk white, mouth open, and his right arm missing, they carried him past me into the crowd.
              I stood terrified, aghast, wondering who'd next be carried off the ship.
              "Father!" I shouted as I recognized his features.
              "Thron?" Father asked, and then I was holding him, my arms tight about his leg. Father was alive!
              "Let go, Thron," Father said.
              I didn't. Tears poured down my face. Never had I been so scared! Yet Father never reached down to me. Instead, he lifted his leg, carrying me with him, and proceeded through the crowd. Behind his back, Father and a tall blonde man carried another corpse.
              Attached to his leg, Father carried me into Tavern Hall, the largest building ever. Everyone in our village could crowd into Tavern Hall, if all of the tables were leaned against the walls. The tables were set out today, three laden with corpses. Father and the tall man set their burden down upon the fourth.
              "That's the last," the tall blonde man said.
              "More than we could afford," Father said.
              "Come, Thorir, let's get your gear unloaded. We've two more stops today."
              Strong hands seized my ribs, pried me off, and lifted me high. As we hugged, I squeezed myself against Father as hard as I could, so hard that he grunted, as if in pain, although that was nonsense; nothing could hurt Father. When next I looked, Father had carried me out of the tavern and onto the dock.
              Amazed, I stared as he carried me out onto our narrow dock, stepped over the rail, and onto the gigantic ship. Branwulf's dragon was huge, the biggest vessel in the world, and could hold more people than I could count. Doubtlessly two such ships could hold all of the people in the world.
              The dragon was beautiful, a real dragon's head turned to wood and mounted on the front, its curling, petrified tail mounted on the aft. Its mast towered, strung with ropes for climbing. Branwulf's dragon rocked and bobbed on the water as if alive, and I dreamt of the day I'd sail on it to find the greatest toys in the world. Father had promised that someday I'd join him, and together we'd conquer England.
              Lots of strange men squeezed aboard, lifting chests and bags, some standing in line, waiting to get off. These warriors were almost as big as Father, whose ancestors were giants, yet none of them looked happy, and some glared at me.
              "Hold tight, Thron," Father said, and he spun me on his neck so that my feet hung down his back. Then, with a lot of groaning, he lifted a huge barrel.
              "Thorir, let me help you," said the tall blonde stranger, stepping over and taking the bottom of the barrel.
              "Thanks," Father said, and he braced, reached down with his other hand, and picked up a large bag. Slowly they inched their way around the other men, and finally down the long dock. They pushed to the outside of the crowd and set their burdens down.
              "Vespa!" Father cried.
              Mother smiled brightly, though tears drenched her cheeks, and Father ran to hug her with me bouncing against his back. He held her long and kissed her, and the warmth that I barely remembered suddenly flamed again.
              "Thank Odin you're home," she said.
              "Who's this?"
              "This is your daughter, Urd."
              "Urd? Your grandmother?"
              "I wanted to honor her."
              "A good name. A fine daughter. You've done well. Vespa, this is Sammuel, from Finland. We've been like brothers all summer."
              "A pleasure, good sir."
              "I've heard much of you, dear lady."
              "He saved my life."
              My eyes snapped open. The stranger was tall and thin with a beard that looked like a new broom with too few straws. He wore no shirt, his once-pale skin now red with sunburn. He wore no shoes.
              "You have my deepest gratitude, sir," Mother said.
              "Don't believe all he says," Sammuel smiled. "He saved my hide a dozen times. Well, I have to be off; my sea-chest has no lock and I don't like being out of sight of it. Next year ...?"
              "I'll look for you," Thorir promised.
              "I won't sail with anyone else," Sammuel said.
              Father hugged Sammuel long and hard. Finally they released, and Sammuel nodded to Mother, then walked away without another word.
              Father turned to Mother. "We lost forty-seven men this year. Almost didn't get back at all."
              Slowly he drew my arms apart and lowered me to the ground. Then Father reached toward my belt and pulled out my walnut sword. Quietly he held it up and examined it.
              "Did you make this?"
              "Yes," I said.
              "Good. Vespa, stay here and watch my things ... our things. I have to attend to the fallen."
              Mother nodded. Father started to turn away, and then he looked at my walnut sword in his hands.
              "Come, Thron. It's time you learned what this is."

                             * * * * * * * * *

              "Stay silent and behind me," Father whispered. "Watch and listen."
              My sword in his hands, Father led the way back into Tavern Hall. Shouted orders bellowed from the ship, probably from Branwulf himself, and men hurried to comply. Lines were cast from the dock. The big dragonship floated slowly away, helped by sailors pushing it with oars. I loved watching ships set sail, but obediently followed Father into the gloom.
              Four corpses covered the tables. Men clustered around them, muttering softly, a deep rumble that echoed incoherently. The air reeked of blood and decay, and I hardly dared breathe, fearful of interrupting the solemn atmosphere. Never had I seen faces so grave.
              I barely knew most of the men, so seldom was I allowed to visit the village. Beside Smidr stood Digr, who was very fat and owned the biggest farm, and beside Digr stood Brun and Trandill, both of whom were owned by Digr, farmhands that he took viking each year. Rath was there, of course, with his big axe, talking to a couple of older village men whose names I couldn't remember.
              "Thorir, we've decided to hold the burials together below Seal Ridge on Thor's Day," Trandill said.
              Father nodded. "Who has the sacks?"
              "I do," Digr said. "We thought to present them at the funerals, but ..."
              "Their families will have enough to think about then," Father said. "Give out the sacks today. Waiting until the funeral will be hard; give them something else to dwell upon."
              "Gaceth lived by you. Will you take his sack to Eardai?" Smidr asked. Digr nodded.
              "I'll take Holbarki's to Grettir," Father said.
              "Clamsby said that we could leave the bodies here as long as it doesn't get too hot, so people can grieve properly," Digr said.
              "Meet here shortly after the cock's cry," Father said.
              "My sons are old enough to chop wood," said one of the older men whose name I couldn't remember. "I'll send them over to Seal Ridge tomorrow."
              The impromptu meeting suddenly dissolved. Without ceremony or words, the men seemed to know that it was over. Two left right away, hurrying out into the open air, while the rest broke into groups, talking quietly. Father stood still as stone, eyes closed, head bowed.
              "They were good men, very brave," Father said.
              "Except Turhelm ...," Brun interjected.
              "We take that to our graves!" Father said harshly.
              "Better a corpse than a coward," Brun said.
              "True," Father said. "But my lips won't stain his sons with the disgrace of a shipmate."
              Everyone nodded in silence. Father frowned, then lifted up my wooden sword, which looked tiny in his hand. He examined it again, then held it out.
              "My son made this."
              Brun took it, sighted down the length of it, and ran his thumb across its edge. Others came over to look at it. Brun smiled, but the other faces were grim.
              "Thron's first key to Odin," Hal said, smiling at me.
              "Good start for a warrior," Digr said, taking the sword from Brun and holding it up.
              "Does he know what it's for?" Brun asked.
              "He will," Father said.
              Father lifted me, and turned me to face the morbid tables. I eyed the fallen, and dared not breathe or close my eyes.
              "The measure of a man is who he can kill," Father said to me. "See these corpses? Wealth belongs to the last man standing; sometimes we won, sometimes not. This is what happens when we lose. Remember these faces every time you draw a weapon. In all fights, death claims your enemy ... or you."
              Clamped in Father's grip, and with all the village men watching, I stared at the horrible, dead faces. Ghastly, they laid motionless, hollow shells of warriors who were no more; pale, sunken, and reeking. I knew only one of them, and he seemed the most horrid. I shuddered, but I didn't turn away.
              "I'll remember, Father."

                             * * * * * * * * *

              Dinner was a feast. Father sat at the head of our table while Ingrid served us spicy pheasant stew rich with turnips and onions, flavored with pepper and thyme, and freshly-baked bread.
              "Where's Hal and Morgan?"
              "Morgan's dead," Mother said, and Father's smile vanished. "Morgan died trying to protect us. Five men, strangers from Lapland by their accent, broke in one night."
              "What!?!" Father demanded.
              "It's long past, Thorir," Mother said, glancing at me, and Father followed her gaze. "We'll talk about it later."
              I fell silent, remembering that horrible night: strange men with swords burst inside when Morgan opened our door to go out. I'd been carving a large oaken cooking fork while Mother wove by candlelight and Ingrid washed the dishes. They killed Morgan, and threatened to do the same to us, if we screamed. They bound Hal with leather thongs and gagged him. I was locked in Mother's clothes chest, but I could hear the nasty sounds. They took Urd, who was then newborn, and promised that they'd kill her if Mother and Ingrid didn't obey them. They stole many of our things, and Mother and Ingrid had cried for weeks.
              "What about Hal?" Father asked, frowning, his voice deep.
              "I had to sell Hal. It was him or Ingrid, and he was worth more. Digr's wife bought him." Father lowered his head. "I should've been here."
              "You had tasks of your own," Mother said. "Those tasks are doubly important now. What happened ...?"
              Father glared strangely at Mother, as if wishing her to continue, but her face was pale, and Ingrid stood frozen behind her, stiff-lipped, fighting back tremors.
              "I'll tell you of our summer," Father said sternly.

                             * * * * * * * * *

              "Things went well at first. We sailed toward the western coast of Scotland, where the rivers are less defended. In the second week, we boarded two merchant vessels and pirated all that they had. With fresh supplies, we sailed out to sea and came at Ireland from the west. We landed in the first glow of dawn at a large farm and killed every man there, feasted on swine and chicken, and opened all of their kegs. They had some wealth, apparently, but Captain Branwulf took that.
              "It was about the first of May when things went wrong. We'd taken several more farms and another merchant ship, which we kept as a second ship just to carry our booty, when we heard a bell tolling in the morning fog. On a small island, we spied a Christian monastery near a rickety dock, completely unguarded. It was a great site, facing away from the mainland. Branwulf wanted to use it as a base from which we could raid the Irish for weeks.
              "That cursed bell was a lure. Hundreds of arrows shot at us as we reached its barred doors, both from inside the monastery and from the nearby woods. Fires sprang up from flaming bottles of oil that they dropped upon us from the tower. Men fell by the dozens, and still we couldn't see our enemy.
              "We fled back to the boats, plying oars while arrows hailed. Over half of our company was wounded, including Rath, Digr, and me."
              I bolted upright. "Father...?"
              "I'm well-healed; I took one arrow in the arm and another grazed my side. I was one of the lucky; men were dying for days.
              "We sailed out to open sea, hoping to lose ourselves from pursuit; Irishmen seldom give up the scent of blood. Sharks ate our dead. Then a terrible storm forced us inland.
              "Blind, not knowing what rocks we might hit, we drove our ships up onto sand at night near a heavy stand of trees. We anchored, ran ashore, and there we spent the next three days, building fires for warmth and sleeping in wet clothes under under dripping pines. After too many cold nights at sea, land was welcomed, although the rain never stopped. One of the men shot a deer and we cooked it while it bled.
              "With dwindling supplies, Branwulf announced that we needed another target; the viking season doesn't last forever. We went after cargo ships, since that had been our easiest prey, but we found only worthless fishing boats. Two weeks passed, and our fresh water ran out.
              "We raided another farm, but it was no equal to the first. We slaughtered their animals and took them whole onto the ship ..."

              Father kept talking, but in my mind I clearly saw both of us viking together. I'd fight beside Father, and we'd charge across England and France leading hundreds of warriors. We'd always be foremost, holding the front line, or in the lead ship. We'd fight like Odin, Villi, and Ve. In combat, none would stand against us; our swords would slice through any armor. Foemen who dared come within our reach would die in pieces. Enemy blood would paint us, and castles and empires would crumble before us! Men would see our courage, our giant-bred strength, and flock to us! We'd be kings, heaped with every treasure on Earth, and I'd never have to plant or harvest another turnip. We'd build a castle on our farm, and Ingrid would serve us roast venison and sugar-dates every night. All of the other kids would sing my praises ... and even Derek would bow down before me!

              "We sailed too close to Denmark," Father continued. "Heavily armed and well-supplied, their sailors get to keep all of the treasure that they capture, so their warships are manned only by the best. Rams are mounted on their bows just below the waterline; steel-capped spikes that can tear a dragon in two. One spied us early in the morning, and the chase began.
              "We rowed for hours under the hot August sun, and thought we were escaping westward, until we saw another ship there, sailing right at us. Branwulf should've expected it; Norsemen have been raiding south since great-grandfather's days, and too-well the Christians have learned to fight. Pinched between their ships, we steered north and rowed without rest until dawn. But the moon was bright, the night clear, and we couldn't shake them.
              "Branwulf decided to fight ... before rowing exhausted us. We'd stolen more than treasure over the summer, so we made ready. Suddenly we turned east, toward one of our pursuers. Both ships turned to meet us.
              "Arrows pierced us as we approached, but Branwulf had us hold our weapons until the last minute. We braced behind our shields with four oars strapped to our prow to fend off the deadly ram. Our rowers had precise instructions; if they failed, then we'd sink.
              "At the last minute, we flung thirty flaming flasks of oil at them, as the Irish had done to us. Our oarsmen proved their merit, avoiding the spike and keeping our ships apart. Many of their men tried running across our oars, but we met them with spears, and they fell to the fishes. A few made it onto our ship, and they fought like madmen.
              "We drove right past their ship and kept sailing. Those of us left fell to the oars and rowed. Our oarsmen, who'd so bravely kept our ships from ramming, had suffered the brunt of the Dane's arrows: half of them were wounded, dead, or dying.
              "We shoved them aside and rowed. The Dane's ship was afire, both vessel and crew. The other ship stopped to help them while we rowed as fast as we could.
              "That's the tale of it. Our dead we carried home. Branwulf paid us well, which he could easily afford; we started out with one hundred and forty-four men and ended up with ninety-seven, twelve badly wounded. We collected portions for each of our neighbor's widows; sacks of copper coins and jewelry, and Branwulf added a silver coin to each sack. We lost six from this village, four in our last fight, three of whom were oarsmen, and Holbarki, who fell beneath a Danish axe."

                             * * * * * * * * *

              "Show me your sword again," Father said, leaning back in his chair. I ran to get it, eyeing the large bag and heavy barrel that Mother had helped Father carry home; I couldn't wait to see what they contained. I knew that Mother felt the same, but Father liked to delay his surprises as long as possible. I brought him my sword and he examined it again.
              "Have you made anything else?" he asked.
              He knew that I had; that's what we did at night while the candles glowed. Mother worked her loom while Ingrid spun, and I carved hardwoods; making plates, bowls, spoons, or whatever. Ladles were my specialty, and I ran to the kitchen to retrieve several. As Father turned them over in his hands, complimenting me on my craftsmanship, Mother told him of the pieces that she'd traded for dyes and needles. Father seemed very proud. Then Urd started to cry, and he insisted on holding her again.
              Finally, Father had me bring him the big sack that he'd brought home; it was much heavier than I'd expected. Father placed it on the floor between his feet and opened it up; it was full of clothes. He pulled out a long, white nightshirt that shined in the candlelight.
              "Silk!" Mother exclaimed, and she took it greedily. He also had several fancy dresses, fine bed linens, and rolls of exquisite cloths for sewing. Lastly, he pulled out a thick coat of fox-skins, and Mother had to try it on right away, and wore it while she hugged him.
              I could barely contain my excitement as Father opened the barrel. First, he reached in and pulled out a pair of tall candleholders, solid brass, and set them on the table. Then he pulled out other things; metal pots, fireplace hooks, iron tools, fancy bed curtains, and several small chests and boxes, mostly empty, however one contained lots of sea shell and bronze jewelry, which Mother and Ingrid fawned over, laughing delightedly. It was obviously more than they'd expected, but I waited impatiently.
              "I don't know if you'll want this, Thron," Father said to me at last. "Your walnut sword is so nice, I don't know if you'll want ... this one."
              Father held up the most beautiful sword that I'd ever seen. Longer than my walnut sword, it rested encased in a wooden scabbard covered with black leather. Its crossguard and pommel of polished iron shined, divided by a grip wrapped in leather thong. Slowly Father drew it; its steel blade flashed in the candlelight. I took it reverently, trembling, as proud as I could be. I held it up, then viciously stabbed at an imaginary foe.
              Father laughed loudly.
              "Men's hands are stained by the blood of their enemies," Father lectured me. "Impress Odin with that sword ... if you would be honored."
              Father lifted other treasures from the barrel, valuable or useful, including a small pouch of two silver coins and fourteen copper ones, but I paid scant attention. Clutching my prize, my paradise was sheathing and unsheathing it, examining every detail of its surface. I hugged Father and thanked him many times; I'd wanted Father to start thinking of me as a warrior, and found that he already did.

                             * * * * * * * * *

              "What did you want us to do...? Let them kill your daughter...?"
              I awoke to Mother's voice, unusually shrill and angry. Father slammed the door behind him and Ingrid burst out crying.
              "Father ...?"
              "Go back to sleep, Thron," Ingrid said. "He'll be back soon. We had to tell him about the men who robbed us."
              Bleary-eyed, I glanced about the room. More things than I recalled lay on the table, fancy daggers, metal forks, and matching spoons that Father must've pulled out of his barrel after I was sent to bed. Mother and Ingrid had seemed so happy then; now they seemed sad.
              "Close your eyes, Thron."
              Knowing not to argue, I rolled over and faced the wall. My new sword, scabbarded, I found still in my hand; I must've been clutching it in my sleep. I couldn't wait to show it to Garad.
              Garad! I'd forgotten - Garad wouldn't be smiling tonight. He'd have no prizes, no gifts from his father, no tales to tell of his courage and craftiness. I had no idea what I'd say to him.
              Ingrid's shadow crossed the wall momentarily as I heard her go to Mother.
              "Go after him," she whispered.
              Quietly I glanced back at them. Ingrid helped Mother put on her new fox coat; both were crying ... I never understood why they cried so much. I could barely remember the things that the robbers had stolen from us. Whatever they took, the women missed it very badly.
              Long I laid there, pretending to sleep as Ingrid pulled the covers tight around me. The flickering candlelight danced upon the wall, and the last thing that I remembered was that I wasn't the least bit sleepy.

                             * * * * * * * * *

              Father hadn't told me bedtime stories for a long time, but sometimes I remembered them. Mornings were when I usually recalled them, somewhere between dreams and awakening, when the world is silent and gray, and I'm warm and tingly, I can still see Father smiling and leaning over my bed.
              "One quick story, Thron, and then you must sleep.
              "Once, very long ago, our ancestors were giants, as tall as the mountains, with skins as hard as rocks. All men feared us, and cowered in our shadows, and we were the lords of thick forests, where we built great halls and palaces beside the sea. But our hearts were as big as our fists, and eventually we fell in love with human women, who bore us children that were as much human as giant. Generations passed, and each time the human blood grew stronger in our veins, and so we grew shorter, until only the very wisest could see the strain of giants living in our blood. Yet still we were renowned as the mightiest of all.
              "Then, one terrible stormy night, in the heart of winter, disaster fell. Jealous of all that we owned, puny mortals attacked our halls and palaces with fire, igniting even the forests around us. We killed them easily, but the rising flames encircled our burning homes, and we stood trapped between raging fires and the stormy sea.
              "Having no choice, we piled ourselves and a few possessions into one mighty dragon and set sail blindly into the night. Behind us, fire consumed everything that we owned - all of our wealth and power, our plowed fields, and herds of cattle.
              "The sea washed us into this fjord, where we arrived penniless, without even food to feed our children. We sold our dragon for this farm and supplies to last us through harvest. But your great, great grandfather made a promise that first night before he slept in this house; he promised that someday our family would rise back up, reclaim our wealth and power, and again we'd be kings of men.
              "That day is coming, Thron. You and me, someday - we are going to viking south to find treasures beyond imagining. Then all men shall fear us, and we'll be giants again!"

                             * * * * * * * * *

              "How did Garad's father die?"
              Father glanced over and saw my best friend leaning against his barn door.
              "Let's go tell Garad," he said.
              "Wait. I want to get something."
              I ran to the house, grabbed both of my swords, and ran back out. Father looked at me questioningly.
              "I want to give my wooden sword to Garad."
              Father smiled slightly and nodded. We walked over together.
              Garad's eyes were red, his young face haggard, his hair unkempt. I'd have known that something was wrong just from that; his mother used oil on his hair and fussed whenever he got dirty.
              "Hello, Garad," Father said. "Where's your mother?"
              "Sleeping."
              "Good," Father said. "I think that you should know how your father died. He was very brave and saved all of our lives. He'd want you to remember him well."
              Garad said nothing, just looked at the real sword in my hand. I felt ashamed. My father had lived to bring me presents, while his ...
              I held out my walnut sword. Garad knew it well. He'd tried to make his own, but a flaw in the wood had bent his when he'd heated it.
              "Father brought me a real sword. I ... want you to have this one." Garad looked at my walnut blade as if it were dung.
              "It's proper that you should take it," Father instructed. "Bring your mother over for dinner tonight and I'll give you a steel dagger to match it."
              Obediently Garad accepted the wooden sword, and then Father sat between us, his wide back against their barn's side door.
              "Your father was a good man and a good friend. I once saw him tear his only tunic in half to bandage a stranger who'd been pierced with a spear. He was a great fighter, too. Watching him fight reminded me of the tales of your grandsire, that your father and I listened to when we were your age. Holbarki liked to throw his weight against his foes, once he had their weapons entangled, and then break them with the strength of his arms. Strong as an ox he was. Few dared wrestle him, and he was crafty, clever with a sword. He could shoot a heavy bow, too."
              Father kept talking, slowly, his deep voice carving a picture of Garad's father as a hero, how he always led the way into farmhouses or ran across oars to board enemy ships. I listened, fascinated, but my attention stayed on my friend. Garad sat still as best he could, although his tears rained the whole time. Sometimes he cried so hard that Father had to stop and wait, but mostly he sat silent, tears dripping off his chin. Finally, Father picked Garad up and set him in his lap. By the time that he told how Holbarki had kept rowing even with four feathered shafts stuck in his flesh, his back to an axeman running across the oars, we were all crying, and I'd learned the truth: Garad's father was a hero.
              "Go inside soon," Father told Garad as he set him beside me. "Your mother needs you now, more than you know. Don't forget to tell her of my invitation. We'll expect you for dinner before dark."
              Father got up and walked back toward our fields. I carefully placed my hand on Garad's shoulder, not knowing if he was aware of me or not.
              "We should make a song about your father," I said.

                             * * * * * * * * *

              "Wealthy men don't eat boiled turnips every night," Father said as we walked back to our house, after surveying our ripe fields. "Have you ever butchered a pig?"
              "No."
              "Well, pick out an old male and you'll butcher him today."
              I knew instantly which one would be best, the fat one with the black spot around one eye. I showed him to Father, and he nodded.
              "Draw your sword, Thron, and give me the scabbard."
              I did as ordered, silent and confused.
              "Kill the pig."
              I glanced at the pig. He outweighed me and had big teeth and hooves. I looked at the naked sword in my hand, then up at Father.
              "Aren't we going to tie him up?" I asked.
              "Do you want to end up like Garad's father? You need to learn to fight ... now ... while I'm here. You must learn to defend yourself and your mother ... for when I'm gone."
              I hesitated, uncertain. When he was gone? Did he mean that I wouldn't go with him next summer ... or was he talking about ... when he died? A shudder ran up my spine; if it could happen to Garad's father ... no, I couldn't even think that.
              "Foemen don't like to die. The pig will resist. Kill the pig."
              I turned to face the smelly beast. He was no different than any of the others, but I tried to think as if he were. He was my foe!
              With a shout, I charged the pig, my sword held high. He bolted as I attacked, but I was determined; I chased him down and swung my blade hard at his neck.
              The fat pig moved faster than I'd expected. My blade gashed the back of his rump, evoking a human-like screech, before he ran off. I turned back and looked at Father, who stood still and silent, watching.
              My foe had run to the far edge of the pig-pen, pushing aside the others, all of whom grunted loudly. My mighty sword had done far less damage than I'd expected, but I wasn't going to fail with Father watching. I held my sword out and walked through the muck toward my foe.
              The pig backed up against the fence. The other pigs nervously moved away. My foe squealed and grunted as if both crying for help and trying to frighten me. My feet sank deep into the muck; it squished between my toes. Mother would shout angrily if she saw me walking here; good thing that I wasn't wearing my fancy tunic.
              The pig bolted past me. I jumped at him and swung my sword, but I only splashed to my knees. The pig fled squealing out of the pen and across our fields. I glanced at Father again, but he said nothing.
              I spent an hour running after the pig, hopelessly chasing him, before I gave up. He'd bolt before I got within a dozen yards of him. Finally, I herded him back. It took a long time, and I was hot, dirty, and smelly before he stupidly ran back inside his familiar pen. I followed him in and pulled the gate closed behind me.
              The fat old pig made noises like I'd never heard, as if he knew that he was trapped. I held my sword tightly in both hands and slowly approached. His squeals made all of the other pigs nervous, and he tried to bolt, but I moved carefully, keeping him hemmed in the corner against the boards.
              Finally I could approach no closer. We stared at each other, unblinking, and I tensed. I had to be patient, and spring like lightning from the clouds. I waited anxiously, my steel sword tight in my grip, more nervous than ever before.
              I jumped and swung, and suddenly he came at me. Everything went black - I choked. Pain shot through me so many ways that I couldn't tell where it came from. I heard the pig grunting, but muffled, as if I was underwater.
              Father's hands pulled me from the muck. I rose covered in filth, hair to toes; ears, mouth, and nose - all plugged and fouled. Blood leaked from my arm.
              "Boys fight, men kill," Father said. "Watch."
              I clawed and spat, digging the crap from my face. Shaking my head, I spied Father lift my sword from the muck. He held it up and wiped the blade off with a rag. Slowly he stepped toward the gate.
              Suddenly he turned and stepped toward the pig, so fast that I almost missed it. My sword, in his hand, stabbed through the squealing pig, driven into one ear, which cut into the swine's brain. The squeal died instantly ... and so did the pig.
              Father and I stared the the dead pig.
              "Never forget that we're Norsemen," Father said. "Kill a beast, you take from it everything it owns. Kill a man, no difference."

                             * * * * * * * * *