Icefall by Matthew J. Kirby Page A

stared in a way that took in every inch of me, and my stomach churned with humiliation.
     
    “Solveig,” Father finally said. “Go clean yourself.”
     
    “I’m sorry, Father,” I said.
     
    He sighed. “One cannot apologize for one’s nature.”
     
    Then you spoke, Per. “But as a child grows,” you said, “her nature changes, does it not?”
     
    I did not like to hear you call me a child, but I was grateful to you for defending me.
     
    “Perhaps, my lord, it is only a matter of time,” you said, “until you see that Solveig can bring you as much honor as her sister.”
     
    “Let us hope,” Father said.
     
     

STORY
     
    T he hall is silent and no one moves, except for the suspicious glances cast at one another. I can imagine the emotions racking the members of our steading. Fear. Anger. Dread. And I sense the coming hunger, a fearsome traveler skulking toward us with his belt of special knives.
     
    Per clears his throat and continues. “Alric and Solveig have agreed to tell another tale. Something to lift the weight off our shoulders.”
     
    He looks at me, and I wonder if I have the strength to do it. After Hake’s speech, I don’t know if I believe anyone would, even Alric.
     
    The skald nods at me to begin. We agreed previously that I should speak first, as the apprentice. Alric will finish the taleas it should be finished, because endings, as he says, are the most important element of a story, for that is where you discover the story’s purpose and meaning. But I can’t seem to work my legs, and my tongue feels as dry as a strip of stockfish. I take a deep breath, as Alric instructed, and manage the rise to my feet.
     
    The time spent rehearsing was wasted. I stand here, a hall full of faces watching me, expecting me to make things right, and I can’t remember a thing. What story was I supposed to tell? What tale? It had to do with the cows we lost, I think. Yes, the cows. Why would we tell a story about the cows? Why would we want to be reminded of that?
     
    I look into the eyes of my audience. The safety and future of the steading is so uncertain now, with dwindling food supplies, enemies outside our walls and possibly within. They need something they know, something predictable, something comfortable and safe. But what?
     
    I see Harald, and something about him has changed. He isn’t smiling. His face bears the pain and shock of a child struck by his father for the first time. The reality of our situation here has finally penetrated his youthful shield of confident ignorance. He sits alone, vulnerable and afraid. I want to go to him, to comfort him, but I can’t. Not until I finish my tale.
     
    So I will tell my story for him, one of his favorites, the story of the god Loki’s wager with the dwarves. He is my only audience. My mouth no longer feels dry, and I am no longer afraid.
     
    “Loki, the Wolf-Father, god of dark mischief and murder, once saw the metal craftsmanship of the clever dwarves, and thinking himself clever, too, he offered them a wager.”
     
    The eyes on me are impassive. Except for Harald, who leans forward, and Raudi, whose lips curl into a frown that fights a grin.
     
    “Loki spoke with the dwarves and said, ‘The gods have been given many gifts. I’ll wager you my head that you can’t fashion any that are better.’ The dwarves, being proud, accepted Loki’s bet and began to labor at the forge, making three gifts for the gods. First, they made a golden boar for Freyja, whose bristles shine throughout the long nights, lighting the hall and the path before him.”
     
    The men around me seem to have settled into the story, some reclining, hands behind their heads. Perhaps they are enjoying it.
     
    “Second, they made a golden ring for Odin, a ring that multiplies itself on every ninth night so that eight new gold rings fall from it.”
     
    And here comes Harald’s favorite part, a part that perhaps the berserkers will also appreciate.
     
    “And