distance from most of the huts, a site chosen because of a spring that flowed from a rock ledge there. When Aaren arrived, with a length of linen, a comb, and a fresh tunic in her hands, she spotted smoke already pouring from the hole in the roof and smiled, thinking that she wouldnât have to build a fire.
An old thrall man holding a bundle of birch twigs sat on an upturned log beside the door. His age-faded eyes widened as she approached, and he heaved to his feet and opened the door to stick his head inside. His words were muffled by the wooden door and the spiral of steam that escaped, but it was clear that he was announcing her presence to whoever was inside.
Shortly, the door slammed back and a man Aaren recognized as one of the jarlâs warriors emerged: red-flushed, dripping wet, and wearing nothing but a surly look. He stomped in hairy, bandy-legged splendor to the side of the hut, where a number of wooden pegs held tunics and breeches. Behind him, several more men materialized from the steamâeach as naked as birthing dayâand paused to pour buckets of cold water over themselves before exiting.
Aaren stiffened, sending her hand beneath the linen and spare tunic she held to the dagger at her waist. But they cast no more than bleary, resentful looks her way as they forced breeches and tunics over dripping bodies and snatched up belts, daggers, and buskins. The message was clear as they and their old thrall strode off down the path to the village: They would not suffer her company, not even in bathing . . . which according to Serrick was by custom both communal and congenial. In bathing, grievances were set aside, differences of place and personal importance were temporarily suspended . . . for it was in nakedness and the ritual of cleansing that all men were recognized as brother warriors, as members of some greater whole.
Borgerâs men, fresh from sweating the ale-poisons from their bodies, denied her even that respect. She stared after their grumbling, swaggering forms. She could probably outfight any of them, but they had just declared by their shunning that it would take more than fighting to make them accept her as an equal into their midst. Her skin burned with humiliation. What would it take to make them accept her as a warrior?
Shaking off that pride-blow, she ducked inside the house. She found herself in a surprisingly spacious, stone-walled chamber, lined with benches and raised wooden shelves placed high on the walls. A small pool on the far end was the source of a stream flowing through a stone channel across the floor, and in the center, by the stream, was an upraised stone hearth. Fire still burned under the heat rocks, but she added a small log from a stack just outside the door, to augment it, and dipped a bucket of the cold water and set it on the bench nearest the door. Then she began to loosen the ties at the sides of her breastplate.
Soon her wood-stiffened leather armor lay on a bench along the wall, like the parted halves of a tortoise shell. She sighed and stretched, freed for the first time in days from her armor and from the constant tension of confronting hostile and curious faces. She rubbed the soft linen of her tunic over her ribs, then propped one foot after the other on the bench to remove her boots and leggings. Closing her eyes, she savored the feel of her bare toes against the damp stone floor and the swirl of warm, moist air against her bared skin.
As she collected her garments to carry them out to the pegs, there was a scraping sound behind her and the doorway suddenly darkened. She whirled into a crouch, flinging the garments aside, her body braced for danger. And danger it was, she realized, as she beheld Jorund Borgerson silhouetted against the bright daylight. Woman-biter . . . Breath-stealer . . . Lightning-maker . . .
âYou have quick responses, Battle-maiden.â His deep voice vibrated with the same frequency as her fluttering pulse,
An old thrall man holding a bundle of birch twigs sat on an upturned log beside the door. His age-faded eyes widened as she approached, and he heaved to his feet and opened the door to stick his head inside. His words were muffled by the wooden door and the spiral of steam that escaped, but it was clear that he was announcing her presence to whoever was inside.
Shortly, the door slammed back and a man Aaren recognized as one of the jarlâs warriors emerged: red-flushed, dripping wet, and wearing nothing but a surly look. He stomped in hairy, bandy-legged splendor to the side of the hut, where a number of wooden pegs held tunics and breeches. Behind him, several more men materialized from the steamâeach as naked as birthing dayâand paused to pour buckets of cold water over themselves before exiting.
Aaren stiffened, sending her hand beneath the linen and spare tunic she held to the dagger at her waist. But they cast no more than bleary, resentful looks her way as they forced breeches and tunics over dripping bodies and snatched up belts, daggers, and buskins. The message was clear as they and their old thrall strode off down the path to the village: They would not suffer her company, not even in bathing . . . which according to Serrick was by custom both communal and congenial. In bathing, grievances were set aside, differences of place and personal importance were temporarily suspended . . . for it was in nakedness and the ritual of cleansing that all men were recognized as brother warriors, as members of some greater whole.
Borgerâs men, fresh from sweating the ale-poisons from their bodies, denied her even that respect. She stared after their grumbling, swaggering forms. She could probably outfight any of them, but they had just declared by their shunning that it would take more than fighting to make them accept her as an equal into their midst. Her skin burned with humiliation. What would it take to make them accept her as a warrior?
Shaking off that pride-blow, she ducked inside the house. She found herself in a surprisingly spacious, stone-walled chamber, lined with benches and raised wooden shelves placed high on the walls. A small pool on the far end was the source of a stream flowing through a stone channel across the floor, and in the center, by the stream, was an upraised stone hearth. Fire still burned under the heat rocks, but she added a small log from a stack just outside the door, to augment it, and dipped a bucket of the cold water and set it on the bench nearest the door. Then she began to loosen the ties at the sides of her breastplate.
Soon her wood-stiffened leather armor lay on a bench along the wall, like the parted halves of a tortoise shell. She sighed and stretched, freed for the first time in days from her armor and from the constant tension of confronting hostile and curious faces. She rubbed the soft linen of her tunic over her ribs, then propped one foot after the other on the bench to remove her boots and leggings. Closing her eyes, she savored the feel of her bare toes against the damp stone floor and the swirl of warm, moist air against her bared skin.
As she collected her garments to carry them out to the pegs, there was a scraping sound behind her and the doorway suddenly darkened. She whirled into a crouch, flinging the garments aside, her body braced for danger. And danger it was, she realized, as she beheld Jorund Borgerson silhouetted against the bright daylight. Woman-biter . . . Breath-stealer . . . Lightning-maker . . .
âYou have quick responses, Battle-maiden.â His deep voice vibrated with the same frequency as her fluttering pulse,
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