The new attire lent a noble appearance to Sigurd, and with his newly minted nickname earned on the battlefield, she imagined tales of his valor would be told for years to come.
“You look like a hero,” Bryn commented as they stepped into the courtyard. The clear, cloudless sky stretching above them boded well for the start of their mission, and a pleasant breeze wound between the fragrant evergreens. She hoped the beautiful morning was a harbinger of the good tidings they would encounter during the expedition north.
“Do I?”
“How does it feel?” she asked him, smoothing her thumb over the emblems of honor and courage fastening his bearskin cloak. That, too, was a gift from her father.
“It feels well-earned.”
“I imagine it must, Sigurd Skull-splitter,” her father’s deep voice boomed behind them, filled with mirth and a genuine happiness she hadn’t heard from him in years.
Bryn turned to face him. Her father, who rarely ever smiled, had a jovial grin on his red-bearded face, eyes twinkling with humor.
“Is that the name I’m going to be stuck with?”
“It is,” Brynjar confirmed. “And it is a good name. Many years have passed since I’ve seen one with your strength wielding a hammer as well as you. The weapon suits you far better than any sword.”
“It does,” Bryn agreed, a delighted grin on her face.
“Ah. No. A desperate time called for a desperate measure, that’s all. I prefer the sword. The hammer merely happened to be at hand at the moment when I needed it.”
“If you should ever change your mind, lad, Ivaldi will craft for you a beauty unlike any weapon you’ve ever seen, superior to the best weapons of Eisland.”
Sigurd chuckled. “I’ll consider it, but I’ve grown fond of this one.” He stroked the sword hilt and smiled.
Bryn had always wanted to pass her mother’s sword to her firstborn. At some moments, when she gazed at Sigurd, she thought that dream might still come true.
I’ve fallen in love with him. I do not know when, but I love him.
Her father walked them from the courtyard to the adjacent stable where their horses awaited, already in tack and loaded with provisions for the days ahead of them. No emissary from Koldgrun had passed across the frozen plains into Jotunheim’s territory in decades. When Gunnar had last contacted the giants, sending a small team of his men to discuss safe passage of their ships, only one had returned, carrying a sack filled with the heads of his comrades.
Appealing to the jotuns made the most sense and with her father’s blessing, they could end the frigid war between Jotunheim and Koldgrun. The worst-case outcome was that the jotuns mercilessly slew them both and buried their corpses in the frozen waste. On the other hand, gaining their allegiance to the cause would place hundreds of giant warriors on their side to crush the opposition.
High risk, high reward.
As they stood alongside Freki and Geri, her father leveled a stony gaze on them. The humor faded in lieu of the concern creasing his craggy face. “I wish you’d reconsider taking some of my soldiers with you.”
“If we show up with a small army, Father, the jotuns will never hear us. Besides, Sigurd and I will move faster on our own.” She stroked Freki’s face, then added her personal supplies to the mare’s saddlebags. “We’ll be fine, I promise.”
“And you’ll need your men here in case Gunnar tries another attack,” Sigurd added.
“With the other jarls present, he wouldn’t dare. Still, I recognize the wisdom in your plan, even if I don’t like it.”
“Thank you.”
“But if you are to risk your lives to gain the allegiance of our northern…kin, please take these.” He offered her a slim box carved from black wood engraved with protective carvings. Bryn knew what to expect of its contents. She’d seen them before on many occasions, an heirloom passed down their family line.
Within the box lay a tidy row of three small black, red-veined stones, each one glossy like volcanic glass. The Tears of the Mountain had been chiseled from the soul of Mount Surtr, their angriest volcano, a magical place where the oreads dwelled. Like the jotuns, the reclusive stone nymphs did not consort with humans, but Bryn’s ancestor had somehow entered their home and escaped unscathed, and with a gift from their chieftain.
“Papa…these are—”
“I know,” he said, passing her a pair of drakescale smith’s gloves. “Take them with you. They have charged for days in the hearth in preparation for aiding you during this journey, and they will keep you warm when you need them most. Go, my daughter. Go with all the pride of our ancestors.”
Bryn tucked the box and gloves into one of Freki’s saddlebags. Her eyes burned, and her throat clenched with emotion.
When she turned to her father again, he set his hands on her shoulders and drew her into a tight embrace. She closed her eyes and squeezed him tightly, reminded of her childhood, when her father was more free with his affection. Perhaps losing her, seeing her stretched upon a stone in the visage of death, had fundamentally altered something in him.
Bryn raised one hand to cup her father’s bearded face. She had to stand on the tips of her toes to kiss his brow. “I love you, Papa.”
His gray eyes misted over. “I love you, too, little goose.” He stepped back and then turned his attention on Sigurd. Bryn almost felt bad for her lover, but he weathered her father’s scrutiny with dignity. “Watch over one another and return home safely. Both of you.”
“We will,” Sigurd promised.
Some time later, when they were on the northern road, she caught Sigurd stealing glances at her, wearing a smile on his handsome face.
“What?”
“Little goose?”
Bryn sighed. She’d been waiting for him to question the endearment since the abhorrent appellation left her father’s lips. “It is an old nickname.”
“With a story, I take it.” His grin widened. “Come on. Out with it. We have few things better to discuss, and conversation makes travel faster.”
“It does not.”
“We shall pretend it does.”
“Fine.” Bryn huffed. A small smile played about her lips that she couldn’t smother, no matter how much she wanted to scowl at him. “Then we shall exchange one story for another. I want to hear something about you and your twin.”
“It’s a deal. Yours first, little goose.”
“Ha ha ha. Anyway. It began on the first evening I wandered away from my mother in the markets. She’d let go of my hand for only a few seconds to receive cups of honey milk from a vendor, and in those seconds, the fae may as well have spirited me away. I don’t remember much of it, but apparently the entire city searched for me.”
“How old were you?”
“Not quite two. Maybe the fae or some magical creature did steal me away. I was found hours later in a coop with the fowl, wearing only my diaper and tucked beneath a mother goose.”
Sigurd almost fell apart from the force of his laughter. “Naked and under a goose? What? How did you even get there?”
“No one knows, not even the barn owner. His goose cared for me and kept me warm all that time. I was uninjured, smelled of bird shit, and completely comfortable.”