Halfdan had been to Odinsvi once when a few years older than Sif. Ylva had taken him, undoubtedly performing some errand for the goei back home. He did not remember much other than the chaos and cacophony of countless people herded together. The city had ramparts with watchtowers while its busy market lay outside; lack of space inside the walls necessitated this, not to mention the stench from so much livestock in the same place. Even from afar, the pungent smell tore at their noses.

  They had encountered plenty more travellers on the last stretch towards Odinsvi; besides the usual traffic to a settlement of such size, midsummer drew many to the market. Such as the peddler and his family, who separated from Halfdan and Sif, since the pair intended to continue past the gate. Their parting was marked by a stream of gratitude from the trader, while Sif promised eternal friendship with his daughter; as for Halfdan, he gave a nod and nothing more.

  Halfdan had two tasks to accomplish: speak to the goei at the great temple, and find a teacher for Sif. Unfamiliar with cities of this size, or any for that matter, he had little idea how to accomplish the latter; thus, he decided to begin with the former. A temple could not be that difficult to find. “Come along.” Together, they walked through the gate to enter Odinsvi.

  *

  A constant stream of people going in every direction. Taller and stronger than most, Halfdan could push his way forward, and when someone brushed their shoulder against him, it pushed them back, not him. His companion kept straight behind him, following in his wake with a small hand gripping the edge of his cloak tightly.

  The road was pure mud; it had rained recently, and with no growth to absorb the water, it turned the dirt into soup. Halfdan wore good boots that helped his footing, but as he glanced over his shoulder, he noticed Sif’s shoes did not fare well.

  If responsible for her, Halfdan would have considered buying her better footwear; but if all went to plan, she would soon be somebody else’s charge. For the best, Halfdan thought. Children and berserkers did not fit together well.

  Halfdan only had to ask for directions to the temple once before he saw it rise above the other buildings in the city. Unlike back home, where a simple stone circle marked the shrine, this was a proper structure. It rose to the height of a great tree, made from staves of wood layered on top of each other. A beautiful sight, especially as it heralded the end of Halfdan’s journey. Soon, he could return home.

  *

  Crossing the threshold, Halfdan became aware that a giant of a man came the other way, stomping out. His shoulder struck Halfdan’s, and for once, the latter became pushed back. It was rare that Halfdan was made to feel small physically, but this fellow accomplished that. Judging by the axe strapped to his back, he was a berserker as well.

  Other than Ylva, Halfdan had never met another of his own kind; the man’s aggressive stride, haughty countenance, and stern demeanour made Halfdan consider that perhaps such was for the best. If berserkers had a poor reputation, the giant seemed to live up to it.

  “Halfdan?” Sif said with a question in both her voice and her eyes.

  “Nothing.” He continued, entering the temple.

  The interior was dark even during the day. A wooden pole stood in the centre of the room, carved to resemble a bearded man with one eye. They were not alone, as to be expected during such days; supplicants came and went, speaking to the robed men also present. Halfdan approached the one standing closest; his face was shaved clean, and although young, his clothing made him resemble the old priest back in town.

  “I bear a message from the goei of my town,” the berserker declared.

  The servant of Odin raised a hand. “Wait, I sense it.” He closed his eyes and made a humming sound. “Ill omens plague your gods-forsaken village, and now you seek the wisdom of Odin’s high priest.”

  For a moment, Halfdan wondered if foresight was among the divine gifts, or perhaps the reading of minds; then he scowled. “I’m not the first.”

  “Not even today. But you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the high priest won’t give an answer until then.”

  “I’m here now,” Halfdan growled, “why the delay?”

  “Oh, forgive me. Judging by your axe, I thought you were another berserker like the other six I’ve seen already. I had no idea the gods favour you above all the rest.”

  A sneer ran across Halfdan’s face, but he restrained himself from headbutting Odin’s priest in the god’s own sanctuary. He turned, only to see Sif, reminding him of his other errand. “Wait!” he called out before the priest could step away. “She needs to be awakened.”

  “Lucky for her that midsummer’s eve is upon us. Same answer to her,” the goei remarked prosaically. “Come back tomorrow night.”

  *

  Back on the street, Sif looked up at Halfdan. “Where do we find a skáld?”

  A good question that the berserker could not answer, and something he did not wish to admit, feeling her hopeful stare. His only idea was to go to the market outside the walls; any wandering bards would be attracted to such crowds, presumably, looking for an audience. “This way.”

  They had not walked far before the crowd on the dirt road parted, and Halfdan knew it was not for his sake; he grabbed Sif and pressed her behind him. Moments later, a procession of riders appeared, the hooves of their mounts spraying mud in every direction.

  The man in front wore a shining coat of steel, and the clasp on his cloak and buckle on his belt were made from silver, as were the threads that stitched his clothing. A chain of gold adorned his neck, and a sword, the weapon of the highborn, hung by his side.

  “Is that the king?” Sif asked, entranced.

  “Hardly. He sits at Hleier far east of here. That must be the local jarl,” Halfdan explained casually; not that he knew the names of either king or jarl. Behind the lord came his hird, the warriors of his household; all of them wore mail like their master and silver on their cloak and belts along with a variety of weapons.

  “A skáld!” Sif exclaimed, pointing. Halfdan followed her finger and had to agree. The last rider in the procession did not wear armour nor arms, but his clothing had bright colours, and the feather of a pheasant was woven into his braids. An ostentatious display, especially for one clearly not a jarl or even a warrior.

  They waited until the riders had passed before turning around to follow them.

  *

  The jarl’s longhouse stood in the centre of the city, as could be expected. A single guard stood watch outside; he did not seem a member of the household warriors, wearing no armour other than his woollen clothing, and while they had wielded axes and swords, he leaned himself against a spear.

  Seeing Halfdan approach, he quickly shook his head. “Erik Jarl doesn’t take berserkers into his hird.”

  “That’s not my purpose either. I must speak with a member of his band.”

  The guard gave Halfdan another measuring look. “If you cause trouble, there’s twelve warriors inside who’ll deal with you.”

  The berserker stepped to the side, revealing Sif behind him. “I’m not here to start a fight with a child in tow.”

  With an unimpressed expression, glancing from berserker to child and back, the sentinel replied, “Leave your axe here.”

  Halfdan growled at the suggestion, but starting a fight would not help, and he did as commanded. “It better be here when I return,” he said through gritted teeth, leaving any threats unspoken.

  The guard took a step away, allowing Halfdan and Sif to cross the threshold. The former had to bend his neck; the door was built low precisely for this purpose, forcing any attacker to be vulnerable upon entry.

  Halfdan narrowed his eyes, trying to find his target in the dark space; lamps provided scarce illumination compared to the sunlight outside, and the smoke produced did not help either. Thankfully, the bright raiment worn by the bard acted as a beacon, and Halfdan strode past benches of warriors to reach him.

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  Seated on a bench, the skáld looked up at him while hoisting a tankard of ale. “If I owe you silver, or I slept with anyone in your immediate family, you should know that you are outnumbered.” Several of the warriors nearby looked up from their meal to scowl at Halfdan.

  “I come on no such business. Do you take apprentices?”

  Behind Halfdan, Sif peeked out, and the skáld gave her a quick glance. “She awakened to the gift?”

  The berserker shook his head. “She awakens tomorrow.”

  “Many wish to fly, but few have wings. Come back tomorrow.”

  “I’ll definitely get the gift!” Sif claimed; those nearby following the conversation gave overbearing smiles. “I already know a lot.”

  The skáld glanced at her again. “Do you know the names of the runes?”

  “No,” came the reluctant admission.

  “The names of the nine realms?”

  “Yes! Asgard, Alfheim, Midgard, J?tunheim, Vanaheim, Muspelheim, Niflheim, Myrkheim, and Hel!” Sif spoke without breath. “The Aesir live in Asgard, the elves live in Alfheim, Men –”

  The skáld raised a hand to silence her. “Fine. What payment do you offer?” He looked up at the girl’s companion.

  A snarled expression crossed Halfdan’s face; nobody bothered with payment to a berserker for taking on an apprentice. And this was rightfully the responsibility of the child’s father to pay, but given his death and the circumstances surrounding that event… Halfdan pulled up his sleeve to show the silver coiled around his upper arm.

  The minstrel stroked the thin beard that lay on his chin. “Fine. We’ll see tomorrow.”

  Only too happy to leave, not to mention reclaiming his axe, Halfdan gave a nod. “Fine.” He turned and left in the same forceful manner as he had arrived, accompanied by amused looks and Sif. Once outside, axe resting on his back once more, Halfdan considered what do to next.

  “He said yes!” Sif exclaimed, interrupting his thoughts. “I’ll be a skáld soon!”

  Assuming fate agreed, but Halfdan kept that to himself. They had time to kill, and they needed to find somewhere to sleep. Glancing around at the bustling city, the berserker was not comfortable staying anywhere within these walls that herded people together like sheep.

  “Can we go to the market? I want to tell Alfrun!”

  Halfdan frowned at her. “Who?”

  “You know, Humli’s daughter!” Sif looked at him, shaking her head while placing her hands on her hips. “You just travelled with them for several days.”

  Oh, the peddler. Not a bad idea – would give us someplace to sleep. “Fine.”

  Sif immediately set into motion, skipping ahead, for once causing the berserker to follow her.

  *

  Their erstwhile companions from the road were happy to share camp with the berserker and his young follower for another night; although laws ruled the market and the city, they could not always be enforced, and the risk remained that some might prefer to steal rather than buy if they could get away with it. Halfdan and his axe by the cart of furs reduced the risk considerably. And Sif was happy to play or run around with the peddler’s children, sparing him the need to worry about her whereabouts.

  The next day, Halfdan allowed the market to tempt him sufficiently to walk a few rounds. Although he had promised his hacksilver to the skáld, he still had the coins taken from the dead ulfheein; while their markings were strange from a distant land, the metal in them worked as payment all the same.

  Most of what Halfdan required, he could make himself, using what he harvested from the forest and its animals; as for the rest, the smith in town could supply nearly all. Still, the berserker knew the difference between a craftsman making tools and one making weapons; his own axe could not have been forged by any blacksmith. So, he went looking at those plying their craft in the city. After deliberation, he spent his coins buying a dagger; his old one had lost some of its edge, Halfdan argued to himself, justifying the purchase.

  Seeing the horizon darken, he quickly moved to find Sif. It was time to conclude his business in Odinsvi.

  *

  The girl came skipping towards the peddler’s cart, just as Halfdan was about to become irritated by her absence. “There you are. It’s nearly night. The temple awaits.”

  “Coming!” she promised before another lengthy farewell to Alfrun. Watching them with crossed arms, Halfdan growled until the girl separated from her friend and ran to join the berserker. “I’m coming, I told you.”

  “And yet I didn’t feel convinced,” he grunted, though his ire quickly subsided once they were underway, only to return as their progress immediately slowed. Approaching the gate into the city, they found that traffic increased as many others also needed to pass through the chokepoint; plenty had business tonight at the temple, Halfdan imagined.

  Seeing their progress slow, Halfdan figured to make the most of it. He stopped and removed his old knife from his belt before kneeling down next to Sif. He had to reach out and grab her by the shoulder, as she, unaware of his action, was already walking away. “Tarry a moment,” he spoke brusquely.

  “Hurry up, slow down.” She shook her head. “Make up your mind!”

  She fell quiet as Halfdan tied his old knife to her belt. “In case they get too close for the sling,” he muttered, glancing at her other weapon on the opposite side of her waist.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, looking down into the ground.

  “It’s fine. Let’s get through this crowd. Hold on to me.” As Halfdan stepped in front of her, she did as commanded, grabbing hold of his cloak, and the berserker used his imposing size to push forward until they cleared the gate. Odin’s temple awaited.

  *

  The city was full of revelry, combining the end of the market with the festivities of midsummer. Drunkenness could be witnessed everywhere, which earned Halfdan’s disapproving gaze; he felt only disdain towards those who so easily relinquished control of themselves.

  Plenty others had sought the temple on this night for the same reason as Halfdan took Sif there, but they were able to enter its main hall. A host of children idled around the space, most of them accompanied by one or two parents.

  “Look, it’s the skáld!”

  Halfdan looked to see that the girl was right; no mistaking those bright colours. “What brings you here?” he asked, approaching the minstrel.

  “Figured I’d see if I get an apprentice tonight,” came the answer with a casual shrug.

  “You’re here,” came another voice; it belonged to the young priest that Halfdan had spoken with yesterday. “You’re the last. The goei awaits you. Come along, then.”

  Strange. Given the overbearing attitude that met Halfdan previously, he had expected some resistance getting an audience with the high priest, or at least a few mouthy quips. Better not test my luck. “I will see you after,” he told Sif and left to follow the young priest.

  Leaving the main hall, they did not go far; the centre of the temple had a yard with a pond. Stars could be seen above, though faint on such a bright night; on the open spot of grass, a wizened old man stood in the dark robe that Halfdan associated all priests with.

  “Nine,” the goei mumbled, and Halfdan looked to see eight other warriors besides himself. “Good, good.”

  Glancing at the others, Halfdan noted them all to be berserkers like himself. It was not just that they wielded an axe like his; they all radiated strength and suspicion in even measure. One of them was the giant fellow that had bumped into Halfdan yesterday; he above all looked ready for a fight, his nostrils flaring like a bull’s.

  “You have all come here seeking advice for the omens that plague your home,” the priest of Odin began. “But the matter is graver than you think. For that reason, the god will choose a champion to undertake a task on his behalf. A journey.”

  Halfdan’s eyes flickered from one berserker to another, waiting for someone to volunteer. He was certainly not going to do it.

  “I’ll do it,” proclaimed the giant berserker. “I am Starkad the Strong, mighty among men! None more worthy than me.”

  Halfdan nodded to himself in approval. If he wanted to do it, great; it let Halfdan off the hook. He probably could just leave now, and tomorrow, he would be on his way home.

  “I said the god will choose,” the priest responded with his raspy voice. From a pocket, he dug out a handful of fingerbones, each carved with runes. “Throw them.” He held out his hand.

  Sneering, Starkad grabbed the bones and threw them on the ground. The priest looked down to read the runes, mumbling to himself. “Well?” came the impatient question from the imposing berserker.

  “Everyone must throw them,” the goei demanded.

  Halfdan sighed at this waste of time. He wondered if he would even be missed, should he just leave quietly. The priest had counted them, though, and sent his young compatriot to fetch Halfdan. Best just to get it over with.

  One by one, the berserkers went over, picked up the bones, and threw them back on the ground. Every time, the priest nodded and muttered inaudibly. Finally, only Halfdan remained. He did as the others, barely picking up the runes before letting them fall from his palm. Stepping away, his mind had already gone ahead, thinking about the journey home.

  The priest stroked his smooth chin, clearing his throat and chewing on his own spit, before he finally raised a hand. “The god has chosen.” He pointed straight at Halfdan.

  “What?” All eyes on him, Halfdan felt ill at ease.

  “What!” Starkad exclaimed. “How dare you!”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Halfdan protested.

  The priest narrowed his eyes. “The god has chosen. What’s your name?”

  “Halfdan Einarson,” he mumbled. “Look, let him have it. I don’t want it.”

  The goei gave a cruel smile. “It is not up to us.”

  “To Hel with that!” Starkad shouted, and he grabbed the axe strapped to his back. “He can’t be Odin’s champion if he’s dead!”

  Halfdan swallowed; for the first time in his life, he knew what it felt like to face a furious berserker. “This is unnecessary! I don’t want this!”

  The goei shrugged. “He has a point. You can’t be the god’s champion if you are dead.” His smile returned. “A duel will settle the matter.”