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shoulder, grabbing the ax for support with his free hand. Turning carefully, he marched back to the farm.
    When he got there, Fjölnir was waiting for him next to a big pile of woodcuttings. “Very good!” the old man shouted. “Need any help with that?”
    “Not from you, old man,” Audun shot back. Normally he wouldn’t have said anything, but something about the graybeard set him at ease.
    “Thank you,” Fjölnir said. “Could you put it over there?” He pointed toward a shed half-hidden behind the house; Audun hadn’t noticed it the night before. Fjölnir’s farm was definitely in better shape than he’d first thought.
    When he came back, the old man had brought out a battered old handcart filled with lumber. He turned to Audun. “If you’re not in a hurry to leave, stranger, I could use some help with these fence posts.”
    Audun shrugged. “Sure,” he said. To his surprise, he found that he rather liked Fjölnir’s company.
    The day fell into a steady rhythm: heave rough wood, hammer, nails, move on. Audun had to admit that the old man was an excellent worker. There was no fuss, minimal talking, and no stupidity. The old man did what needed to be done and never got in his way. Thank the gods for every man who isn’t an idiot , Audun thought. Then he grinned. That would be the kind of thing he’d have muttered under his breath crossing the square in Stenvik, before . . .
    “What happened?”
    The question came out of nowhere and broke the quiet.
    “I . . . What?”
    “Tell me.”
    Audun looked at the old man, who just looked levelly back at him with his one good eye. “There . . . um . . . there was a siege. Around Stenvik. Someone called Skargrim surrounded the city.” Fjölnir nodded at the mention of the name. “A lot of good men died.” Audun found he was grasping the handle of the sledgehammer. His knuckles were white. With great effort, he managed to relax his fingers and put it down.
    “And?”
    “And . . . we defeated him. Them. There were more.”
    “And was that it?”
    “No. King Olav came and took over.”
    Fjölnir frowned. “And how did you survive?”
    Audun’s throat was suddenly dry. His chest itched something fierce, but the words caught in his throat. It felt like Fjölnir was looking through him now. His face flushed, and he reached for the sledgehammer.
    “I just did,” he growled.
    The hammer blow split the fencepost in two.
    Fjölnir handed him another without a word and Audun drove it into the ground.
    They continued working as their shadows grew longer. Finally, Fjölnir spoke. “Time for home and food.”
    Audun threw the sledgehammer on the cart. He could feel his muscles, but in a pleasant way; it was an ache that said he’d put in a day’s work. The pain from his back was gone, and the wound in his side had all but disappeared. After he had smashed the fencepost, Fjölnir had not brought up Stenvik again. Audun frowned. Part of his mind sought to understand his current situation, but another part of him remembered all too well. He did not want to think about how the cold steel had pierced his skin, ripped through his muscles, and punctured his heart as it tore through his back when Harald had skewered him on the wall.
    The thought came like a bucket of cold water. Injured. He’d been injured, badly. But it had been all right because Ulfar had jumped and they’d escaped.
    Injured. He’d just been injured.
    “What do you want to eat?” Fjölnir asked as they headed back home, following the line of the fence they’d erected.
    “Food would do,” Audun mumbled.
    “Oh. So you can still talk,” the old man said. “Good. I was beginning to worry that I’d shut you up. So Stenvik was bad, was it?”
    “It was,” Audun said.
    “You saw things you wish you hadn’t seen,” Fjölnir said.
    “I did,” Audun muttered.
    “And did things you didn’t want to,” Fjölnir said. Audun stopped, turned and looked at the old man, who stood his