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mimicked Hella's spread across the boy's face. “You, of course, Idunna.”
    “And what am I?” Ealasaid put her hands on her hips. “Forgotten your old mother already, have you, boy?”
    “You're my Ma, more special than any lady, but I do like Idunna for being my aunt. Now can we go?” Birgir jerked his chin at the doorway. “We'll miss Da if you don't hurry.”
    “Go, go. I'll be along in a moment. Careful with that baby, Birgir, or it'll cost you a day of riding that ragged little horse you love so much.” Ealasaid shooed him out the door. “You'd better check to see if Eoghann's finished working. He gets so deeply involved in his craft.”
    The truth stung a bit. Why did Eoghann seem to forget her when he worked with his metal and glass? A newly married man ought to rush home to be with his wife. But theirs was no love match designed to make him eager to see her again. He'd forget to breathe if it didn't come naturally.
    She finished mixing the yarrow, then scraped the fragrant substance into a pot with a lid. Ealasaid was right, they'd almost certainly need it to clean wounds obtained in the sparring matches.
    After she fixed her cloak, she made her way to Eoghann's shop. The door was shut tight, but when she stepped inside, the fires were dying and he wasn't there. A few sets of footprints reduced the snow in front of his shop to hardening mush. Curious.
    It wouldn't come as a surprise if he'd learned of the sparring and taken off for their bedchamber to avoid watching it. Ealasaid might worry if she didn't show up soon. Instead of returning to the hall, she picked a path to the courtyard.
    Cheers and yelling greeted her ears as she approached the crowd watching. The ring of metal cut through the human noise. In the center of the circle of Norse men and women, two warriors faced one another.
    Hella gripped Almáttigr, his sword with double golden hound heads on the hilt. Despite the frigid air, he wore only his breeches and a sheen of sweat slicked his skin. Given his size, strength, and air of authority, no one need question who the leader of Solstad was. Hella blazed with kingly manner.
    Erik Agmar, his adopted brother, spat at his feet, then advanced with his sword, Skrípi. Slightly smaller in stature and possessing only one eye after the Battle of Freysteinn, Idunna expected him to have the disadvantage. He fought like a demon, always on the move and quick enough to block the thrusts from Hella's sword though his lack of vision must have bothered him. Perhaps they'd been sparring long enough to guess each other's next moves.
    The rake of clashing metal agitated her ears. She hadn't seen any of the fighting on the hillside outside Freysteinn, but the cries of pain had followed her through sleep in the aftermath. Norsemen fought for glory and honor. Every flex of muscle, every drop of sweat, and the crimson splash of blood that appeared on Hella's upper arm spoke of the dedication these men placed on their fighting skills.
    Hella merely grinned as blood trickled down his skin. “Well met.”
    “Your head on the ground is my next move.” Erik's mouth twisted in a feral smile. “Come, vikingr konungr, defeat me.”
    At another time and place, his mocking tongue might have been cut out for using Hella's title as king in such an acidic manner.
    Hella's face hardened. He attacked, swinging Almáttigr with strength. The end of the blade struck Erik's hilt with a ringing sound.
    Erik yelped as Skrípi fell from his fingers.
    Hella drew Almáttigr up so the steel rested against Erik's throat. “I believe you yield, brother.”
    “Aye, for now.” Erik took a step backward. “A fine move, Your Grace. Remember who drew first blood.” The bitterness of loss showed as he bent to retrieve his sword. “May the next man best you.”
    “Don't be sore, Erik. Have a rest and some mead, then take your wife home and make me another hoard of little warriors.” Hella clapped him on the shoulder. “Erland's almost big