The longhouse smelled of pine shavings and oil, the floor swept clean but scarred from many feet and many drills.
Branulfr's hands, small but stubborn, wrapped tight around the grip of the wooden sword.
His fiery red hair clung damp to his brow as he squared his feet on the packed earth, shield rim trembling against his arm.
He was seven winters now, all knees and elbows, but with the same cold fire in his eyes that burned in his father's.
"Again," Vetrulfr said.
The boy raised the shield and swung.
The wooden blade cracked against the iron boss of his father's practice shield.
The blow rang, but too high, and the recoil sent Branulfr stumbling.
Vetrulfr stepped past, rim-checking lightly, and sent the boy sprawling onto his back.
The thud echoed through the rafters. Branulfr lay still a moment, his pride bruised worse than his ribs.
He did not cry. He gritted his teeth, rolled over, and clambered back to his feet.
