Shef pulled his sword from its sheath and passed it over, as he had to Edrich. The hammer-bearer turned it over and over, looked at it intently, flexed it gently, noting the surprising play in the thick, single-edged blade, scratched with his thumbnail at the surface discoloration of old rust. Carefully, he shaved a patch of hair from his forearm.

“Your forge was not hot enough,” he remarked. “Or you lost patience. Those steel strips were not even when you twisted them. But it is a good blade. It is not what it seems.

“And neither are you. Now tell me, young man—and remember, death is just behind you—what it is that you want? If you are just a runaway slave like your friend”—he gestured toward Hund’s neck, with the telltale marks on it—“maybe we will let you go. If you are a coward who wants to join the winning side, maybe we will kill you. But maybe you are something else. Or someone else. Say then, what do you want?”

I want Godive back, thought Shef. He looked into the pagan priest’s eyes and said, with all the sincerity he could muster, “You are a master-smith. The Christians will let me learn no more. I want to be your apprentice. Your learning-knave.”

The man in white grunted, handed back Shef’s sword, bone hilt first. “Lower your axe, Kari,” he said to the man behind the pair. “There is more here than meets the eye.

“I will take you as a knave, young man. And if your friend has any skill, he may join us too. Sit, both of you, to one side, till we have finished what we were doing. My name is Thorvin, which is to say, ‘the friend of Thor,’ the god of the smiths. What are yours?”

Shef flushed with shame, dropped his eyes.

“My friend’s name is Hund,” he said, “which is to say, ‘dog.’ And I too, I have only a dog’s name. My father—No, I have no father. They call me Shef.”

For the first time Thorvin’s face showed surprise, and more. “Fatherless?” he muttered. “And your name is Shef. But that is not only a dog’s name. Truly you are uninstructed.”