The next day Hervor trained with the shieldmaids and took Volund to spar with the warriors of the Hart-Hall. His frame was still slender with youth, but he'd reached a man's height the winter before; he was not as strong as the warriors, but he was very fast. More than one blow he struck would have been lethal had it been struck with iron or bronze instead of blunted wood, and the man of the Hall cheered him with good nature.

Late in the afternoon, the warriors and the shieldmaids sparred together, training for battles unevenly matched. Some of the women and girls pretended weakness, fighting in pairs or triads, drawing their opponents in with a feigned slip or drop of their shield. The warriors were soundly beaten and then the shieldmaids let the tide of the match turn, allowing the strongest of the men to win out against them. Volund noted that the best among the warriors had the pick of the maidens afterwards; he also noted that the women carefully sorted themselves so that only the ones willing or interested were among those presented to the men. Hervor saw this, also, and gave a slight nodd of approval.

When it came time for Hervor to spar, she challenged the men and demanded that the best among them match against her. The first of Lord Hroth's warriors, Unferth, was traveling to bring the Geat. Thus Hervor, partnered with no sheild sister, took up her gladius and a short spear and faced off with the second of the warriors. He was a great bear of a man, bearing a round shield and a iron headed spear, clad only in a loincloth and girdle in the mock battles against the shieldmaidens. She wore hard-boiled leather armor on chest and arms and thighs, her long black hair braided tight against her head and flashing with coin and trinkets - Volund thought she was magnificent.

The match was short and brutal. Hervor allowed the Dane two strikes, one to her body that surely would have shattered ribs if she were not armed, and the other a glancing blow of his shield to her spear arm. When he stepped in for the third strike, the one which would have won him the match, she stepped in as well, a foot moving behind his and sweeping back. Unbalanced, the warrior fumbled and fell, dropping his spear to catch his fall. Hervor pivoted and pinned his spear-hand with her foot, the point of her gladius resting at the hollow of his throat. The gathered warriors and shieldmaidens were silent, stunned. The warrior, who's name Volund had not yet been given, grunted once to surrender the match, and Hervor backed away, spear and sword at the ready. The Dane picked up his spear, settled his shield on his arm. "Again," he said quietly, and she raised her sword in agreement.

Three times, Volund's companion won out against the Dane, the second of Lord Hroth's warriors, and when it was done she did not pretend and simper and surrender to his advances, but stood tall and strong. There was some muttered resentment among the men, but she pretended not to notice, instead taking Volund back to the hall to sit with the skald and learn the craft of words and song and story.

At dusk, Lord Hroth had the fires built high once again, and mead flowed freely. There was revelry, song and games of chance, the paired warriors and shieldmaids from the afternoon moving into the shadows to consummate their agreements, becoming twining, moving shadows themselves.

When the fires settled low and the revelry settled, Volund sat watch with Hervor, his tired eyes burning in the smoke of the evening. They watered, the lids heavy, and he started awake twice before he heard it - a deep bellow from the direction of the fens. With a jerk, he turned his face towards Hervor, and she shook her head minutely, eyes on the great Hall doors. With dread, he followed her gaze.

A child sized form was trying to work the bar loose from the door. After a moment, a larger person helped remove it, and they both set it down silently. The deep cry came once again, and the figures faded into the darkness. With a crash and a scream the doors flew open again, taking the sleeping denizens of Hart-Hall by surprise, waking them from their drunken stupor.

When the carnage was done, two more warriors lay dead, one dragged away by the Beast. The Lord of the Hall strode to the doors, enraged and weeping for the loss of his shiledmen, the violation of his home, and vowing vengence against the monster from the fen.

The next morning, Hervor and Volund woke early and began to pack their sparse belongings, resolved to go back to their home and kin. They were seized by the Lord's guardsmen, and brought before him.

"Would you leave us so soon, Volund? The night is dangerous in these times." The Lord leaned forward, elbows to knees, and looked down at them. His brown eyes were the palest gold in the morning light, and a sneer tugged at his lip.

"It is true, my Lord, the night is very dangerous indeed. I would return to our people, to help protect my mother and our kin from further incursions." Volund stood straight, trying vainly to determine their best strategy.

"No. You will stay, as danegeld to the Geat. We would not want him to think he would be unpaid for his efforts, would we? We would not want him to leave the shores of the Hart Hall and sail back across the swan-road. If he departs with the monster unslain, and the beast kills yet again - or worse - would you have it on your head, for stealing away his payment?"

Volund felt the blood drain from his face, dread clenching in his gut and drawing his balls up. "No, Lord. I had only thought to lend them the aid of arms against the be-"

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"Then you. Will. Stay!" the Lord shouted, his face flushed red.

Volund froze, unsure of what to do or say in the face of the lord’s wrath. Hervor nudged him in the hip, and he nodded jerkily. “Very well, My Lord, we will stay.”

The afternoon was similar to the day before, rounds of sparring, Hervor taking on two massive opponents and winning handily - though perhaps not as easily as she made it seem. She glistened with sweat in the evening light as she came and sat next to him again, and he could tell her breathing was tightly controlled - but only because he’d known her all his life.

That night, the lord encouraged yet another drunken revelry, and Volund’s sense of unease grew as the warriors and craftsmen ate and sang and drank mead and small beer into the late hours of the evening. He was unable to rest, and even the lateness of the hour did nothing to make him weary.

At long last, most of the complement had passed out or fallen asleep in their cups, and the torches flickered, candles burning low with the hearths. The dread grew more pronounced as he strained to hear. Tonight when the bellows came from the distance, he stood and pushed his way towards the doors, kicking warriors and shieldmaidens on his way, waking them with silent blows to mount any sort of defense for the Mead Hall.

The small child’s form faded back into the shadows as Volund approached the doors, and he turned to find Hervor at his shoulder as always. The bellows of the great beast grew louder, its footsteps heavy outside. It beat its massive cudgel upon the doors, and they rattled but held. The warriors he had roused passed the word back, and everyone was very much alert to hear the creaking crash of a building near the Mead Hall being destroyed, a clatter of chickens protesting the disturbance. Next came a goat-pen further down the straet, and the child-like shriek of a goat torn asunder was near as awful as the cries of the grown men and women Volund had witnessed die on previous nights.

At last, there was silence except for the thwarted cries of the Ravager in the distance. Torches were re-lit and a guard was set. The Lord came from his rooms, and ultimately paced the length of the hall, his face dark with an unnatural rage. He spoke quietly with the senior warriors, including his second, and gave Volund a dark glare.

The reason for his wroth became apparent the next day. Nearly every chicken in the coop was killed; eggs were in short supply that day, and hte lord demanded that the families in the outlying houses bring in their own fowl to contribute to the community. A tenth of the goat herd had been destroyed as well, and there were mutters of famine or lean times in the fall and winter. The birthing had happened a few months before, and another season of animals could not happen before winter set in.

Volund spoke quietly with Hervor about the events. “It’s almost as if the lord wants his warriors slain,” he said to her in low tones as they sparred together.

No one would spar with her that evening, and he was also ostracized in the sparring. Indeed, one of the warriors shouted at him, called him a simpering coward and an honor-thief, and spat on Volund's shoes

That evening at supper, Lord Hroth called Volund to join him with two dozen of the best warriors in their drinking. We’al, her hair unbound and unadorned, brought a leather pouch to the Lord, and he bounced it in his hand, grinning to the warriors. His Lady wife stepped away, touching Hervor’s shoulder and taking her away from the circle. Lord Hroth pulled Volund to his side, standing the youth to his left.

“Drink, brothers, to the dead! We will sing their names, and never forget them!” He cried out the names of the fallen, and the men drank and shouted for each name. “Morien! Bahadur! Ciarán! Krios! Lex! Malak! Aleksandr!”

When it was done, he held up the pouch. “Look, brothers, the Valkyrie brings us a game of chance.” They crouched down in a circle together, Volund crouching with them, dizzy from the powerful mead. Lord Hroth spilled out the contents of the pouch. Thirteen slender ivory sticks gleamed in the torchlight, engraved with runes. Volund realized they were We’al’s hairpins. He stirred them, and raised up one, shorter than the rest. With a grin, he scooped them back into the pouch. “Who was first in the sparring today?” There was a jostling, and the second among his warriors was pushed to the center. Lord Hroth clapped the man on the shoulder and drew him to stand at the lord’s right hand.

The Lord raised the pouch and passed it to the warrior on his right. The man opened it and stirred the contents around, finally drawing out a long and slender hairpin. A cheer rose from the gathered men, everyone drank, and he passed the pouch to the next man, kissing the ivory and sliding it through the braids on his own head. The next man drew another slender piece of ivory, as long as the first. There was a cheer, everyone drank, and the pouch was passed once again. A third, and then a fourth slender piece of ivory, graven with runes for life and light and hex breaking were pulled from the pouch, and a fifth and sixth.

The seventh was drawn by a man named Raiden, who had sparred with Volund the days before. He dipped his hand into the pouch, stirred it around, and brought out a short ivory stick, graven with the runes for victory. A cheer went up, more raucous than the last, and he was clapped on the shoulder and pummeled by his shield brothers in good natured congratulations.

We’al came to the circle, a blue painted pot in her hands. Raiden opened his tunic at the throat, ripping the linen to expose his chest further, and the Lady painted runes and a whorl on the shaven skin of the man’s chest. After a moment, Volund saw the man’s pupils contract to pinpoints in the firelight, then blow large. Lord Hroth handed the man a stout spear and heavy shield, and the man raised the spear above his head and howled. The men in the circle echoed his cry, toasting him again with strong mead and small beer.

At long last, the men settled to their bedrolls around the great Mead Hall.

The torches and candles burned low. The hearthfires were banked.

Silence fell in the night, and Raiden took up his post as watcher of the doors, along with the man who had spat at Volund earlier in the day.

A slender child and a warrior set aside the massive bar securing the doors of the Mead Hall.

The monster from the fens, Nighthunter, Shadowstalker, Ravager, bellowed in the night, its footsteps coming closer.

The doors flew open, and Raiden rose to meet the darkness.