The next morning, Weyland brought the mended armor to the practice ring beside the command tent, Avril following close behind. Patricius was sparring with one of the centurions, a group of soldiers standing around the ring watching. He was shirtless, wearing only his trousers and boots and a necklace of bones. A deep wound cut into his back, and two shallower punctures on his lean abdomen. The injuries did not appear to slow him at all, as he darted in, lightning fast, and tapped the centurion on the chest with his practice sword.

A scarred man sat on a bench at the edge of the circle, polishing an ornate greave with a piece of fine wool. He was dressed in a gambeson embroidered thickly with holy symbols, including a cross that stretched from the nape of his neck to his hips, and from shoulder to shoulder.

Weyland set the armor on an empty bench, rolling up the sleeves of his tunic in the chilly morning air. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and waited patiently, watching the practice. Patricius noticed him and nodded, but continued sparring with the centurions, offering critique and praise where it was warranted. The gambesoned man watched closely, and Weyland soon noticed a subtle signal between him and the commander as the combatants clashed in mock combat.

It occurred to Weyland that Patricius was very good with the practice sword or weighted spear. The commander was not as good as Hervor, though, and she was the one who had trained him. He found a heavy short-staff with a round head on one end. It was weighted like a hammer but swung like a cudgel, and felt familiar and fierce. The extra weight at the head was mildly disconcerting, and he twisted it in the air against an imaginary opponent. With a pang, he realized that the cudgel had been left behind at the skald's tower, kept in its place by his bedroll next to the fireplace.

His musing was interrupted by Patricius calling him.

"Yo! Blacksmith. Choose your weapon and come earn your place with us!" The centurions cheered and jeered, and the scarred man turned his gaze upon Weyland. His eyes were deep, almost as black as Hervor's or Sigrun's, and Weyland nodded once to him as he entered the sparring ring with Patricius.

"What, you craft armor and tell me that you craft weapons - " Weyland had said no such thing - "and yet you choose a mace to fight me?"

"You choose to fight a blacksmith with a wooden sword. It would hardly be fair otherwise." Weyland grinned, and they engaged.

The mace was uncomfortable despite the familiar heft of the shaft of it. The head gave it a momentum that blurred Weyland's control, and he heard Hervor's mocking tones as he was slow to change trajectory and Patricius' practice sword tapped him on the shoulder.

"That's one," the commander laughed. "You'll have to do better than that."

Weyland smiled, considering his weapon. With a sharp crack, he struck the mace upon the ground, dislodging the round head of it from the end of the shaft. It swung easily, and Weyland slipped into a space where it was an extension of his arm and mind, the ground lifting his feet and the air parting before his weapon. He nodded at the commander, and they began again.

Three strikes parried or dodged, and Weyland's makeshift cudgel whistled with force as it came crashing towards the commander's shoulder, a blow meant to break the man's neck that stopped abruptly, merely tapping him. "That's one, commander," Weyland replied. "Better?"

The scarred man was standing now, a hand casually on the hilt of his longsword. Patricius waved him off, and that sword hand returned to the belt.

"Again, blacksmith. Let me tap you and send you on your way." There was a ferocity in the commander's grin, and he came at Weyland again without fanfare. They sparred quickly, and Weyland realized with wicked joy that the man had been holding back with the centurions, striking to their skills, not his own. Weyland increased his own speed accordingly, easily keeping up with Patricius' pace. The sun began to burn off the mists of the morning. More centurions gathered, and their cheers fell silent, only the sound of wood hitting wood in the circle.

The mood of the watchers changed, darkening, as they watched the stranger match their leader blow-for-blow. With a whirl and a shout, Weyland dropped his guard, bringing the cudgel around to whip short just at the commander's knee, allowing the other man's wooden sword to gently slide across his belly. Had the blows landed, Patricius would have been crippled, his knee shattered, and Weyland would have been gutted. The men erupted in a cheer, declaring their commander the victor in the bout.

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Patricius gripped his arm, nodding in approval. "Well fought, blacksmith. Why you are a crafter and not a warrior is a mystery." He raised Weyland's hand high, turning to the gathered men. "Men, we have a blacksmith worthy of his weapons. Today is a good day." They cheered again, this time for Weyland, and it was an alien feeling, all of the eyes upon him.

Weyland returned the beheaded mace to the rack of practice weapons, gathering up the mended armor. He followed Patricius back to the command tent, trailed by the scarred man. The soldiers dispersed, going about their morning tasks with the general noise and cheer of a well adjusted and victorius unit. Weyland looked around for the shieldmaids, and saw none, remembering what Hervor had said about how the southern armies only fought with half their people.

The scarred man closed the canvas flap of the tent, plunging them into dim light of the brazier and what sunlight filtered through the fabric. He drew his sword and turned to Weyland again. "You fight like a northman," he said, his accent heavy. "What are your deeds? Have you come to spy upon us?"

Patricius glanced casually at the man, pouring water into three cups from a skin hung on a corner pole. "I don't care if he's a northman, Girgus, did you see him fight?"

"I have no deeds to speak of, here, and I spy for no one." Weyland accepted the cup of water from Patricius and drank it all in one long swallow. It was fresh and sweet, not at all touched by the mineral tang of the water from Myrddin's well.

"How was the Nightstalker killed?" Girgus did not lower his sword, suspicion heavy in his tone.

"The Geat chopped off the Ravager's arm and the beast bled to death in the fens, running to its den." The fire and blood of that night flooded back, and Weyland remembered the smell of burning pitch and flesh.

"See, I never understood that part," Girgus replied. "The hide of the beast was impervious to the weapons of men. So how did King Bodulfr sever the arm?"

"Fire," Weyland said softly, still looking inward at the memory. "The varingjar used ship ropes soaked in pitch to foul its gait and slow its blows. I touched a brand from the bonfires to the ropes and the beast's flesh was seared open, baring it to the Geat's sword."

"You - " Patricius exchanged a glance with Girgus. "Who taught you to fight, Northman?"

"My father's warriors and shieldmaids train together, teaching the youths and maids of the hall to fight. My cousin was the best of them all, and she had the training of me." Avril stepped on his foot, nosing his hand. Weyland looked up at them.

"Your cousin - did she have eyes black as night and golden hair?" Girgus asked, suspicion in his eyes.

"No, her hair is quite dark." Weyland turned back to Patricius. "So, have I earned my place, or shall I go on my way? I didn't actually best you in that third bout."

"No, blacksmith, you didn't best me, but you could have, two or three times in that fight. I only have to work in combat when I spar with Girgus, who battles with monsters before breakfast, and you made me work for it. I think you also allowed me that final blow." He tapped the mended armor. "Show us your work."

Weyland turned the armor in the firelight, running his fingers over the places where the metal had been hammered smooth and then heated and pounded whole. He had found a pot of paint among the things in the supply tent that housed the forge and smithing tools, and traced the marks on the armor, whispering words to make it whole and strong again. The end effect showed the scores of the serpent's teeth, making the armor appear fearsome in the light, not mended at all.

"Here. It should serve you well, again.”

"Interesting," Patricius said, running his fingers over the mended metal.

"It's ugly, though," Girgus observed.

"Perhaps, but it's a warning to the enemy that the wearer is able to take fearsome damage, and having lived, is probably capable of giving out fearsome damage. I could make it pretty, smooth as a baby's leg, but that's not as satisfying as seeing an enemy run." Weyland looked at Girgus speculatively. The man's hands and face were criss-crossed with the scars of slice and burn, and his hair was patchy on the left. "You may know something about that."

Patricius laughed, and Girgus scowled until he could not contain his own laughter any longer. "You're not wrong, northman."

"Call me Weyland. Now, commander, you said you had work for a smith. Show me what needs to be done."