The Ironmonger's Heart

by Raven Ehtar

Tony was the son of the greatest Smith known, and determined to make his own name more renown than his sire's. It's a dream that nearly came to an abrupt end when he was shot with one of his very own weapons. He prayed to the Gods to save him, but he didn't expect the one who answered, nor what He would want in return... An Iron Man, Thor, Norse mythology fusion AU. Frostiron.

2. Part II

A/N: Have you guys seen Vikings on the History Channel yet? It's awesome. I totally nerded out over it for all kinds of good reasons, not the least of which being that it has the exact kind of feel I was going for in this fic. If you haven't seen it yet, do.

I know, it's been a long time since I put the first chapter up, but you know. Life. Plus this may be the most research intensive project that I've given myself to date. If you've seen what I've written in the past, you'll know what that means. My library has increased dramatically and the sheer amount of paper sacrificed for notes is boggling. So there will be a lot of notes for the end of this chapter. Prepare thyselves.

Also a friendly reminder before we begin: Historical inaccuracies will abound, despite the amount of research going into this monster. Those of you who are history buffs and will be able to spot the shameless mix of timelines, geography, cultures, place names and even regional personal names… you'll probably incredibly annoyed by this story. I'm still standing by my 'this is not Earth, but boy howdy it sure does look like it' scapegoat, but I am trying to keep the uncanny valley effect to a minimum. Still, pinning everything down in this particular time in history is hard. Along with the usual troubles of so much of it being cobbled together from records written hundreds of years after the fact by people whose views were skewed by politics, culture or religion, what we take as 'official' right now is changing all the time. So sorry, not 100% accurate. If you read this and use what you find to take a history test, I take no responsibility for the 'F' you get for it. You silly person, you.

Enjoy!

Betas: SkyTurtle

Music:
If I Had a Heart by Fever Ray
Iron by Woodkid
Ingwar by Wardruna
Thistle and Weeds by Mumford & Sons
The Blacksmith by Steeleye Span
Crows in the Cornfield : Thunderstorm and Rain by Brad McBride

Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man, Thor, nor the characters from them. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

…

The Ironmonger's Heart

Part II

Raven Ehtar

…

The Ironmonger was saved at the price of his still beating heart, paid to Loki the Trickster. His friends and neighbors, who knew not how he survived such a mortal blow, wondered aloud what God or magic it was saved him. Even the Seer, an ancient woman whose back was bent with years and whose head rattled with the chatter of the Æsir, could not say. On the Ironmonger, the Gods were all silent.

As the Ironmonger recovered, his neighbors put their questions to him, but he gave them no satisfactory answer. He turned aside their prying with ill humor and scoffing, sarcastic words. He berated his apprentices, though they never asked him after the first, and with acidic abuse sent them to their tasks. He covered the talisman and its glow with thick shirts and leather aprons so none could see it; he knew what sort of welcome it would receive should any learn whose hand it was placed it there. And the Ironmonger, once able to stand, dove into his craft, his steadfast escape from worry and doubt.

But what the Ironmonger found was that his work no longer provided a haven for him. Every blade, every axe, every edge that took shape in his hands reminded him of the death that had come so close, and pain would flare to life in his breast, ghostly still with no heart to beat. His weapons were true works of art, sure to slay all against whom they were turned.

Perhaps too well.

He found himself wondering for the first time if his weapons might not be used against those too poorly suited to defend themselves, if they might be used as tools for murder as well as for battle. He was not a man of violence, despite the beautiful weapons he made and the reputations that were made with them. Always he had thought of his craft, not the blood that would flow in its wake.

For the first time, the Ironmonger felt doubt. His work could give him no peace.

He was in sore need of respite. In the forge with no beat of his heart to match the rise and fall of his hammer, and especially in the still silence of the night, he was free to wonder what it was the Gods had in store for him.

One, in particular.

…

Anthony awoke, well before dawn, and was confused for a moment why it was that he could see in a room that should have been pitch dark. The bewilderment did not last long, as the cobwebs cleared away and vague impressions left by dreams unremembered evaporated, and he remembered.

He remembered the freckled boy in his shop, the guilty look on his face. With a clarity that made him ill, he remembered the scrape of the arrowhead against his ribs, the wet sound of his breath as his lungs filled with blood and his heart drowned. As in a dream, he remembered the desperate prayer he'd offered the Gods, and which it was who had answered. He well recalled the sea dark eyes with their gemstone green glimmers, the ice cold touch that had stolen the pain away.

He remembered the deal that had been struck, and what he had given for it. His heart for his life, and a strange memento now embedded in his chest.

Anthony looked down at himself, lying flat in his cot. Sometime during the night he had tossed aside his blankets. The nights were growing warmer, and his rooms were even more so than in homes not attached to the smithy.

When he had given his heart to Loki, it had been replaced with something else. Something better according to the Trickster. A talisman made of metal and magic and stone, there to keep him alive when Loki locked his real heart away in a box. It did indeed keep him alive, but it did not beat. In the fortnight since receiving it, Anthony was still not accustomed or comfortable with that. But while there was no beat, there was light. The stone in its center, which swirled with a green, blue and white dance of color, also glowed steadily. Uncovered by either shirt or blanket, it was the talisman that made the room clearly visible without sun or candle.

Like the absence of a heartbeat, it was something he was not used to, but he was able to ignore it more easily. Light shirts provided no shielding for it, however, and untied necks allowed it to peek over the collar. He needed heavier cloth to smother its light, or his smithy's apron. Come summer that would be a harder habit to keep up.

Still sleep heavy, and more than a little hesitant to touch the foreign thing embedded in his flesh, Anthony ran his fingers across the stone in the center. It was cold against his fingers, though it didn't feel cold as it sat in his lungs, its surface curiously smooth. It made Anthony think of a small slab of ice, its face grown damp as it slowly melted. But it was only an impression. There was no moisture to the talisman, only the cold and smoothness of it that was as ice.

Another strange property of the talisman – as though there were anything about it that was not strange – the shifting mist caught in the stone's center moved when he touched it. It did so every time Anthony brushed the thing with his fingers. It was responding to him in some way, though he could not determine how or why. It did not retreat, nor did it seem to mirror him for speed or direction when he had chosen to experiment a little.

It was unsettling to have something so much a part of him, something so strange, which he depended upon to keep him alive, and to have no idea how it worked or what else it might be doing as it nestled where once his heart had been. He didn't like having to depend so much upon a thing he did not understand. Neither had he really understood his own heart, it was true, but he felt more confident that his heart wouldn't turn on him. Minute by minute his continued existence depended upon a contrivance of Loki, the Mischievous One.

What would a God want with a mortal man's heart anyway…?

Anthony snatched away his fingers. Best to get the thing covered so he could forget it again for a few hours.

He threw his body into a more upright position, his bare feet touching floorboards just as the sounds of his idiot apprentices in the next room came to him. Always prompt in arriving at the forge, the two boys had taken to sleeping on the floor in the workshop. It was a habit that Anthony didn't discourage. In winter when the nights were dangerously bitter, the boys slept every night practically atop the forge. Since the streams had begun to run again, they had returned to their own homes, but had abruptly returned to their winter habit. They had done so, without asking his permission, the same day they had found him passed out on the floor of the forge, the ground slicked with his blood. When asked, they used the excuse of the approaching faire in Kaupang, and the amount of work they would have to do to prepare for it for their change in routine.

Anthony was rather touched at this show of protectiveness, and impressed with their bravery. They were young and intended to become craftsmen, but the warrior blood of their ancestors shone through.

They were still dummies, though, with a penchant for dropping, breaking or lighting things on fire, and Anthony still berated them soundly for it all.

Using the strange blue-green light of the talisman, Anthony found and shrugged into a woolen tunic. Abruptly he was plunged into blackness, and he felt he could relax again. Only the barest of glows could be seen through the weave, as soon as there was any sort of external light it would disappear entirely. If he could ignore the stillness in his breast, he could pretend for a while that he was normal. Darkness held its dangers, but it was comforting.

Moving carefully, Anthony moved out to the forge to greet his idiot apprentices, fetch them all a bite to eat, and begin another long day of preparations.

…

"Come along, now, I want to be on my way before the moon rises! At the rate you two are moving the raiding season will be finished up before I can get out of sight of my own bloody door! Appi! If you drop one more box I will dry you for this winter's stores, do you understand? Leave the heavier boxes to your brother, you thick-skulled idiot!"

Anthony blew out a breath and turned away from the sight of his apprentices loading the cart with wares. Gods knew the two of them meant well – he doubted if either of them were even capable of an unkind thought – but it didn't stop them from being complete dummies, and responsible for almost more damage than not, all done in their well-meaning but inept bumbling. They had both improved since their family had apprenticed them to him, but that wasn't saying too much. It was an improvement that they could now each light a fire in the hearth and forge without Anthony living in mortal dread that the rest of his home would be turned to a cinder as well. He considered it an improvement that he could trust them to not spill their evening meals to the floor in their eagerness to get it into their mouths. They were allotted the less life threatening tasks of the forge, but it would be some time before he trusted either of them with hammer and tongs.

Still, he reflected as he gathered up what last minute pieces caught his eye in the shop, they were an odd sort of comfort. They were good boys, Appi and Bergi, and they had done well, proved their loyalty when they had found him in the gray dawn on the floor of the forge. Even their idiotic mistakes gave Anthony a sense of constancy, in a twisted way. He was very organized as a rule, but the two brother apprentices were chaos on legs. If he were forced to find a positive in that, it would be that they kept him from becoming stagnant.

And he enjoyed berating them. It was stress relieving to have someone to legitimately shout at. The boys never took his abuse to heart, and scurried to follow the instructions buried in his insults and empty threats.

Anthony walked back out into the watery sunlight, breathed deep the cool air and surveyed the sight before him.

Askival was not a very large village, this place his father had chosen to call home years ago. Just a little cluster of homes and muddy roads set near the base of the mountains. There was little in the way of farmland here, and what there was, was scattered, distanced from each other and the center of the village. The little arable soil available was precious, and anyone who had the honor and fortune of owning farmland was a richer family for it. A more easily accessible food source by far was the sea, and their village butted up against a sizable inlet, sheltered from the worst storms by the surrounding peaks. Even now, Anthony could see several small ships out on the waves, casting nets.

Since the majority of the village was in the narrow space between mountain and sea, more than half of the homes were placed along the increasingly steep hills, where towards its highest and farthest edge one could almost see the roof of their neighbor's home from their front door. Anthony's home was not placed so high up the slope, but close. It was the worst land for everything save defense, having no soil to grow so much as a turnip plant, nowhere to house livestock, and far away from the shore. As a blacksmith, Anthony's father had needed none of those things save for the water, which was still very possible to reach, and had taken the poor land, making it a home for his family.

In the past couple of weeks the rain had been a constant companion, light but never ceasing. It had turned the hard packed roads treacherous with mud, streamlets running in the wheel ruts downhill through the village to join with the sea.

Anthony wrinkled his nose. It was another reason why the higher homes were so little desired, but at the same time easier to defend. In spring and fall when the rains began the roads were slick with water and mud, making travel up or down the hills tricky at best, and exhausting. In winter, when the snows blew and ice sheeted the footpaths, then it became outright dangerous to leave one's door. Though, if there was one advantage to the higher placement, it was that those homes enjoyed the cover of trees. Not a true forest so close to the village, but there were enough to make the nights less biting than for those who faced the wind coming directly off of the sea.

It was a small village, but it had grown in the last few years. Anthony suspected that was due in large part to his father. He had brought the attention of the outside world to this little sheltered collection of huts, and many came to see the honored Smith and his work in person. Some chose to stay. Not all, of course. There wasn't enough here to entice anyone who wasn't willing to work hard to eke out their living. But there were some who came, and who saw their sheltered harbor and the opportunity it promised as a place to build ships. It was far and sheltered from the other harbors, and though Askival's slopes had little enough to offer, good timber was not far off in the finding.

And there was the legendary Smith in residence, of course. Living so close would offer many opportunities for unsolicited but welcome kindnesses, which would be remembered later when the time came to bargain for his coveted metalwork. So Askival had gained more warriors, summer raiders and families, and Anthony's father gained a great many friends who provided his family with those small comforts that were sometimes hard to come by when so out of the way.

No doubt Anthony's father had a great deal to do with the village's growth, but even now, slowly, it grew one family at a time.

Anthony shook himself, swallowed back the familiar resentment rising in his throat. Now was no time to spare thought for the dead, now was the time for business.

Appi and Bergi, ever eager and perpetually ill-equipped to do all that they could, were loading a small cart, hitched to a sturdy, sure footed pony with boxes and long packages wrapped in oiled hides. When the loading was done then everything would have to be battened down securely, as the road between Askival and Kaupang was far from smooth. Then, after making certain that nothing was missing or would come loose, including his own small satchel of personal items, it would all be covered over with a much larger oiled tarp to keep out the rain and it too secured in place.

Except that his two dummies seemed at a complete loss as to what should go in the cart and what was to stay unless Anthony was shouting at them the whole time. It was the normal procedure for such things, but you would think they would learn a little steadiness in their years as apprentices. Anthony wondered if they could be doing it deliberately.

He was just getting ready to flay them with another bout of colorful curses, drawing a long breath for just that, when a much softer, slightly amused voice cut him off.

"Well, well. The sun has been in the sky for three hours and you're three quarters of the way packed already. You must have been riding them hard, Anthony."

Anthony looked around, startled by the voice coming from the corner of his house – though naturally enough, his heart did not leap. When he saw who it was, he relaxed.

"Ranka! What are you doing here?"

Ranka, a woman only a few years younger than himself, wrinkled her freckled nose at him, blue eyes narrowing accusatorily. "You didn't honestly think you were going to make it out of this town without a leave taking, did you? What kind of neighbor would I be?"

"Much as my other neighbors," Anthony pointed out, waving to indicate the tiny yard conspicuously empty of any wishing him farewell.

"Exactly so. Unacceptable." Ranka walked around until she stood near Anthony's side, and leaned against one of the hitching posts he kept for client's horses that needing shoeing. Tall and lean of body, Ranka was clothed this morning in a warm, work stained smokkr, woolen leggings wrapped about her calves and sturdy boots. Like Anthony, she was also wearing a cloak to keep out the rain, the hood drawn up over her fair hair, which was braided and held back from her face. She wore a few necklaces, including one that Anthony had made himself. At one hip a small working knife hung comfortably on her belt, as well as the keys to her and her husband's home, jingling with each step. Slung over one shoulder and across her waist was a worn satchel, the one she normally used for market days.

"Though I do think you've done yourself no favors," she said, looking around. "Did you even tell anyone that you were leaving? You might have gotten a bigger send off."

Anthony shrugged, watching his apprentices carefully as they continued to load the cart, which they seemed to be doing with a touch more care now that a pretty woman was watching them. "It's an annual faire, and the largest one around into the bargain. It's generally accepted that I go every year, without having to announce my intentions. If everyone has simply forgotten about it…" he shrugged again.

"Mmm. You make a terrible liar, Smith," was Ranka's dry reply. "Fortunate, then, your metal rings a truer note."

Anthony smiled, the first time he had done so that morning, and the first time in… too long. Too many days. Ranka was good at making him smile. She wasn't the least intimidated by him, his reputation or that of his father, and called him out on a lot of his bullshit. But unlike others who could boast the same, she did so without the hate and disgust his character seemed to bring out once the advantages of skill and ancestry were disregarded. It was refreshing.

"That reminds me, actually. How is Sölvi finding the new ploughshare?"

"You ask as you prepare to be gone for weeks on end, and could do nothing about it now even if the plough had broken the moment it was put to earth?"

"I could always have the boys do the repairs while I'm away."

"When did I earn your hate, Anthony?"

That earned a chuckle. "Has it cracked in two?"

Ranka favored him with a smile, and for a moment Anthony felt slightly warmer. "Far from it," she said. "It cuts through the earth like a prow through water. We haven't even buckled on any stones. I think the plough just cuts through them." She leveled Anthony with a look. "You shouldn't use fine ore on a plough, when you should be making one of your finer creations with it."

Anthony waved away the protest. "It's my metal. I'll use it for what I want, thank you. And what could be more worthy a fate than turning an empty patch of land to a garden?" Ranka smiled, a small blush rising, until Anthony continued. "Besides, it's not the ore that makes that plough special, but in the tempering. You see, with just a few—"

But Ranka was tossing a rock, which flew harmlessly wide of its target. "Oh, shut up, you! Make a girl feel special and then kick it all away, why don't you!"

Anthony pretended to dodge, chuckling.

Ranka was the one neighbor in the entire village who he could honestly say that he liked, rather than just tolerated. And in truth she wasn't a 'neighbor' in the strictest sense. She only qualified at all because it was possible to walk from one of their homes to the other and back again in a day. Her home was very near the water, on the opposite side of the inlet. Ranka's family was one of those very fortunate ones to have a small farm on their land, as well as a little livestock. As such holdings in Askival went, it was a very good one, and more than a couple coveted it greatly.

It had been on the edge of Ranka's land that Anthony had first met her, quite some years ago now. If he thought about it, Anthony could still recall the day clearly.

It had been summer, the middle of a long, hot and particularly humid one. Seeking escape from his forge – which could not have been hotter had Surt himself been his guest – Anthony had closed it up and gone out. That had been before his apprentices had come to him, but he hadn't cared in the least. Better to lose a little business than to melt into the floor, he'd reasoned.

So he had gone down the slopes to the waterside, where it was notably cooler, and because he had no desire to meet anyone, Anthony had followed the beach around the inlet to put some distance between himself and the bulk of the village. He hadn't been paying attention to his surroundings, and he wouldn't have recognized on whose land he was even if he had. His domain was the workshop, and it was only unhappy circumstance that had him wandering. Unwittingly, then, Anthony strode onto the land cared for by Ranka's family.

By then the beach had lost much of its sandiness, and become a shelf, where the turf simply cut away to a one to four foot 'cliff' that dropped into the water. The trees were thicker here, providing shade and delicious coolness, the line between land and sea winding like a serpent.

Anthony came upon her, quite unexpectedly, as she was spear fishing in the shallows. Her skirts had been hitched around her knees, her feet bare, and her sleeves rolled past the elbows. Still with these precautions, the folded edges of her clothes were dark with moisture, and drops slid down her exposed skin, drawing his eye. Her face had been set in a faint scowl of concentration, eyes scanning the water intently for prey. Over her back was the basket for caught fish – half full, it had been a fortunate day – and the long pole with its sharpened tip hovered just over the surface of the water, ready to strike.

At Anthony's sudden appearance, she'd thrown it at him. It had set the tone for their entire relationship.

Anthony became aware that the silence, punctuated by the rain and the sounds of his apprentices loading up the dismantled pieces that would become his stand at the faire, had taken on an expectant quality. Shaking off the last vestiges of memory, he glanced over at Ranka. She was staring at him with the kind of expression Anthony had learned to be wary of.

She didn't wait long to voice what was on her mind once she saw she had his attention. "Are you sure you're ready for such a long trip, Anthony? I know you keep telling me that you're fine," she continued hurriedly when Anthony pulled a face. "But really, this isn't something you should just bully through. This is your life, and a single faire isn't important enough to pay it for."

Anthony sighed quietly. "It's not just a faire, Ranka. This is the faire of the preseason, of the entire year, and important enough in its own right to pay quite a portion of my life for. You know how much exposure a vendor gets there, how much business, how much reputation. And more to the point," Anthony added, "there's word that Jarl Oddbjörn will be there. He controls the bulk of the raiding ships, by his word my name could rise in a moment or be buried forever."

Ranka frowned at him, unmoved. "And if your wound reopens on the road and you weaken and die, an unsung meal for crows, what then?"

Anthony had to fight the urge to finger the talisman in his chest self-consciously through his shirt. It was generally known that Anthony had been attacked and gravely wounded in his own forge. The evidence had been too plain, he'd had no chance to hide any of it before Appi and Bergi had found him, the most dramatic of which being the copious amounts of blood covering the floor, from the front counter to near the forge in the workshop. But while the entire village knew Anthony had been injured, and severely enough to nearly kill him, no one was certain how he had been injured, and Anthony intended to keep it that way. If it was known that he'd been shot through the heart with an arrow, it would be very hard to explain how he had survived. He'd refused the interference of the healer, and all visitors save the boys until he'd regained enough strength to at least stand on his own feet and present a strong front.

No one knew he'd been shot, that the Trickster had saved him, and that he no longer possessed a heart. No one knew how it was he had healed so quickly, and Ranka would not know the possibility of his wound somehow reopening was nonexistent.

"That won't happen," he said, endeavoring to keep his tone light.

She looked at him askance. Anthony could almost see the various arguments being weighed in her mind one by one, and summarily cast aside. When she looked away with a sigh, he thought maybe that was that, but there was one more point she wanted to make before letting it rest.

"The people in Askival, they talk. They wonder how it was so much blood be spilt in your home, and yet you live. With no healer, with no herb or magic, and you walk among us as though nothing happened, after only a handful of days. They talk so much I wonder…"

It was with some surprise that Anthony realized Ranka was worried. That was a rare enough occurrence that it took some time to recognize the symptoms. Anthony felt a small stab of guilt. He shrugged to cover.

"A good time to leave for a couple of months, then, wouldn't you say? It will force idle tongues and idler minds to find something else to occupy them."

Anthony went on to explain what his route to the faire would be, in the hope that it would help put her fears at rest, but also to keep her from speaking, from asking any awkward questions. He told her how at the first neighboring town of any size, about two days' journey away, he was to meet up with and join a small caravan also heading to the faire. He would continue on with them, and their numbers would undoubtedly continue to swell as they went, picking up more and more travelers. They would reach Kaupang together, and it was generally agreed that many of them would also be leaving together for the return trip.

As the boys finished up with the cart, securing the last of the merchandise, stall parts and sundry under the oiled tarp, Anthony filled up the silence with more words. When there was no more to say about the caravan, he told Ranka about the various smiths and artisans he expected to see there, some of whom he had apprenticed with. He told her about Kaupang, and what he knew of Jarl Oddbjörn, how quickly he expected to sell out of his stock, what he hoped to purchase for himself, what wider exposure would mean, and so on and on and on. Anthony was grateful when the boys finally finished and he could do a final inspection of the cart; his tongue had been cramping.

Ranka waited to approach until he was satisfied with the state of the cart and was through lecturing the brothers on their duties while he was away. Out of her satchel she drew a largish package, wrapped tight against the rain, and handed it to him.

"Here," she said. "You're a terrible cook at home. I shudder to think what you would be eating when reduced to a damp campfire."

When Anthony took the package and familiar, delicious smells wafted to him, making his mouth water. The food inside would be lucky to last so long as the evening, when there would be a campfire, he reflected hungrily. "Thank you, Ranka. I appreciate it."

She rolled her eyes, and lightly punched his arm. "Do me a favor. While you're at this faire of yours, shop yourself a wife."

Anthony smirked. "Why would I need a wife when I have you?"

"Longevity of the bloodline, maybe?" she quipped.

"Yes, well. The closest I'm ever likely to have is those two," he pointed at Appi and Bergi, who were both stroking the pony's head and cooing. He winced. "Could you check on them now and again, make sure they haven't burned down my workshop? Or the village?"

She smiled, and for a moment Anthony was sorry to be going. "I will. Just be cautious on the roads. There are odd ones that use them."

"Like me?"

"Oddest of the lot," she avowed with a grin.

Anthony chuckled. When his laughter subsided he looked at her a moment, taking in her freckled features and fierce blue eyes. He traced one cheek gently with a calloused thumb. "Take care, little love," he said softly.

"And you."

Turning away, Anthony tightened his cloak around his shoulders, tucked Ranka's gift in a protected spot on the cart, and took up the pony's leads, beginning the precarious journey downhill and thence out of Askival.

…

The consistent rainfall that made the roads of Askival slick and unpleasant were not enough to make the roads beyond impossible, but it certainly made for a miserable journey. Days went by without Anthony taking off his cloak, the rain running in rivulets off the peak of his hood, dropping inches from his nose, its ability to hold out any of the real moisture long exhausted. The wool was a soaked and leaden weight hanging off his shoulders, but it was warm, at least. Mud stuck to his boots, save for when the road became sAnthony or so tread and packed it might as well have been stone. He was thankful that the wheels of his cart only became mired enough to test the strength of his back twice, but the experience reminded him of why it was he had returned home previous years wishing for a fully covered wagon.

He made time, even so, and made it to Askam as the sun began to dip behind the mountains on the second day. That night, at least, he spent under a roof, able to dry out properly for the first time since leaving his door.

The road beyond Askam became a little easier, as much to do with the roads which were much wider and firmly packed as to do with having company with him.

Once a part of the caravan, travel became less miserable. Small as it was for a caravan, only seven other carts and wagons and a few single riders, company gave him the opportunity to speak with others, including two fellow smiths. They were of much lesser skill than he, but on a long journey with little more than rain and the squelching thuds of hooves and boots, any conversation was welcome. The smiths shared a passion with him, and as long as he never mentioned his lineage they remained comfortable enough to continue speaking with him. Even listening to his fellow travelers offered a change that Anthony found much more welcome than he would have thought.

The trouble was that being on the road on his own gave him too much time, too much silence all to himself. At home in his own forge he could lose himself in his craft, firing metal until it glowed, beating it into shape until what he saw with his eyes matched what he pictured in his mind. He could spend an entire day with his hammer and his anvil, drumming out familiar rhythms… but which he could only hear with his tools. The counterpoint that had once been behind his ribs was gone, and that was the point. His work gave him a distraction, a purpose, and let him forget for a time the hollow silence in his breast.

On the road to Kaupang, he had no such distraction. His hands were idle, and the task of picking the best side of a narrow track did nothing to occupy his thoughts. Wrestling wheels out of the muck, caring for the pony and reflecting on his own sodden state provided only brief diversions. His mind wandered to places he had no real desire to linger, to ponder those things he had actively avoided thinking of these last weeks.

Before joining up with the caravan, Anthony found his mind casting itself back to the night he had been shot. It was a strange night to recall, dreamlike and crystal clear at once, spotted in places where he wasn't certain if what he remembered was true, and in others where if he concentrated, he might still be on his blood soaked floor.

He remembered the soft sound of footsteps very well, and of opening his eyes, seeing how clean were the green slippers. He remembered the 'Goddess's' smile as though it were a brand, its dangerous curve burned into his mind. He remembered her touch, both the gentle numbing of it and the terrible agony of taking his heart. And always those eyes, dark and glinting a promise to him as he lay at her mercy.

But then he would try to remember her speech, and it was hard to hear it in memory. The words he could recall, but Loki's voice… that slipped away from him. It was deep, he was sure, and there had been a particular lilt to her words, mocking and self-assured. But while he could think to himself that Loki's voice was 'deep' or 'mocking,' those were just words, and did little to help him 'hear' the voice in memory. He caught himself more than once wishing, and more than once cursing himself for doing so, that he could hear Loki again, just to know for certain.

As if trying to call up the details of that night weren't enough, his thoughts also had the disturbing tendency to slip along a related track, which was even more difficult to grapple with.

Why had Loki chosen to save him?

A mortal attempting to understand the motives of a God was foolhardy at best, and Anthony knew it. If he even had a reason for saving his life beyond a whim, which was questionable, then the chances of Anthony somehow unraveling the machinations of the Trickster were not very high. But when it came to his own life and his heart, he had a vested interest. The God had intimated that owning his heart had more meaning than was immediately obvious, that by agreeing to pay it for his life, Anthony had imparted something potent. It made him uncomfortable to think that Loki could have some sort of control over him.

With nothing else to occupy his thoughts, his mind had been free to dream up any number of inventive and increasingly unpleasant possibilities. He drove himself half mad with theorizing, and was not one whit closer to any real answers. Laying down to sleep at night, curled under what shelter he could make out of a spare square of tarp, offered no relief. His thoughts spun on. In the damp darkness he could examine the talisman, its bluish glow lighting up the night and turning the rain to a curtain of glittering stars crashing to earth.

In joining the caravan, Anthony could be distracted by the sometimes banal talk going on around him, and with so many pairs of eyes around, he wouldn't dare to sneak the more cursory glance at the talisman. Its light was not natural, and it would attract all the wrong sorts of attention. Far from frustrating, it came as a relief. He could almost believe that this trip was as any other in years before, that nothing had changed, and that he was not beholden to an inscrutable God.

Almost.

The internal peace lasted approximately three days. The rain had at last cleared, allowing the sun to shine and the roads to begin drying out. It felt like an eternity since Anthony had last seen even a moderately clear sky, and was more than happy to walk without his cloak and hood. The world opened up as his peripheral vision was returned to him.

The rest of the cobbled together company obviously felt the same, and for the first time Anthony got a really good look at them all, unhindered by hoods. Some he vaguely recognized from years before, though casual conversation over days had revealed no one as even a relatively close acquaintance, and none had dropped any hint that he should know them. Anthony was glad that his face was not so well known as his name, it made speaking with people an easier matter.

On the second day of no rain, he caught something in the mood of the company, a nervous tension that over the course of the day's journey spread and infected them all. Even Anthony was affected, and he had no idea from where this uneasiness came. The low murmurings of his companions was a contrast to the easy banter from before, and he caught himself scanning the trees and the undergrowth that surrounded them, alert, though he still knew not for what.

By the next morning the atmosphere had not changed, save to become more charged, so even the animals – the ponies, horses and the few dogs – all picked up on it. Ears canted back and forth, hooves dug at the earth, and eyes darted warily.

Calming his own pony as well as he could, Anthony decided to settle the small mystery and walked over to Dagr. He was one of the other two blacksmiths of the caravan, the youngest of all of them at twenty, and Anthony had immediately decided that he was a bit of a fool, whose ambitions far outstripped his abilities. Still, he was friendly enough, and more than willing to chatter with the older smiths in hopes of picking up what he could of their experience. If anyone was likely to know and be willing to share on the nebulous upset going through the company, it would be him.

He hardly needed to exchange morning greetings with him to know the boy was probably one of the most nervous out of the entire company. It was hard to know if the strokes he gave his horse were more reassuring to the animal or to himself.

"You seem as skittish as your horse this morning, Dagr," he commented with a small smile. "Does the faire worry you so much?"

The younger man returned the smile uneasily, seeming to not notice that it was only meant to put him at rest. He had admitted before that this was to be his first faire that was at all larger than those held in his home village. Young as he was, displaying his wares at such a gathering as the one at Kaupang would understandably have him nervous.

Anthony privately thought that if he were as aware of his own workmanship as Anthony was, he would be a good deal more nervous.

"No, tis not that," he said, and his voice was unconsciously hushed, as though he worried someone would overhear. His pupils were dilated as his eyes darted. "We are being followed."

Anthony blinked, his shoulders tensing. "Bandits?"

Dagr shook his head. "Wolves."

"Wolves?"

The boy nodded.

Incredulous, Anthony looked into the undergrowth, as though a furry head would be staring back out at him now he knew to look for it. He seriously doubted that a pack of wolves would be stalking their caravan. The reason for creating a caravan was protection, and save for the largest or most desperate of animals, they tended to avoid the large, noisy collection of humans moving through the forests. More worrisome were their fellow humans, who found a collection of fine wares and some gold within their reach a seductive lure, and worth the risk. Some caravans would hire men specifically to act as bodyguards, while others, such as their own, would rely on their own numbers to stave off attack.

But wolves, well after the lowland snows had melted and in what looked to be a fat spring, with plenty of game?

Still scanning their surroundings, Anthony decided to remain cautious rather than outright skeptical. "I haven't seen or heard any packs…"

"No, not a pack. Only two." When Anthony cast him a look he tried to explain. "Only two wolves are ever seen. One grizzled black with a torn right ear, the other gray with a mottling of orange."

"All this fuss over two wolves too stupid to leave a caravan alone?" One or two travelers on their own and Anthony could have understood this attitude, but in a caravan, even one that was just depending on themselves for defense…

Dagr at least looked a little insulted at the suggestion. "Even I would not be so skittish if that were all. But a pair went off to hunt the beasts, and though they say they struck one through the heart, it survived and took to the brush. The other they gave up on. When the hunters returned, the wolves came back also. Both of them."

Anthony shrugged. "So there were three and now there are two."

A head shake. "'Twas the black was struck, with the ragged ear. It was the same returned." He glanced forward, where the rest of the company were preparing to leave. "Helki is convinced that they are Geri and Freki, come to watch over us, and many are coming to agree with him."

That gave Anthony pause. Helki was a holy man, a dedicated follower of Odin on his way to Kaupang not for the gathering of traders, but to meet others of his kind and continue on his journey from there. He was alright, as holy men went. He was quiet and kept to himself and the Gods for the most part. Anthony avoided speaking with him on principle. From a distance the man was tolerable, and that was all he needed to be. Not so long ago if he had said a pair of wolves following the caravan was Geri and Freki, Odin's companions, Anthony would have laughed it off. Now…

He rubbed absentmindedly at his sternum before he could stop himself.

It was probably just the product of an overzealous priest's imagination, seeing signs and the faces of his patron God everywhere. Such folk were not uncommon, and for the most part were also fairly harmless. You just learned how to ignore their overly pious ravings when they came, did your best not to get on the wrong side of them, and moved on. On festival days and especially on blóts came they came into their own, and would remain happy for weeks after that.

Except that Anthony had undeniable proof that the Gods existed, and did sometimes make their presence known. They took at least a small interest in mortals and went so far as to alter fates. Anthony didn't feel as though he could ignore such attestations as he had before, not so soon after his own encounter. It seemed all too likely to him that if it were true, it might relate to his first visitation.

He caught Dagr staring at his hand and turned the fidget into a scratch before dropping his hand. "Is that what you think?"

The younger man took a moment before replying. "I am not sure. Perhaps they are, and who is to say that they are not? I think it would do no harm to show respect to creatures that may very well be Odin's wolves."

"And may do a great deal of good if they are and we show them the proper deference, eh?" Anthony grinned.

Dagr flushed. "Well…"

He jogged the younger smith's shoulder good-naturedly. "I knew there were at least the inklings of wisdom in that head of yours. And so long as we don't show them so much deference we let them take one of our ponies, I see no harm. Some prudence with piety, if you please."

Anthony left the younger man smiling, though the lighter mood failed to touch the rest of the caravan. Soon they were all back to their brooding, Dagr included. Anthony kept to himself and a weather eye out. Thankfully, they were only two and a half days from Kaupang, and he did not have to endure it long.

He never saw so much as a hair of a wolf.

…

The faire at Kaupang was about as Anthony remembered it: loud, crowded, stinking and confusing. The faire had gained quite the reputation of being the event to attend for vendors hundreds of miles distant, from all disciplines and purveying all wares. In no small part this was due to the central and relatively easy to reach location of Kaupang itself. The town was a crossroads, and at some time in its past, when it had been practically unknown and a good deal smaller, travelers took to stopping here and setting up to trade with each other, hoping to lighten their loads – and weigh their purses – before continuing on.

Whether conscious or not that their choice of location was strategically brilliant or not, the profits they earned ensured that they would do so again when next they passed, as would those who saw and took note of their sales. Sporadic tent pitching became habit, and then planned for as a stop along the way, and eventually the small town at the crossroads became a destination in itself.

The elders of Kaupang were no fools. Seeing so much gold and silver exchanging hands on their very doorsteps, they enacted a small tax on those vendors who camped on land that was considered part of the town. Such a tithe was unwelcome news, but given all the same for the sake of fertile sales grounds.

The vendors and their improvised market officially became a part of the town soon after, and it was renamed Kaupang, 'market-place.' The elders located certain vendors to certain areas, an attempt at organization that had since deteriorated, and offered board where they could, all the time collecting their fees. Kaupang, with this fresh flow of money and trade coming in for nothing more than the use of a rocky field that could not be sown, grew and flourished.

It grew so much that even when there were no outside vendors at all it was still sizable, easily ten times that of Askival. Many who had come as traveling vendors eventually settled as the years passed, and there were of course some who fell on ill luck in their ventures and couldn't leave, or some who found Kaupang more welcoming than their distant homes, or any number of reasons. With the transient vendors, the population could more than double.

Anthony knew from experience that he could begin walking from one end of the market, and with the size and the number of people that he would have to navigate around, just making it to the other side could take the better part of an hour. If he were to stop and examine the wares of every vendor, it would be a full day before he finished, possibly more. Along the way he would be able to find cloth, herbs, jewels, precious metals, livestock from chickens to cattle, weapons and armor, exotic spices, potions, fortunes, slaves from any number of lands near and far, glass, amber, bone, tusk and furs, and even ships, displayed as clever miniatures at a vendor's stall. All were of varying quality, all jumbled together with no real sense of order, and all being hawked by vendors at the tops of their voices, working to make themselves heard over their neighbors. Add to it all the occasional food or tavern stall, and the thick stink of sweat and dung mixed with cooking meat and weird spices, and it was an anarchy Anthony was glad only came once a year.

Not that he was doing poor business. Kaupang's elders had insured him a good location among his fellows, relatively calm and where many of the folk walking through would have a clear view of his display of blades and shields. His reputation – and that of his father – was enough to recall him to the elder's memories, and they were quick to make sure he was satisfied.

His supply steadily dwindled, and more than one representative of large towns inspected his workmanship closely. Each left with smiles or something close enough to one, promising to recommend Anthony's work to their leaders. It looked as though Anthony's return home would be a good deal lighter than the journey to Kaupang, save for those supplies he spent some of his profits on - fine metals and raw ores. He couldn't have asked for much more in terms of a successful trip.

But still, something niggled at the back of Anthony's mind, something stubbornly persistent that made him incredibly uncomfortable. It was very like the silence and solitude on the road that had left him open to wandering and pointless chains of thought. But while those had been thwarted by company and voices, this seemed to thrive in the chaos and bustle of the market. And while those thoughts had been clear this sense of unease, this was irritatingly vague, hard to pinpoint to a source. It lay like a toad in his brain, all the same, and only grew worse with each passing day, as each of his finely crafted weapons left his stall in the hands of those who could best put them to use.

He would be very glad when he could pack up and return to his forge in Askival.

It wasn't until his next to the last day for the faire that he met the one man he'd been hoping to see.

He came in midafternoon. Normally at that time of day the crowds would be at their thickest, but there was very little traffic that day, and so Anthony's stall was unusually quiet. He was taking the opportunity to go over his remaining stock once more and make some calculations. He had less than a quarter of what he brought left, and what was there was of admittedly lesser quality than he usually liked to display – plus one or two of his best and most expensive items. It was considered poor business to leave before offloading as much as one possibly could, and there were many, many days left to the faire and plenty of opportunity to sell what little he had left. But then again, his rate of sale had been steadily declining, and what profit he was likely to make would be eaten up with the food and board for his pony he would have to dole out over the days it would take to earn it. Anthony judged one more day would balance out fine between possible sales and the cost to stay in Kaupang. Anything he had left over he would just have to bring back home.

He had just made up his mind on that course and was beginning to go through the mental list of preparations, when a loud knocking made him turn back to the front of his stall.

Two men stood full in the afternoon sun, peeking into the gloom Anthony's rigging of cloth offered. At a glance, Anthony recognized neither one of them.

They were both solidly built; tall, broad shouldered and well-muscled in the way Anthony had come to readily recognize as a career warrior's build. However, beyond that the resemblance was limited.

The man on the left was younger than his companion, and stood a pace behind him. The relaxed air of wariness he bore, the quiet appraisal of his dark eyes and the conscious looseness of his posture whispered 'bodyguard' to Anthony's mind. He wore his blond hair and beard long, with complex braids woven through both. The left side of his scalp was shaven clean and adorned with blue tattoos that travelled down his neck and past the collar of his kyrtill. His clothes, while fairly well cut, were worn and travel stained. As Anthony looked him over, the man finished his own scan of Anthony and his stall, seemed to lose interest, and turned his attention back out towards the rest of the market.

The second man, when Anthony turned to him, was much more interesting. He was older than the first, though it was difficult to tell by just how much. He kept his own hair, which looked to be going silver around the edges, clipped exceptionally close to his head. His beard was neat and short, only a little longer than Anthony's. There was an old scar across his left cheek and the faint beginnings of wrinkles at the corners of eyes and mouth. Most telling to Anthony, though, was that while the man was still substantial, he had the look of one who had let himself go a little to the soft. However impressive his physique was now, once it had been more so.

His clothes were plain at first glance, simple and functional, but on closer inspection they were very well made, reasonably new and clean. Like the man behind him, he wore a belt equipped with both pouches and sword, but on the elder man it stood out a little more from the rest of his garb; it was well worn, well cared for, and obviously seen much use. Anthony assumed him to be an old warrior who'd found his fortune, and while had not forgotten his past, he no longer needed to venture out himself.

The man's face was very square, an impression furthered by his shaven pate, which gleamed in the light under the short prickling of hair. He had a heavy jaw and a mouth that appeared locked in a constant little smile, just quirking at one corner. His eyes, dark blue, twinkled readily and reassuringly, but Anthony sensed the hardness beneath the façade. One didn't get to be an old warrior, let alone a successful one, without a certain amount of shrewdness.

Anthony took note of all of this as he walked back up to the front of the stall, putting on his best merchant's smile and keeping in mind to not let the appearance of his customers put him off his guard.

"Good afternoon, sirs," he said, sparing a glance towards the assumed bodyguard and then concentrating on the older man. "How may I help you this day?"

If the bodyguard took note of his inclusion in the welcome, he didn't acknowledge it, and continued his deceptively relaxed watch unperturbed. The elder man, however, grinned widely, showing a mouth full of strong teeth. However old he was, he was still hale.

"That depends, Smith," the man said, humor in his voice.

"On what, exactly?"

The man's eyes crinkled. "On you and the answers you give to a few questions that I put to you."

Anthony frowned. He wasn't at all sure he appreciated the tone the oldster was using, or his superior manner. Anthony was fairly certain he was no town official, nor any sort of divisional staff for the market itself. He was quickly deciding to dislike the man and his games; a slow afternoon or not, he didn't enjoy having his time wasted on what the stranger thought of as wit. "I don't know what you mean, sir," he replied coldly. "If you wouldn't mind clarifying…?"

There would be no mistaking Anthony's tone, and indeed he saw the bodyguard twitch slightly, but the elder man only chuckled. "Of course, of course." He straightened, and Anthony realized that he was in fact much taller than he had originally thought, taller even than his bodyguard by several inches. "I've been seeking out a certain smith. Or, to be clearer, I have been seeking the Great Smith. Unfortunately such is impossible, the man has been dead these past seven years, and so I've sought out the one man who might, possibly, be following in his footsteps. Even surpassing him." His twinkling eyes fixed on him. "My search has brought me here. Are you in fact Anthony, the Great Smith's son?"

The mention of his father, particularly as a qualifier to identifying him, made Anthony automatically bristle, but the more the old man spoke the more cautious he felt he should be over his temper. This was obviously no random faire goer who happened to stop by and his tone, as well as his words, bespoke a seriousness of purpose.

"I am. So you have succeeded in part of your quest at least. But now you hold the advantage, sir. Who are you?" He spoke calmly, but he felt his pulse quicken slightly – with no heart to quicken it. Anthony thought he already had a good idea of who this man was.

The smile of the stranger became a little sly, and he glanced theatrically over one shoulder. He bent down again and leaned over the counter into the stall, lowering his voice so only Anthony could hear. "That I'll tell you, Smith Anthony, but ask you keep it to yourself. I'd not have all the market bandying my name." When Anthony nodded his agreement, he smirked. "I am Jarl Oddbjörn."

Anthony's pulse picked up again, and he felt a little prickle of excitement race up his sides. This was the man he had hoped to meet this year, but hadn't really expected to do so.

The Jarl Oddbjörn was an exceptionally powerful man, controlling a good amount of territory, several large towns and some key roads, not to mention some of the best harbors and scores of long ships under his command. His rise to power and influence had been steady and swift. He was a clever man with ambition and fearsome drive, and not one it would be wise to cross.

Anthony was under no illusions about his own goals. He wanted to surpass his father, for his name to become the more familiar one, the better respected. To do that, his works would have to become known and recognized as superior. The best way to do that would be an influential patron, more so one who would need to outfit his warriors in the best a smith could offer.

He knew he could offer the best. If the Jarl took him on as a personal outfitter, then his name would rise to outshine his father's, he knew it would. But on the other hand, if the Jarl took a dislike to his work, or to him, his future could become difficult. Jarl Oddbjörn's reputation was considerable, and a negative word from him would carry considerable weight.

Anthony had confidence in his work, but a negative word need not be aimed its quality to leave its mark. And the Jarl, though obviously an old hand in battle, may not have the keenest of judgment.

Somehow, Anthony managed to keep his expression neutral as he nodded, then gave as proper a bow as he could manage behind his counter. It wouldn't do to be rude or to show too much eagerness.

"An honor to meet you, my lord," Anthony said as he rose to look the Jarl in the eye. In his mind, he was already replaying the entire sparse inventory he had just gone through, deciding what would be the most suitable to present as an example of his work. The selection was rather limited. "Since I doubt you have sought me out for my conversation, I return to my earlier question: what can I do for you?"

The look Oddbjörn gave him still had its humor, but there was also appraisal there. He was studying Anthony, weighing him up. "As might be expected when seeking a blacksmith, I have need of well-made metal works. As might be guessed by seeking you in particular, I desire greatly superior skill than what is commonly found. As might be assumed by my position, it is something more than shoeing horses."

Anthony let himself smile slightly. The Jarl liked to play word games, keeping his exact motives close to the chest. Whether it was strictly needed in this case or if it was a force of habit Anthony didn't know, but it wasn't surprising. He was a Jarl. "Not shoeing horses and I doubt your lordship would come to me for something so simple as a plough or kitchen knife. But say, an axe…?" At the Jarl's quirked brow he continued. "An everyday tool that is nonetheless essential, and the work it does is so much cleaner when the workmanship is well done."

"Ah." Oddbjörn held up a finger, his teeth flashing. "There lies the test, does it not? That the workmanship indeed be done well. That is not always the case, I fear, and what I am looking for is exceptional craftsmanship." His eyes narrowed, and for a moment the hardness in them was unveiled, bare. "I want the best that can be found, and have reason to believe that you are such a craftsman. I have come to see and decide for myself."

"Of course." Anthony nodded and turned back to the inside of his stall to choose an example.

At first he thought to hand out one of the few particularly good items he had left. He had two that he would consider good enough to use as representations of his skill before a Jarl, a long spear and a mid-handled axe. The spear was one of his best, well hewn and balanced, and topped with a head tempered and sharpened to an edge that could cut the wind into twin breezes. But while it was a masterful work, the metal was of the same type as many of its kind and could be found anywhere. The axe, though, the axe he had made using the alloy he had perfected himself. A metal that was strong, flexible and incredibly sharp when honed to an edge, which it would hold longer than weapons made of any other metal. Besides which, the axe was a beautiful piece on its own, with an even better balance than the spear so it practically swung itself through the air, and with an economy of ornamentation at the poll of the head, just enough to fit a short prayer to Odin. Left to his own tastes, Anthony would have forgone the prayer, but warriors were very dedicated and they enjoyed having a short devotion worked into their weapons, so it was like praising the Gods with every swing.

Out of the two there was no question which would be best to showcase his talents as a smith. He began to reach for the haft of the axe… and then abruptly hesitated.

He'd been looking forward to the faire, in the hopes of meeting this very man, of this very situation arising, but now that it was here… he wasn't sure he liked it. He couldn't quite put his finger on the source of his discomfort, but it was there, rearing up as his fingers stretched out for the axe. He didn't like the way the man spoke to him, but that couldn't really be helped. He was a Jarl and used to commanding others. But then, Anthony had never taken well to being ordered or feeling as though he were being directed.

Anthony frowned, and pulled back his hand. He didn't want to show Jarl Oddbjörn that axe. Instead, he picked up another. It was one of those he had left of lesser quality, and which he hadn't worked as hard to sell. The Jarl would expect him to present the very best he had with him, but Anthony hadn't been explicitly ordered to do so. He decided to test the Jarl Oddbjörn even as the Jarl was testing him, and see how well he knew good craftsmanship from poor, and if he would even recognize that which was 'exceptional.'

At least, that was the reasoning he gave himself why he left his best axe hanging where it was.

He presented the axe to Oddbjörn, and he caught the unnamed bodyguard glance back at them curiously. Anthony kept his face carefully blank as the Jarl turned the weapon over in his hands, examining it carefully.

It was far from his best but it was still his workmanship. It was far from inferior. It was sturdy, sharp and well balanced enough to pass most examinations. Most, but not necessarily all.

Oddbjörn hefted the axe, testing its weight and balance. He ran his hands along the haft, checking the grip, and then turned his attention to the head. He eyed the metal closely, holding it up to the light to scrutinize its color, flicked it with a finger to listen to the ring. Finally he backed away a pace and swung the weapon one handed through the air in a wide sweep, then carefully ran his thumb along the edge. When he stepped close to the counter again he wore a thoughtful expression.

"It's a good axe," he said, and Anthony felt an inexplicable lift in his spirits. "The metal is true, the balance acceptable, and the haft strong. Yes, I believe this would be a very good axe."

His focus shifted from the axe in his hands up to Anthony, and the little elation he felt immediately died away. There was a knowing gleam in the Jarl's look, though he still smiled faintly. "Were I chopping wood," he finished, and set the weapon back down.

Anthony swallowed. Jarl Oddbjörn had caught him in his little impromptu test, then, and recognized the craftsmanship on the axe as good, but not particularly superior to any other. It was what he had wanted to find out, if the Jarl could even appreciate the level of skill that went into his work. For some reason, though, the proof did not settle Anthony's mind at all.

"This," the Jarl indicated the axe, "cannot be your best. It makes an excellent tool for the home but only an acceptable weapon of war. I have heard your reputation, smith, and that of your craft. I would expect much better for your name to be as far flung as it is."

Anthony tried to feel gratified at the glancing compliment, but it was lost in a confused tangle of other emotions. He should be feeling elated, damn it. This was possibly the best thing that could happen for his career, the best way to get his name to outshine that of his father, and yet he felt none of that. Instead there was apprehension, bordering on dread. He couldn't understand it, and with the Jarl and his bodyguard standing before him, he couldn't take the time to track down the whys and wherefores of it.

He forced a smile, pushing down the confused muddle. Whatever it was, he couldn't let Oddbjörn see it. Anthony could figure it out later. Until then, he had a future to make for himself.

"My lord has a sharp eye," he said, picking up the axe. "This is indeed not my best work, but I thank you for the praise. For I can say in all modesty that it is," he twirled the weapon in his hands, making a complex pattern, flipping it up in the air in front of himself before snatching it again. "One of my worst," he finished with a cocky half-grin.

Anthony was sure he heard a small snort from the bodyguard, either at his showing off or his claim that a more than passable piece was the worst he had to offer. Jarl Oddbjörn, however, returned the grin, his interest quite obviously sharpened. "Really? I would be very interested, smith, to see your best, should you have any at hand."

This time when Anthony went to his stock, he did not hesitate to pick up the best of his axes, though he still felt a vague wash of misgiving when he handed it to Jarl Oddbjörn. He ignored it, and kept his smile in place.

Jarl Oddbjörn's face lit at the sight of the axe. It was an expression that shifted subtly to one of appreciative awe as he put it through the same paces as the one before. For a moment or two the bodyguard watched his lord with interest, but turned his focus outward as passersby slowed or stopped to also watch, as drawn by the Jarl's obvious pleasure as by the brightly glinting axe head, Anthony suspected. Unlike the first he had tested, which was obviously a tool being tested out, this was almost a dance as the axe was swung through in arcs and chops. It seemed to move of its own volition, rather than being pushed through the air.

When he stepped up to Anthony's counter for a third time, his smile was wide, and Anthony felt for the first time that it was completely genuine. "Now this is the kind of weapon on which a man's glory may be built," he said, his grip on the haft tightening possessively.

Anthony gave a small half bow, grinning. "Thank you."

"A very fine weapon," he murmured, looking at the axe. After moment he looked up at Anthony. "Would you be willing to allow me to test its sharpness, smith? I've no doubt that it possesses a deadly edge, and it hurts me think of such a fine weapon used to chop firewood, but I am curious…"

"Certainly," Anthony agreed readily. He motioned behind him. "If you'd care to step around the stall, there are some sturdy logs ready for splitting."

The Jarl did so, still carrying the axe, his bodyguard following close behind. After dropping down a cloth over his stall's front to show he was out, he simply walked out the back to join the two men.

In a way, the faire was a small town unto itself, attached to Kaupang. Its residents and even its buildings were transient in nature, and could leave only to be replaced the next day, ones neighbors sometimes changing on a weekly basis, but it was still a town of sorts.

For the most part, vendors who came to the faire slept in or directly outside their stalls. Only those who had sturdy wagons for their wares and an assistant or two to act as guard indulged in finding rooms in one of Kaupang's taverns. It was unlikely for one to be robbed by his or her neighbor; it was a stupid vendor who stole from the one directly beside him, as that would be the first place searched for any missing items. But thieving was still a very real danger, and setting someone trustworthy to keep watch over their goods through the night hours was prudent. In either case, there would be someone living in the stalls, and those who did so needed certain provisions.

Behind Anthony's stall was a small communal area, shared by himself and a dozen or so of his closest neighbors. Here there was an area for bedrolls, a community campfire and, what the Jarl and his man were headed for, a place to split logs for that same fire. There were some such areas that were large enough to accommodate the horses and ponies of vendors, but most did as Anthony and rented stalls at stables owned by Kaupang residents. With so many coming for the faire, it wasn't difficult to find ones reasonably priced.

There were some of his neighbors sitting, eating lunch, or otherwise taking a moment or two for themselves as the three of them came into view. They looked up curiously as a man wielding an axe came into their private area, but relaxed again at a nod from Anthony, whom they knew. They settled back and watched with quiet interest as the demonstration unfolded.

Jarl Oddbjörn looked around, and on spotting the chopping block and the waiting logs, nodded. Without preamble, he snapped out, "Rig!"

For an instant Anthony was confused, but the bodyguard acted immediately, striding forward and setting up the block to make it easy for one to swing an axe freely without taking down the stalls in the same motion. He set a log atop the block, a thick piece of long burning maple, and stepped back, turning to Oddbjörn.

Rather than stepping forward, the Jarl handed the axe over to his bodyguard – Rig, it would seem. He gave no instruction to the man, but Rig nodded in understanding and gave the weapon a practice swing or two, familiarizing himself with its weight.

At first Anthony was puzzled why the Jarl would have his man test out the weapon's edge as opposed to himself, when he would be able to feel as well as see in it action. Watching the big man Rig move, though, he understood. Jarl Oddbjörn was taller than Rig, and his frame naturally more substantial, but as Anthony had noticed earlier, the Jarl's physique wasn't what it could have been, what it once undoubtedly had been. Rig, on the other hand, was in his prime, the muscles in his arms moving like eels under his skin. Oddbjörn wanted to see a warrior's weapon in the hands of a warrior.

Rig showed no sign whether the action of the axe pleased him or not, and approached the waiting log purposefully.

In the muted silence, it seemed to Anthony that he was watching the warrior approach an enemy, and not a piece of firewood. There was nothing threatening in Rig's behavior, nothing threatening in anything that was taking place. He'd seen his weapons in the hands of warriors before, knew well what it was that they were used for and suffered no delusions. Or at least, no direct delusions. He was becoming uncomfortably aware that he had always managed to think of his creations and the purpose they were designed for separately in his mind. His weapons and the blood they drew were unrelated to each other in his thoughts.

Rig striding forward, haft of axe gripped in his hands, Anthony had trouble keeping up that mental separation. All he could see was his beautiful weapon, construct of his hands, going into battle to kill.

No one noticed his discomfort, if it was even visible. Rig took position before the block and lifted the axe. He took careful aim and swung the head back. With an exhale and bunching of muscle, he swung the axe down, its edge singing through the air.

The strike was true. The maple log split with a crack, clearly no more resistance to the axe blade than the intervening air. What earned a grunt of surprise from the Jarl and even a faint look of surprise from Rig was how the axe had continued on and buried itself two thirds of the way through the chopping block before coming to a stop. Those neighbors who had been watching sat up straighter, one or two exclaimed in protest.

Anthony's chest hurt. He had to stop himself from rubbing at the hidden talisman that seemed to burn in his flesh.

Jarl Oddbjörn looked at Rig, who was wrestling the axe from the split block. "Rig, did you intend that?"

"No, sir," the bodyguard replied, speaking for the first time in front of Anthony. "I meant only the log; the axe just kept going."

The Jarl paused, thoughtfully. After Rig got the axe worked free and handed it back, Oddbjörn stared at it for some time before turning to Anthony. The first thing out of his mouth was not what he had been expecting.

"I knew your father when he was alive, Anthony," he said softly. He nodded at Anthony's startled expression, dark eyes intense but clear. "Not well. Circumstances kept us from associating closely, but I was familiar with his work and some of what he dreamed to accomplish. It might have been a little dishonest of me not to mention this before, but you and I have met before. Though I doubt you remember me, you came only to your father's knee at the time. No, I thought not," he said when Anthony shook his head. He sighed. "In any case, sometimes he would talk about what it was he wanted for his work, and for you. I think in forging this," he hefted the axe, "you may have achieved both of his dreams. And when I think that you still have only begun in your craft…" he shook his head, trailing off.

Anthony didn't attempt to call back his attention. He was too busy absorbing what had just been said. At the first mention of his father resentment had automatically risen up, but what the Jarl had to say about him threw him off. More, what he said his father had wanted for him. He hadn't been aware that the old bastard thought of him as anything other than a nuisance. It was a strange idea to consider, and he was set more off balance than before.

In something of a daze, Anthony returned to the inside of his stall, the Jarl Oddbjörn and Rig to the other side of the counter. With a little further praise of his work, the Jarl purchased the axe. Anthony was still a little too bewildered to haggle well, but Oddbjörn happily paid the asking price for the weapon, a not inconsiderable purse, and threaded it through his belt so it rested at his low back, easy to reach for and to draw quickly.

Before he left, the Jarl made some small overtures to future business dealings, saying how he would like to visit Anthony's forge in person and see what else he had been working on. Anthony was left with the impression that he was doing his best to make a promise without actually committing to anything.

He left with Rig walking a step behind and to the side, Anthony's axe glinting from his belt. Anthony watched him until he was lost in the growing crowd, and was left with a tangle of thoughts to solve.

…

Objectively, the journey back home from the faire was considerably faster than the one going the opposite direction. The rain had not returned save for the occasional early morning drizzle, giving the roads an opportunity to dry out and become all that much easier to travel, and with the load in the cart significantly lightened even with his few purchases, the pony made better headway. Anthony managed to leave at the same time as three other travelers headed in the same direction, and a tiny, spontaneous caravan was formed, just enough to give the stray robber or predator pause and to keep Anthony's mind from wandering.

Eventually though, Anthony had to take the much less travelled road to Askival that none of the others needed, as he knew would happen. From there, subjectively, the journey began to drag.

Even on his own, Anthony wasn't too concerned about bandits. The final stretch to his village was so out of the way that most enterprising thieves avoided it, finding much more fertile hunting grounds elsewhere. Remembering what Dagr had said on the journey out, though, about the two wolves stalking the caravan, Anthony made sure to have one of his remaining axes in his belt and the good spear easy to reach within the cart. But it wasn't concern over his own safety that made time slow to a crawl for Anthony, but the solitude. Once again he was easy prey for his own wandering thoughts, and they made poor companions.

He worried at first that they would take on much the same tone as they had before, and he would find himself fixating on his lack of a heart, the talisman, and Loki. Instead, they turned to Jarl Oddbjörn, his work and his father.

Why had he hesitated to hand over his best axe to the Jarl? He'd gone over it in his mind again and again, and the reasoning he had concocted, that he was testing the Jarl's knowledge and experience, just didn't ring true. It had worked well enough in the moment, but in the silence of the road with only himself to answer to, it was very hard to lie convincingly. He hadn't intended to test Jarl Oddbjörn when he handed him the inferior axe. He hadn't wanted him to see his best; he hadn't wanted him to see how well he could do.

That was reasoning that felt true, but which made no sense to him whatsoever. Having his name finally overshadow that of his father's had been his drive and fire for so long that he couldn't remember a time when it hadn't been there. It was what had driven him from home and across half the world to learn all that he possibly could. It was what had him working at the forge from the small hours before dawn well into the night. It was the threat of not realizing that dream that had him praying, begging to the Gods and getting Loki to answer. It wasn't something he was likely to give up on a whim, on some unsubstantiated feeling.

Yet he almost had, and he couldn't understand why. None of the possibilities he came up with seemed terribly probable. Some of them left him feeling acutely unsettled.

Then there was his father. Generally, Anthony did his best not to think of the man at all, which was a challenge when so many of the people he met insisted on mentioning him at least once, or referring to Anthony as 'the Great Smith's son.' He hated it, and the continued repetitions only made him hate the man even more.

He remembered his father as a workaholic, constantly at the forge with his hammer, and absolutely no time for his family, wife or son. Any time when the man wasn't at the table for a meal, he could be found in his workshop, crafting something else, something new, something better. It wasn't all that different from his life now, Anthony conceded, but at least he didn't have a family to neglect in his obsession.

The Great Smith had been great, indeed, forging the best of weapons and tools, and well-liked by all who knew him. He was just a piss poor family man. His wife, Anthony's mother, ran the house with unmatched precision, the keys to the house jingling at her hip. Winter stores were always plentiful under her rule, the hearth always warm, the home always orderly. It struck Anthony, even at a young age, that his mother was like many of the women of the village when their husbands were called away to battle; preoccupied, with eyes casting off to long distances when she thought no one was looking. Except she had that same look even when her husband was only a room away.

It probably wasn't his father's fault when she died of fever one winter. Anthony had muddled memories of his worried face, of his demanding the healers to work their magic for her. But she still had died, and Anthony blamed it on his father's habitual neglect. If he'd only been there, she wouldn't have fallen ill to begin with.

Anthony could only recall his father as a selfish, oblivious being who, when he finally noticed Anthony's growth, took to demanding the impossible of his son.

He'd driven Anthony, instructing him in the ways of fire, metal and the craft of shaping both. The same focus that had him at the forge day and night was redirected at Anthony, meant to shape him into a smith in his own image. As soon as he was able, Anthony had left to make his own name.

The irony was that in doing so he had driven himself far harder than his father had ever done, and in trying to defy him by going his own way he'd become more like the man than he ever would have had he remained.

He supposed that driving his son could have been what Jarl Oddbjörn had meant when he said that his father had wanted something for him. The way he had said it though, with a kind of tenderness, gave him just enough doubt to wonder.

He would be glad to be back home. Back at his forge, with his idiot apprentices, his nosy neighbors and Ranka. Being alone with only idle hands left him far too open to useless contemplation. He would be glad to see anyone after so long alone on the road.

Since leaving the main road, Anthony had passed only a single traveler passing in the opposite direction, a day out from the village. He could have only come from Askival, though Anthony didn't recognize him. To be fair, it had been closing in to evening, and Anthony was tired. It had been an old man, slightly bent and leaning on a staff, his face mostly obscured by his brimmed hat, from under which his long gray hair and beard only hid him further. Anthony nodded to him in greeting and passed on. There was still an hour's light to travel by, and he was eager to make it home.

The next day found Anthony pushing on almost before the sun had risen. By the time the light was strong he could recognize his surroundings. By midmorning, he could make out the faint smudge of smoke from hearth fires in the sky.

Anthony breathed deeply and grinned to himself. He felt more at ease already. It was a feeling likely to dissipate when he got home and had to unpack, set to rights the mess his apprentices had undoubtedly made, and begin the long process of catching up a backlog of work, but even that brought a sense of relief.

His grin slowly faded as Anthony approached the village. A worry line appeared between his brows, studying the smoke, and he drove himself and the pony a little faster, then a little faster again, the cart rattling. When he came around the final bend of the road he was almost running and he froze as his home finally came into view.

Askival had been put to the torch, the frames of homes still smoldering in the slanting afternoon light.

…

A/N2: You guys ever seen Jurassic Park? You know that thing they did when the dino DNA they got had gaps, where they took frog DNA to patch it up? It was definitely not dino DNA that they used, but it was close enough to kinda patch and work from there, right? Take that as what I'm doing with this story, only replace 'dino DNA' with 'accurate Norse/Viking history' and 'frog DNA' with 'medieval English history' and we've got it made. ^^;

NOTES!

Kaupang: If you look up 'Kaupang' on Google, you'll come up with a few large towns, each with their own history and solid geographical locations. This is meant to be none of them. 'Kaupang' means 'market-place' and as I needed a name for a Norse version of Constantinople, it seemed to fit well enough.

Askival: Again, a town that probably exists has this name, this isn't it. The name means 'valley of ashes,' and because I'm a twisted little monkey, that's what I decided to call Anthony's village. Don't ask why the founders of the town would have called it that. Maybe they were prophetic.

Askam: See above. This name means 'ash trees,' which is much nicer than the meaning for 'Askival.' (Maybe valley of ashes actually meant valley of ash trees.)

Keys: The role of women in Norse culture, (please don't kill me for the phrase 'Norse culture,' it's easier than the alternatives and I'm tired), was very different from that of women of other countries at the time. One of the differences being how much power they had over material goods. When the men would go off on their battles and raids, those women who stayed behind – and not all of them did, some fought right alongside the men – were completely in charge of the homes. Land, livestock, farms, children, everything. One of the symbols of that power was her possession of the keys to every lock in the home.

Surt: Surt, or Surtr, is a being from Muspelheim, the Realm of fire, and is foretold to be the slayer of Freyr at Ragnarök, bringing flame that will engulf the Earth, the other Realms, and possibly even Yggdrasil, the World Tree, so that creation can begin again. As is generally assumed, I'm suggesting that he's a mite warm to hang around.

Blót: A blót is a feast and gathering, taken at different times of the year, following more or less the changing of the seasons, (I'm simplifying a lot, here), and included a sacrifice of an animal. Modern heathenry still has blóts, but without the sacrificing of live animals bit.

Geri & Freki: Odin had four companions, two ravens, Huginn and Muninn, and two wolves, Geri and Freki. They're typically seen at Odin's side, being fed by him at his table, but are also attributed to be carrion eaters on the field of battle. They're also seen quite often as extra eyes for Odin, much as his ravens are. Their names are generally interpreted as both meaning 'the ravenous' or 'greedy one,' but traced back, Geri is closer to 'greedy' and Freki as 'covetous' or 'avaricious.'

Rig: 'Rig' is an old name for Heimdall. Does my using that name for this particular character mean anything? We'll find out! :D

Ranka: Three guesses who this character is meant to be in the Iron Man to Norse history translation. 'Ranka' is a nickname for 'Ragneiðr,' which means, loosely, 'to counsel.'

Oddbjörn: Again, take a guess at who this is meant to represent. ;) 'Oddbjörn' has two parts, the first, 'odd' meaning 'weapon-point' or 'spear-point' and the second, 'björn' meaning 'bear.'

Appi & Bergi: You don't have to guess. These two are Dummy and You (or Butterfingers), Anthony's bumbling arm robots. 'Appi' means 'fool' and 'Bergi' means 'to help, to save.'

Sölvi: This name means 'pale.'

Dagr: This name means 'day.'

Helki: Basically, this name means 'holy.'

Jarl: This is a Norse chief, but is usually translated to 'earl.'

Where is LOKI?: You may have noticed a distinct lack of Loki in this chapter. It may come as cold comfort, but there will be a lot of him next chapter. Promise.

Special thanks goes out to those wonderful readers who have shown so much interest in this story, and to everyone for being so patient with me and my long time between updates.

Thanks for reading, until next time!