Adalwulf: The Two Swords (Tales of Germania Book 1) by Alaric Longward Page A

and I stepped near Gisil. The weapon had no words a man might know, of course, but for some reason, the blade made me frown. I felt reluctant to step any closer to it.
    Gisil smiled crookedly. “I thought you might sense it’s not all metal and leather. It’s the steel, they say, that soaks up the men it kills, their blood and their past, and grows into a sentient thing over a long time. Warriors are forever saying it is possible, and while they are fools most of the time, perhaps it is true in some cases. It is not a kind thing, but cold. I think it loves winter, that blade, because it is as bitter. It has taken countless of lives in its time.”
    “Truly,” I told her. “I’m a simple man, and know nothing, but that blade is odd.”
    She snorted, and went serious as she removed a hair from my brow. “I said I thought you might see what I see. You are not a simple man. I didn’t see that before, but I did just now. You are like the blade. You are young, but with an old soul.”
    “Old?” I asked her nervously. “What are you saying?”
    She looked uncomfortable, guilty, sorrowful, and shrugged. “Touched by the gods. Some of your soul is woven from the ancient weaves. Perhaps you are mad.”
    “You mean I’m crazy?” I said, and remembered what Germain had said about asking a vitka about me. God touched? “That is not very—”
    She snorted. “No! I’m a völva, and I know when a man is touched by the gods, and it doesn’t always mean you are crazy all the time,” she answered, and saw my frown. “I think you are mad when you fight. Only in the battle are you truly crazy. I see it in you, though it evaded me earlier. You are not like some men you occasionally see weeping and laughing at the same time under the former roof of some old, moldy hall, truly without sense and hope, but you will be mad as Hel’s dragon in a combat. You are a berserker. Old soul, they say, made of old stories. Like the blade. Born to fight.”
    “I’ve never—”
    “Never really fought before,” she said with some trepidation. “You’ve been trained, but not tested. It will be seen this night how well you’ll do.” She didn’t sound happy about the fact.
    “Why frown?” I asked her, a bit proud thanks to her words. “If that is the case, we will need such power here this night.”
    She nodded. “Perhaps so. You will hear the call. I think Hraban is like that as well,” she mused, shifting her gaze to the ancient blade. “They brought it from Gothonia. It’s the land of the first humans. Aska and Embla and all others followed, and I think their blood is the very oldest.” She was quiet for a time and frowned, and I was sure she indeed had some sight. At least I hoped it was so, because she was saying all my dreams could come true. Such a man would have no shortage of fame and lords to serve.
    “It is a blade worth fighting for,” I breathed.
    She went on. “Hulderic’s family carries the curses of the gods, but also many mighty artifacts of the old. That sword is one of them. Gods alone know where that one came from, but it’s very old, and when something like that excels in the task of killing, it often comes alive. I hear it, too.”
    “We are both as mad, then,” I whispered, and tore my eyes away from the old weapon to the other seat, where a shield of metallic beauty leaned on the chair leg. The shield was not over large, and would not cover a man’s legs. It had very strange carvings running on the edges. A simple, pure beauty. It was darker than a sharpened blade, but it was unmistakably a precious guard of the purest metal. Also, a long hammer sat on the seat. It had a block-like, foot-sized head, and a thick wooden and metallic shaft the length of my arm. I felt envious of it immediately. It would be a bone-breaker in battle, a terrible thing in a duel, and the Celt lord who wielded it must be a powerful man to do so.
    “We will sit tight,” said the blacksmith from the side. “Post guards