Iron Axe by Steven Harper Page A

the right with that keg of ale.”
    That took Danr by surprise. “I don’t know . . .”
    â€œI’ll go, too,” Talfi said. “As an emissary from Skyford, or something.” He leaned back on his cloak, and straw crackled beneath him. “I’m in no hurry to return home.”
    â€œWhy not?” Danr asked without thinking how rude the words might sound. He flushed again, wishing he could take them back.
    Talfi, however, didn’t seem to take offense. “I hate sorting feathers,” he said, a little too casually. Danr cocked his head. There was something else that Talfi wasn’t saying, but Danr decided not to press for details—he still didn’t know all the rules for keeping friends.
    Sounds of revelry continued in the dooryard beyond the stable. Aisa got to her feet.
    â€œI should go before Frida misses me,” she said, heading for the door. She left a sad, empty space near Danr’s tiny hearth.
    â€œAisa,” he called in his gruff voice before he could stop himself. A slight draft from the half-open door made the candle flame dance like a tiny demon. “Uh . . . thank you for helping with my leg. And for warning me about the villagers.”
    She nodded once and vanished into the darkness outside. Danr stared after her for a long time, not noticing Talfi’s thoughtful look.
    *   *   *
    Aisa pulled her ragged scarf more tightly across her face and shivered as she hurried up the dark, muddy road. This place was always cold.
She
was always cold. Even in summer, when the men stripped off their shirts and women sweated over cook fires, Aisa felt cold. She wore three ragged dresses, bound her hands in rags, and drew a hood across her hair, but still the cold crept in, biting her bones and gnawing her ribs. Only one thing could make her warm again, a thing she loathed even as she yearned for it during every waking moment.
    The village streets were deserted, though she could just hear in the distance thin shouts of laughter from Alfgeir’s farm. Alfgeir’s wife was still serving ale to the men. Aisa shivered. Farek, her master and owner, was among them. It was through him that Aisa had learned of White Halli’s plan to kill . . .
him.
The plan had fallen apart, but Farek was likely to come home drunk, and the possibility filled Aisa with dread.
    Like Alfgeir, Farek was a farmer, though his lands butted up against the village, and his house stood at the edge of town. A split-rail fence surrounded the yard, and Aisa slipped quietly through the gate. The moon hung overhead, shedding accusatory silver light over Aisa’s ragged form. Her hands ached with chill. Mistress Frida had gone to a neighbor’s house so the two of them could commiserate over the foolishness of their men, and she had left Aisa in charge of the two children, but they were long asleep, and Aisa felt it more important that
he
should know of the plot against him.
    Aisa hurried across the frostbitten yard, her mouth set tight beneath her scarf. Mistress Frida’s beatings hurt, and leaving the young ones alone would rate a long one. Aisa reached the front door of Farek’s round house and, heart pounding, lifted the latch. It made a small clatter, and the hinges creaked enough to make her hand shake. Aisa crept into the house like a rabbit sneaking into a guarded garden. A cold draft followed her in. The house’s interior was dark except for a few coals glowing red like wyrm’s eyes on the fire some way ahead of her. Aisa listened. Soft breathing emanated from one of the wide benches that lined the walls. Twelve-year-old Abjorn, wrapped in warm blankets, was still asleep. The crib that held baby Helga was also quiet. No sign of Mistress Frida. With a relieved sigh, Aisa picked her way through the long, narrow main room, remembering to skirt the table. Smells of smoke, dried meat, and diapers that needed changing