Brant smiled. “I thought he might.”
“It was I who thought he might.” Brodyn unfolded his arms and pushed his tall frame from the barn wall. “I told you it would be this morning.”
Brant swung at his brother as Lail jogged to greet me. “You must be happy, sister. May I see it?”
My face burned with pride as I extended the knife and Lail drew it from the sheath.
“It belonged to a Westman king.” Brant leaned in to admire it. “He made a run last summer at Clyde Rock. Do you remember, Languoreth? He met with Morken’s sword. Bad luck, really, raiding during a feast.”
“Bad luck raiding when we were there, I say,” Brodyn scoffed. “Eight boats of hairy Westmen against the likes of us? We made such quick work of them; old Tutgual’s soldiers had scarcely made it down to the water by the time we were through.”
Brant looked wearily at his brother. “There’s a braggart, and there’s you. Did our father teach you nothing about humility?”
“Did our father teach you nothing about pride in one’s accomplishments?” Brodyn countered. “We’ve still got it around here somewhere if you want to see it. The Westman’s head, I mean.” Brodyn grinned. “Cedar oil. It’s an age-old trick. Does a beautiful job preserving.”
“No, thank you,” I said too quickly.
“Ah, no matter.” Brodyn clapped me on the shoulder. “We’ll build a warrior’s stomach in you yet.”
“Come on then,” Brant said, a smile playing at his lips. “Our little cousin is wanting to wield her weapon, no doubt.”
“Right. Our wee Languoreth. Let’s see what you can do.” Brodyn yanked Lail down beside him in the dead winter grass. I took a breath and tucked my thick braid into the collar of Lail’s tunic.
“Firstly,” Brant said, “do not stand front-wise to me. Turn your body like this.”
He angled his torso and staggered his legs. “You leave your enemy too many opportunities. That’s better. And keep your weapon out of my reach.” Before I could blink, Brant’s ironlike grip had locked on my wrist and squeezed, causing me to cry out in pain and drop my knife.
Shocked, I rubbed my wrist and waited for an apology that did not come. Instead he tucked his toe under the fallen blade and, with a flick of his foot, lofted it, catching it swiftly in hand.
“If you think a Westman or a Pict would be any kinder, you are mistaken. Now try again,” he said, returning the knife.
The next time Brant made a grab for my wrist, I shrank away just in time. He nearly stumbled forward in surprise.
“And never let your guard down with a girl of ten winters, eh, brother?” Brodyn called out.
“I’ll thank you to shut your trap whilst we’re training,” Brant said, fixing his eyes on me. “Now attack.”
My cousins had fashioned a thick wax covering for the tip of my blade so I’d be able to parry and thrust with no risk of injury. I think they’d intended I not cut myself, but after a few close encounters with the hollow of his neck, Brant’s dark eyes lit, surprised.
“How about that: she knows to go for the neck! Brodyn?” he called.
“Yes, brother?”
“I’m glad you cast the wax so thickly.”
I beamed in the warmth of their praise. This is what I was built for, I thought, as I reveled in the chill of the winter air on my face and the stretch and spring of my limbs as they moved in the foreign rhythms of defense and attack.
After some time had passed, Brodyn stood, stretching. “Come, brother, give way. She’s clearly got talent. Let the girl benefit from a more experienced instructor.”
Brant shook his head but sank down beside Lail in the grass while Brodyn showed me how to jab, how to slice, and the places on the body most impacted by a wound from a smaller blade: the neck, the thigh, the stomach. All the while Lail watched, a distinctly proud look on his face.
I could have stayed practicing all day had the rain not begun to come down, soaking us to the bone in a matter of moments, the wet causing the knife to go slick in my hand.
“That’s enough now,” Brant said as he shielded his eyes from the onslaught of water. “Come, Languoreth. It’s time for midday.” The shivering overtook me and I let them draw me away.
Brodyn draped his arm over my shoulder as we made our way back to the hall. “It seems, Lailoken, that you are not the only one gifted with the warrior’s way.”
But my brother did not return his smile. “I would be proud to have my sister battle at my side. I think, someday, she shall, in whatever way she can.”
• • •
The brothers shook rain from their heads and leaned their weapons against the wall in the great room, oblivious to the weight of Crowan’s disapproving glare as she nudged Lail and me onto the wooden bench and tucked a thick wool blanket round each of us. The fire blazed hot as the summer sun, and I breathed in the bright smell of rosemary rising in wisps of steam from the heaping bowl of mutton before me. The four of us fell upon our midday meal as if we hadn’t eaten in weeks.
I had just devoured my second helping of stew and was sopping the extra gravy with a hunk of bread when shouting erupted over the steady pounding of the rain.
Brodyn shot up, nearly knocking over our bench. “Someone’s at the gate.”
“Go,” Brant said. “I’ll stay with the children.”
“Children?” Lail scoffed.
“You are children,” Brant said. “And you’ll mind what I say.”
In one swift motion, Brodyn lifted his spear from the wall and took off running into the rain. I watched a shift come over Brant. I’d seen it before, when Father gathered his men in the courtyard before riding off to raid. The sparkle in Brant’s dark eyes drained away and his body tensed, as if something inside him had coiled like a snake. He positioned himself between us and the door, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to strike.
“It might be the Angles,” Lail said without a trace of fear in his voice.
My mouth went dry. It was winter. My father could raise an army of two hundred, but the bulk of them were tenant farmers, home now with their families. Of the small retinue we kept on through winter, ten had traveled with my father to Partick. That left ten guarding the storehouses down by the river and only ten who remained here.
If the Angles had come, there would be no saving any of us.
As if reading my thoughts, Lail stood and yanked his sword from its baldric. “I can fight.”
“Stay back, Lailoken,” Brant said, his voice low.
“I can fight,” he insisted.
“You will not.”
“Sweet Gods, Lail, do as he says!” I shouted.
“Let them come,” Lail said. “I will protect you.”
Brant’s jaw clenched, but he let my brother stay.
I gripped the handle of my new knife, struggling to calm myself. Moments stretched. The tension in the room pulled taut as an archer’s string. I strained my ears, listening until I could hear my own blood racing. And then a series of shouts sounded from the courtyard. The heavy slap of footsteps came thundering down the corridor. Brant lifted his sword, his eyes set on the door; but when it thrust open, only Brodyn appeared, his dark hair wet as an otter’s pelt.