Chapter 11 - Gonna Fly Now

He must be out of his mind. I give Torsten a look that communicates as much after eyeing the 350 pound or so log in front of me wearily, hands braced on my hips.

“Do you think we could make mine…a little smaller?” I ask, motioning with my index finger and thumb. “Don’t think I can swing a log that size, if you know what I mean.” I offer a crooked grin. Wait, did I just make a sex joke in front of a viking?

But the joke lands and Torsten erupts with laughter, throwing his head back and bracing his hands on his stomach.

“Aye, Lass, not a prob’lem,” he says after his laughter subsides and unlatches an axe that was strapped at his hip, stepping over to me. He then strokes his copper beard, contemplating the log, then me, then the log again. "Hmmm...aye that outta do jus' fine." He braces both hands on his axe, raising it above his head with his massive arms and I scoot the hell out of his way. He sweeps the axe down in a powerful ark, already starting to split the wood about a fourth of the way down the log. After a several more powerful hits, the piece separates. It's pretty amazing how he made such short work of that given the size of the log, and I can't help but raise my eyebrows in approval. This guy is freaking strong and terrifyingly accurate with that axe. No wonder he's Froðes right hand man.

Torsten wipes some sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then motions to the severed log piece with it. "There yeh go."

"Alright," I say with a nod. Realizing I'm in for quite the workout, I make quick work of braiding my hair so that it's out of my face while examining my new log, which looks to be around 90 pounds if my math is right. It will be tough to lift given there are no handles, but it's more or less possible based on what I deadlifted and bench pressed in my home world. I approach the severed piece, then squat, keeping my feet at a little wider than shoulder length apart and just slightly pointed out, similar to how Torsten did earlier. How the fuck to I grab this thing? I don't have the massive hands that Torsten has. I decide to mimic how I deadlifted at the squat machine back home, having one palm hooking over the top of the log, the other scooping as far under as I dare to go without smashing my fingers. I roll it back and forth until I get more purchase in both hands. Once I feel like I have a good grip on it, I deadlift, trying to use the strength of my legs pushing against the bank to bring up the log, keeping it close to my body. Although the bark digs into my palms, I'm able to lift it to my quads for the first rack, then bring over my other palm so both are hooked over the top. Torsten makes a grunt of either surprise or approval, I can't tell, but I don't look at him in order to avoid losing my grip or focus. Now here comes the tricky part.

I try to do the roll up that Torsten demonstrated, keeping the severed log close to my core, but I can't get it past my chest to do the second rack. I carefully bring it back to my lower quads, wedged in between them and my chest, grunting in frustration.

"Drive yer hips forward more and throw yer head back as it rolls up, Lass," Torsten critiques. "Keep yer elbows high and up 'til it rolls to yer chest, then push 'em forward to rack it."

I give a curt nod and raise my elbows as he instructs, so they are in a better position until I'm ready to rack the log on my chest. With another grunt, I lift and roll the log up my chest, driving my hips forward and tilting my head back out of the way. This time, I'm able to position my arms and hands better to rack the log again. Fuck yeah! I can't celebrate yet though, as I now have a 90-something pound log on my chest that I need to press. Taking big breaths, I drop down in a slight squat, then drive the log into a push press as I straighten my legs, pressing it directly overhead and locking my arms. Holy shit! I did it!

"Aye Lass, that's it!" Torsten shouts, and do I detect a hint of pride?

Rather than dropping it directly to the ground, I reverse the steps, racking the log back on my chest, before rolling down to my body and dropping it to the ground at my feet. Sweat drips down my back, despite the cool spring day.

"Good. Now, do two mor' like that," Torsten instructs. Fuck.

I manage to get through a full set of three in before my arms start to shake precariously and Torsten deems that's enough log lifts for now. Then he has me lifting a few heavy stones and carrying them thirty feet or so down and up the bank. By the time we are finished, I'm covered in sweat and my limbs feel like jello.

"Al' right, now weh can star' the real training," he says, taking up one of the wooden practice swords and I follow suit. They are about 35 inches in length, modeled to be comparable to the double edged steel ones I've seen a few of the clans-members carry. A one handed sword, with a narrow and short hilt, so we will likely be learning those techniques today. Torsten hands me a round shield that has an iron dome in the center. I grasp the wooden handle on the other side with my left hand. It's lighter than I expected, which will definitely make it easier to maneuver with. The practice sword I handle in my right hand as if holding a hammer, my thumb braced over my index finger under the crossguard, mimicking Torsten, and he nods in approval.

"Yeh catch on quickly," he says. "And yeh seem to have som' oth' trainin' from what I seen the othr' day we found yeh." That already feels weeks ago, but it's only been a couple days?

"Thanks. I've trained mostly in hand to hand combat though, not with blades."

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

He nods. "I see. Well, that 'lla change today." He brings his sword arm up and demonstrates a slow cutting strike so I can follow. "Yeh must think of it as an extension of yeh own arm."

I nod, following the slash motion with my own practice sword. "Yeh dinnae have a height advantage, so yeh want to remember yeh will have the mos' reach at shoulder level," he says, demonstrating by completing a slow thrust at shoulder level, and with his height it reaches the top of my head. "As soon as yeh cut lower, yeh will lose yer reach and will hav' to move in closer and yeh dinnae wan' to do that unless you hav' to."

We go through a few slashing strikes, where he tells me to focus on letting my arm accelerate the sword from a raised position over my shoulder. The movement is much more relaxed that I was expecting, but he explains that by letting it fly like that, the sword does the job for you and you don't need to move your body to make a powerful slash. He also shows me an alternate sword grip, staring the grip of the sword from the pommel then up, as it's a more natural way to unsheathe it and I have more control of the sword as I wield it.

We move through a few more offensive strikes before switching to defensive techniques. Torsten shows me how to parry enemy strikes and create openings for counter attacks. He's going easy on me, but even then, whenever his strikes hit my shield, I feel it vibrate through my arms and my feet sink into the river bank. Despite his frustrations he showed the day of the raid with me, he is a patient and skilled instructor, catering the techniques to someone of my build and height.

I'm not sure how much time has passed while we've been training, an hour, maybe? Two? but at some point I'm unable to lift my arms anymore and my sword hits the bank in a soft thud. And this is just a practice sword, I think.

"That will do for today Torsten, thank you," Froðe says, apparently watching us from further up the bank. I'm suddenly more aware of how I'm completely drenched in sweat, copper wisps coming out of my braid and sticking to my face, hunched over my dropped sword and shield arm fallen loosely to my hip. Meanwhile, he's up there looking down at us, casually stroking Huggin's feathers, who is perched on his left shoulder. Huggin also seems to be contemplating us quietly. He's much calmer than his more rugged looking counterpart, Munnin, who matches the chaotic energy of Skuld. Meanwhile, Huggin seems to match the intelligent and calculating nature of Froðe.

"Yeh did well Lass," Torsten says, surprising me with how earnestly he says it and breaking me from my thoughts. "Next time, start wi' the strength and endurance trainin' I showed yeh before we meet. Do it ev'ry day."

I nod. "I will," I say, and I mean it, my heart swelling with gratitude for the time he spent working with me today. "Thank you for training me."

Torsten grunts in response before making his way up the bank towards Froðe.

"Huggin tells me that a trading ship approaches from up river," Froðe says to Torsten as he hikes up the bank. "They are a day out. We'll meet with Einar in an hour to decide what goods we might consider trading."

Torsten nods. "I'll go see to how th' other's are doin' with th' crops, first," he says before heading to the fields.

"Crops?" I ask, after he leaves. I guess I'll keep the sword and shield with me for practice.

"Yes, we do our own farming. The oat and barley planted here should be ready for harvest in the summer."

"So, you don't just take everything you see fit, then. You do actually do some things yourself." The words are out of my mouth before I realize. Shit. My fatigue has completely turned off my filter.

But Froðe just raises a golden eyebrow and smirks, amusement in his ice blue eyes. "Our ways seem savage to you, don't they?"

Yes. I sit up straight, despite my exhaustion, lifting my chin.

"Perhaps where you come from, you didn't have to fight to survive." I narrow my eyes at him, but don't interrupt. "What you do not realize, fiery one, as that if it wasn't us, it would likely be someone else who raided this village. In a few days time, maybe a few weeks, a few months, or years. It's not a question of if, but when, and it could even be the orders of a lord in a neighboring region. This is a world of constant warfare. Battles among clans of the same region, even. If you cannot protect what you have, you will lose it. Here, we fight not just for wealth and glory, but also to sustain our future. It is a way of life."

I struggle to wrap my brain around that, but I also know he's probably not wrong.

"You raided a monastery. Took slaves and are trafficking them. The lords in this nation are not doing that, are they?"

Froðe, still ever calm and calculating, studies me, and so does Huginn. "Yes," he answers after a few moments. "We raided a building that may hold religious significance to these people. But it does not to us, fiery one. We worship different gods." I shake my head, that shouldn't matter, but Froðe presses on. "As for the thralls, who do you think purchases the shipments of them?" My heart sinks along with the words as they settle in. The lords, in neighboring regions.

"You talked before of war existing in your home world," Froðe continues. "That it was not different from the raiding you have seen take place here. Something tells me you must have been so far from where those events took place, that you know not of what it was really like for those involved," his smirk turns into a sneer. "Well taken care of, safely tucked away from any danger." This is the point where I could get defensive, bite something back in anger, but again, he's not wrong. I've lived in a safe place, away from the direct threat of war and all the horrors that come with it. Only reading about events on the other side of the world from the comfort of my smartphone on my couch. Here, these people live like that every day. Where you can start your day as a person with a life, and then in minutes become enslaved or killed. I didn't realize I was living in a bubble until he laid it all out there for me.

"I'm not going to participate in the raids," I say firmly. "I'm only learning how to fight in order to protect myself."

Froðe nods. "I would not subject you to that unless you wished to be a part of it," he says, surprising me. "But you are going to need a lot more training than today, regardless."

I snort in agreement.

"Tomorrow we will add on archery. Then, when we deem you ready, how to wield an axe and spear...We don't just train in one weapon in this clan," he adds, when I give him a questioning look.

"Sounds great," I say, which causes Froðe to smirk again.

"Come, I have something for you back at the tavern," Froðe says as he turns. Huggin becomes agitated with the movement and takes flight.

Something for me? He sure is going out of his way to make me happy. Interesting. I wonder what it could be.