Chapter 13 - When the Arrow Strikes True

The next day starts with a whirlwind of training.

I begin with Skuld, who spends the morning teaching me the stories of the Gods, and where to locate and prepare ingredients needed for that god awful healing potion, as well as a few others. We gather henbane from along the fence lines of the grazing highland cattle, yarrow from a misty field of wildflowers that neighbors Tir Nairngire, nettle from the riverbank and mugwort just off the dirt road of the village. We take a short hike into the nearby woods, practicing meditation and breath work in the crisp morning air, and the sounds of birds chirping and occasional crackling wood of the forest puts me at a sense of ease. Warm sunlight sifts in between the trees and heats my shoulders, a sign that the weather is finally starting to feel like real spring.

After meditation, we finish our session practicing the ritual chant with the other girls. Although it's for a ritual, it feels so good to sing again. Now that I know that my life is not immediately in danger, I feel myself starting to relax into this routine that is forming. I find myself losing myself in the song, like I often did with music back home. I let my voice carry more than usual as a result, putting more character into the melody. This catches a surprised side look from Iona, beating the drum next to me, who then grins. Skuld only gives me a knowing look over the fire with her smoldering eyes and nods, as if she expected nothing different. How much does she see in her visions? I wonder.

In the afternoon, Skuld walks with me to riverbank, eagerly asking me if I've had any other interesting dreams. But for once, I had a blissfully dreamless sleep, and I needed it. I'm definitely sore from yesterday, but I woke up feeling refreshed this morning which is a first. Am I starting to adapt to this world?

Once Skuld has deposited me to the riverbank, I spend about 45 minutes doing the strength training exercises Torsten showed me yesterday, happy to be doing some sort of lifting again. I also add in some pushups, squats and planks, earning a few odd looks from the passerby. But thankfully, no one bothers me. It's definitely not the gym I'm used to, but as a whole it's certainly effective. This time I'm even able to do two sets of log lifts, three reps each. Beaming, I drop the log with a thud at my feet. Everything is so much easier now that I'm not wearing layers of dresses and proper training gear instead.

"Loo's like yer all warme'd up!" I hear Torsten holler as I drop the stones I was lifting down and back the riverbank. I look up to see him hiking down the bank to me. "And yeh r' wearin' some proper clothes fer once!" he says, nodding to my attire.

I wipe the sweat forming on my brow with the back of my hand, and put my palm up in greeting. My unruly hair is neatly braided back out of my face, tied with a strip of leather that Huginn had brought me in the morning. He scared the shit out of me again as I woke up to him hovering over me, perched on my headboard with the material clutched in his beak. Thinking it was a worm at first glance, my resulting screech startled Froðe awake. He had jumped out of bed, grabbed his sword and unsheathed it with frightening speed, ready to behead our intruder until he realized what happened. I'm still not sure where Huginn found it, but I'm grateful to have the strip to secure my hair. After everything settled down, Froðe laughed and said it was a sign of affection from the creature.

Torsten and I move through our thrust, slash and defensive exercises. Whack! My arm vibrates from the impact of his cut to my shield. Whack! I drop it just in time to avoid a slide slash. Whack! He parries the upper cut I attempt with the opening with ease. Is he throwing these cuts faster than yesterday? He definitely is.

I grin, realizing he's upping the ante to keep me progressing.

"So, when do we work up to real steel?" I ask, curious. Whack! Oof, I felt that one in my elbow.

"Ha! Ar yeh sick o' workin' with the child's blades?" Torsten says. Whack! Clang! Thud! A torrent of slashes I barely block. He's moving even faster!

"Child's?" I huff, sweat dripping down my temples. I grip my shield's handle harder to avoid it slipping from my sweaty fingers.

"Aye Lass, weh usually use these for trainin' the young."

Oof. Well, it's better than getting my hand chopped off accidentally.

"Whenever you think I am ready," I respond.

Torsten nods, then suddenly throws a precise cut to just above the hilt of my wooden sword, just missing my fingers, and powerful enough that it knocks it right out of my hand and on to the riverbank. Shit!

"Eyes on meh Lass! Nev'r drop em!" Torsten reprimands when I reach for it. "And keep yer shield up!" He barks.

Guess I won't be ready for real blades for a bit.

We continue to spar until my arms start to feel like jelly again, and after another particularly strong Whack! my shield is propelled towards my face from the power and smashes me in the lip. Fuck! That hurt. Within moments, the taste of copper fills my mouth, but luckily my teeth weren't smashed in. Just a bloody lip.

"Al'right Lass, I guess yer done today."

I spit out the blood pooling in my mouth to the riverbank, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

"I got teh go see to the buildin' of d' bath house, an” how" Torsten says, looking up at the position of the sun, which tells us it's mid afternoon.

"Bath house?" I ask as I walk over to the river to rinse the blood from my face and hand.

"Aye, sure beat's d' river. A heat'd room fer bathin' and eh tub of cold water fer after to scrub in." Huh. So like a sauna and cold plunge. Interesting. Again, I'm surprised by how important personal hygiene is to the viking people. I feel like they didn't really get a good rep for that in the movies I've watched.

I nod, then the flapping of wings is the only warning I get before a black blur swoops in and lands on my left shoulder. ON. MY. SHOULDER. Small talons grip and release as Huginn adjusts his footing, tilts his head to look at me and croaks. Miraculously, I resist the urge to screech this time. How? I have no idea. Maybe I'm finally getting used to his sudden appearances and lack of personal boundaries.

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"Loo's like yeh are bein' beckon'd!" Torsten laughs, then turns to head up bank.

"Lovely." But Huginn is surprisingly gentle with his talons while perched on my shoulder, and begins to groom himself, unbothered by my sarcasm. "Thanks again for the hair tie, by the way." I point at my braid with my right hand, in order not to disturb his perch with my left. Can he actually understand human speech? I wonder. It certainly seemed that way the other day.

My suspicions are confirmed when Huginn affectionately nibbles at my neck, earning a crooked grin from me. Up this close, I can see how this deep, glossy black plumage has iridescent highlights of blue, purple and green that glimmer in the sunlight popping through the clouds overhead. What a beautiful creature. Carefully, I timidly reach over with my right hand, and when I see that he doesn't balk at the proximity, I gently brush the back of my fingers along his throat feathers. They are soft as silk. Huginn croaks happily, lifting his beak to give me easier access, and I can't help but laugh softly.

"So...I'm being beckoned?" I ask him.

"Cruck...Kra." Hmmm...apparently telepathic speech with magical animals isn't included in my Isekai powers.

But Huginn seems to know I can't understand him, as he launches from my shoulders and heads east, then lands about 30 feet away up from the bank. He looks back at me expectantly and croaks.

Got it. I guess I follow him.

We repeat this back and forth until we reach the flower field Skuld and I gathered yarrow from earlier this morning. Froðe is there, standing within the tall grass like a vision, a yew longbow stretched taught in his arms, his muscular arms bulging through his tunic as he takes aim. There are a few wooden posts erected through out the field in varying distances from him, red circles painted on them with multiple rings and a center. The arrow he has nocked is wider at the tip than the arrows I've seen in films, with a three feather style flight towards the nock.

Froðe releases the arrow, and with a whistle it flies about 200 feet and imbeds itself into the center of a wooden target with a satisfying thud. Damn. That's fucking impressive.

Huginn takes that as an opportunity to take flight again and land on Froðe's shoulder, and croaks happily when Froðe strokes his feathers. Froðe is dressed differently today, wearing a long, deep blue cloak that is trimmed with silver embroidery. A silver-white fur mantle is draped over the top, and the cloak is held together with a massive silver chain and equally large circular brooches with a bar down the center. They are half-filled in with silver with nobs, creating a half-moon design. His shoulder length sandy blonde hair is half-tied back from his face, neatly braided in the back. Under the cloak, I see that he's also wearing a blue tunic that is laced down the front, which is also adorned with brown, white and black feathers along the lacing. I hate to admit it, but he cleans up pretty nicely.

It must be for the traders, who are arriving later today according to Huginn's scouting.

"If you want to survive in this world, you must be versatile in your fighting abilities," Froðe says, beckoning me over with a hand. "And a bow is also essential to hunting."

I nod, approaching, but annoyed again with how he likes to "beckon" me over. Too similar to the other day when he made me kneel, which still boils my blood when I think about it. Froðe smirks, catching the change in my expression, but lowers his hand and extends his other holding the long bow to me. Huginn takes flight once again with the motion, but he circles overhead.

I take the bow from Froðe, noting that it’s light, maybe four to five pounds, and is tipped with sharpened iron on each ends.

"For close range fighting, if needed," Froðe says, catching my glance.

The bow is almost as tall as I am. With how shaky my arms already are, it's the pull weight that I'm the most worried about when I try to draw this thing.

"Stand with your feet shoulder with apart, slightly staggered, and lean your upper body slightly forward," Froðe instructs, demonstrating next to me, and I mimic him. "Good. Now raise your bow."

I do so, noting that his elbow is slightly bent and rotated to the left, so I do the same. He steps forward to adjust my grip and tilt the bow angle more.

"Keep your grip relaxed, but firm." I nod.

"To draw, hook the string with your index, middle, and ring fingers," Froðe says. "Engage your back muscles first and rotate your shoulders.”

I roll my shoulders back, hooking my fingers around the bowstring.

“Now push your bow arm forward while pulling the string back with your string arm. " I wince as I comply, my body already sore from training today with Torsten. Fuck, this draw weight must be around 80 pounds. But somehow, I manage it, my arms only slightly shaking.

Froðe nods in approval. "Keep going, you're almost there. Establish an anchor point near your face. For your height and arm length, I recommend near your cheekbone." My back and arm muscles are screaming, but I manage to draw the string further to anchor near my cheek. "Squeeze your shoulder blades together as you reach full draw."

Phew! My shaky-ass arms made it.

"Good. You are ready to nock an arrow now." I sigh as I release my draw. Froðe hands me an arrow with the nock up, which forms a u-shape at the end, then he points out where to nock on the string. The string appears to be made of hemp, and there is a small, red painted mark designating the nocking point.

I nock the arrow's u-shape at that point, and Froðe presses my left thumb over the middle of the arrow resting at the center of the bow, holding it in place. "When you are ready to draw, let it rest above your index finger."

I draw again, this time with the arrow nocked, keeping it set above my index finger as he instructed.

"Don't lock out your bow arm," Froðe steps around and behind me, and gently pulls down my left elbow so that it's bent once again. His proximity brings the scent of mint and thyme to my nose. He utilizes this opportunity of his new shadow position to also adjust the elbow of my string arm, so that it's slightly higher than my hand, and in line with the arrow.

He's so close, I can feel his body heat on my back. Why is it so fucking distracting?

"Good. Now take aim. Try for the target that's closest," he says, gently pulling my drawing elbow so I’m in line with a wooden post that's about 50 feet away. His breath tickles my ear and disturbs a curled wisp that broke free of my braid. The action sends tingles along my neck. I will not shudder, I will not shudder, I will not shudder.

"Aim with your dominate eye, for most, it's their right," Froðe whispers. Did he get closer, or is that just my imagination? Even though it's a ghost of a touch, I can feel his powerful muscles flexing behind me as his hands help keep me steady. It's not enough to keep the bow drawn for me, but rather to help ease the shakiness of my arms.

"Breathe. You're holding your breath, Beatrix." Why is my heart about to leap out of my chest when he says my name like that? His head must be leaned in towards mine given our height difference, for him to have the perfect fucking angle to tickle my ear every time he speaks. It's aggravating....yet my treacherous body warms in response, my skin suddenly on fire and I'm acutely aware of every place he is touching me.

By some miracle, I'm able to focus my sights on the target. I take a deep breath in, then slowly begin to exhale.

"Now. Release." Froðe's gravely voice is the ghost of a whisper in my ear, the effect setting me alight again, and that creature lurking deep within me stirs in wicked glee. This time, I'm not able to stomp it down. Instead, I release the arrow. It flies with a whoosh, hitting the next ring outside of the center of the target with a thud.

Damn. Not bad. Not bad at all. I feel Froðe's slow smirk of approval against my ear.

But fuck, I'm in trouble.

Then, a horn sounds in the distance.