[bill_n_sam]

Dag


“I am Ulfast, son of Ulfing. How goes the work on my sword?"

Dag still held the farmer’s knife in his hand. The notch that Tora’s father had managed to put in it had been a bad one, and it had required more careful attention to repair it than Dag had anticipated. He had just dipped the blade in water to cool it one last time when the girl had arrived asking after it. . Not having had a chance to reply to the girl’s shy inquiry, upon hearing Ulfast’s abrupt words, Dag looked to the entrance and regarded the chieftain’s son steadily, the wariness he felt hidden within the depths of his heart.

Dag understood perfectly well that Ulfast’s declaration as Ulfang’s son was not one of instruction – for who amongst the Ulfings did not tread more carefully when this embittered and thwarted second son stalked the streets of the settlement? Ulfast’s reputation for cunning was matched only by his tenacity in holding a grudge. Once angered, whether for real or imagined insult, his determination to exact revenge knew no bounds. It was said that neither of the two glittering daggers that hung at his belt had retained their virginal quality for long after Ulfast had commissioned their crafting. That had been back in the years of his brother’s exile, when such exquisite weapons were an outward symbol of the power he wielded, with his father’s blessings. Dag wondered how long the yet unfinished sword which this lordling now demanded would have to wait to be baptized with the rush of blood from yet another of Ulfast’s enemies.

As always, Dag weighed his words carefully before he spoke. “The work progresses, my lord.” He inclined his head but kept his gaze upon Ulfast, neither impolite nor obsequious. “There yet remains a good two days to see its completion.” He offered no further information or explanation, not wishing to volunteer more than was required.

His gaze flickered briefly to the girl standing just inside the doorway, willing her to remain silent, to avoid bringing the attention of the chief’s son upon herself, and thence, her family. Deliberately taking a step back, without turning his back to Ulfast, which would have been a grave and unforgivable breach of etiquette, Dag casually placed the knife aside on the edge of the forge and extended his hand in the direction of the sword where it lay on a side table. The metal was a deep, thunderhead grey, and any fool would know it had not felt the kiss of the flame for quite some while. Dag’s mind worked quickly, hoping to fashion a reasonable explanation should the chieftain’s son question that fact, some answer which would satisfy, and divert attention away from the presence of the girl, or the significance of the knife.