The time had finally come. Brokkr and his brothers stood side by side as slaves passed around drinking horns and free men whooped and slammed palms against the long table in celebration. There would be a new Jarl this day, and the choice couldn't come soon enough.

The Vargr Tribe was on a warpath, raiding their way across Germa. The Wodanar did naught, hiding behind the high wall of their fortress while the Vandali were torn asunder. Each night the raids grew worse, most killed by shifters or taken as slaves, but word had reached Brokkr of a growing number of draugr. It seemed the Vargr Tribe abandoned another oath, one to the entire mortal realm, to burn the dead as so they could not take the world from the living.

From what Brokkr heard, the Hastingy were the only tribe earning any true victories. They wouldn't be the only ones when he became Jarl, and with the ax he now held, his brothers wouldn't stand a chance.

He hadn't made a sword. They took too much time to forge. An ax was simple and Brokkr had made a true masterwork. It didn't have the blue and silvery color of father’s work, but it could slice a man in twine with ease.

Could his brother’s swords do the same? They held a hint of color from their father’s work but the weapons but edges looked dulled as if worked under a too cool a flame. Strong without doubt, but easily warded off by heavy furs or gambison.

Sigyn leaped onto the long table, and Brokkr couldn't help but flush. The image of her writhing beneath him had been in his dreams. Every moment he laid his hammer down her sensuality haunted him. The Völva was like a mare, an unseen vaettir toying with him as he slept, like a ghost after his seed and mind.

“Silence!” the Völva called out, her voice echoing like whispers in the mist. She turned to the entrance where slaves were dragging in a massive oak half as wide as a man was tall. “This is it Lords, the test that will forge the path of the tribe.”

“What is the test?” Eitri said, sounding far too confident while holding his dulled blade.

“Isn't it obvious,” the Völva said. “Cut through the oak in one swing.”

The hall erupted with hushed murmurs. Brokkr himself was about to roar in anger when he caught Sindri’s smile. Eitri held the same expression. What the fuck did they think they would do with the slabs of steel they held?

“You might as well give up brother,” Sindri said.

Eitri chuckled. “Let the fool be a fool. Doesn't even know what he doesn't know.”

Brokkr grunted. “I know I’m not bewitched by a Völva. Can you say the same?”

Eiri raised his sword, resting it on his shoulder as he shook his head. “It would be like describing the sun to the blind.”

“And now you sound like a fucking Völva, talking in riddles.”

“It's only a riddle because you can’t hope to grasp understanding.”

By the grace of Njord, what was wrong with his brothers? They had been men not days ago. Now they spoke in circles and hinted at secrets like fucking Völva. They’d been corrupted, worse than if the mist slipped inside them.

“Lords,” Sigyn said, peering the word into something seductive. “One swing each. You first Brokkr. You might as well get it over with.”

Brokkr scowled but stepped forward using his ax as a cane. Fool Völva thought he’d lose. Just went to show how little she knew of forging. He’d cut halfway through the oak with a single swing. To carve all the way through was impossible, but he’d surely cut deeper than his brothers.

Pulling strength from his arm ring, Brokkr brought his ax down. Splinters flew as the blade bit into the wood carving nearly halfway through before coming to a stop.

The hall shook with the force of shouts. Men roared his name and Brokkr smiled knowing he’d won. A sword had no hope of besting his weapon.

He turned, ready to boast when Sindri surged at the fallen tree bringing his sword down. A high-pitched wine escaped the wood as it split until a crash resounded when the sword burst through and sliced into the stone floor.

Brokkr couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He just stared at the split tree and stone, hardly able to breathe.

Eitri’s sword came down next, carving a path through the wood just as Sindri’s had. The whooping resounded as both brother’s raised their swords again, hacking the oak to pieces, each swing carving through like a knife through water.

A hand landed on Brokkr’s shoulder turning him around. “It's time to go, Bother,” Laufey said, guiding him away.