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Brómber's feet chafed at the sides of his boots, the rigid leather rubbing them raw through sock and wrap alike. He groaned with each step as he stumbled back into the hall, crashing down onto the bench nearest to the door. He beckoned over a slave to help him pull off his boots.

"Tallow," he said, "I need to oil my boots."

She walked to the far end of the hall before returning with a small clay jar. "It is not the tallow you want." Her tongue tripped her words and left them slightly off as they stumbled into the air. Still, her voice was far from harsh, more like a bird than a dog. "The wool-grease will turn them soft as butter." He winced at the last word.

He grunted in affirmation then got to work, scooping out a wad of grease with his first two fingers and smearing it against the left boot. He pushed into the leather hard, pressing his fingers in small circles as he worked the tension out of them. As he went he felt his hands grow looser with the boots. When he was done he smacked it, hoping to return some of the pain it had given him before moving on to its twin. The right went even faster. The slave was right, they were soft. He wiped a drop of sweat from his hand and felt his hands were softer still from the boots. He beckoned the slave back over.

With a sheepish grin he asked, "Might I take some of your time?" She bent her eyebrows and nodded. "The grease," he started, taking time to consider his request, "it took the pain from my hands. But my hands hurt little." One side of her mouth moved back as her eyes squinted. "My feet. Well, they do hurt. Much more than my hands. If you are able could you..."

"It is your feet you would have me wash, is it?"

"I would." Another drop of sweat appeared when he had wiped one away. "If you are not busy."

"I am not busy," she nodded, "but is it here you want it done?"

"Should it not be here?"

"Well," she paused, "I suppose it can be here. And will I be taking off the socks and the trousers both?"

More sweat appeared like dew on his brow. "No!" She looked at him with eyes wide, confusion fixed plain on her face. "No for the trousers. Only the socks."

She sighed and unwrapped his feet before slipping off his socks. He leaned back on the bench and into the table, sticking out his feet. She started with the right, using two fingers just as he had and pushing them into the bridge of his foot. Pain left his foot through his mouth. He groaned in pleasure as her fingers pushed through his toes and around his heels. She was much more skilled than he was. He looked down at her while she worked and found a face, small and round with a nose to match and freckles sat on the cheeks. Dark hair, held back by a bit of fabric, turned red in the light of the fire to match his cheeks. Pale green eyes looked back but kept their color. She was younger than him. Hearing his moans melt into slow breaths she moved to his left foot, again filling the hall with the sound of his voice. He closed his eyes and let her work, thinking about the country of his youth, hoping to forget himself but keep the feeling.

"What is your name?" he asked.

His rest was interrupted by a voice, deep and dull but clearly spoken.

"Having fun, are we?" He opened his eyes and saw Arvid standing before him. "She is a treasure, is she not?" he said, gesturing at the slave at his feet. Brómber did not reply.

"You should have her work your shoulders next," he said. "I saw you bending over to fill the buckets. You know you can unhook them from the pole."

"Well, I..." his thought was interrupted by the feeling of her thumb rolling down his heel.

"And the water for the dye, you could have brought it from the river by the shack. You needed not to carry it from so far upstream."

"I knew not..."

"There is no shame in being a little," Arvid paused before drawing out the next word a time and a half as long as the rest, "slow."

"Arvid!" came a happy bark behind Brómber. "You are not making our guest feel unwelcome, are you?" The girl continued to work his feet as Ulf chided the man in front of them. "He is a warrior, not a thrall. You have him doing a slave's work and wonder why he stumbles?"

The girl looked up at Brómber, catching his eye for a second before looking back down. She returned his socks to his feet before rewrapping them in the wool.

"This boy is no warrior," Arvid stated. "Look at him, he is barely thicker than the pole he carried."

"You heard what Uffa saw, yes?" Ulf sat next to Brómber, placing his arm around his shoulder and putting his hand on his chest. "This one killed two guards in as many heartbeats. He is no boy."

"He was lucky, Ulf, and Uffa tells tall tales," his lips did not bend but he seemed to be smiling, "not to mention they were hardly more than boys themselves."

The slave girl crawled away, boxed in by the men on three sides. Brómber opened his mouth to thank her. Before he spoke Ulf grabbed his face and turned it back at Arvid.

"Nonsense, Arvi. Look in his eyes, these are fighter's eyes."

"I know not if I see it in him," Arvid said, "but I will take your word."

Ulf took his arm back from around Brómber's shoulder and stood. His voice fell as he spoke. "No, Arvi, you won't. You two are going to fight."

"You cannot force two men to fight, Ulf. That is not your place." Arvid's voice took on a rhythm it had lacked before, bouncing up and down between words. "I did not challenge him and he did not challenge me." The two men stared at each other. Brómber could hear the sound of people working and talking outside. He bent down to slip on his boots and spoke.

"I will fight you, Arvid," he said as he slipped on his left boot. "When the bell next rings."

Ulf laughed and pulled him to his feet, one boot still on the ground. "See Arvi, look at those eyes."

Ulf led him out into the sun of the late morning to show him how to complete his next task, taking him behind the hall and to the north. Four pegs of hazel wood were driven into the ground five paces to a side, marking the edge of the square. The dirt within was darker and finer than elsewhere around the camp.

"We have been fighting here since we were children," Ulf explained. "My mother wanted softer ground for gentler falls." He pointed at the edge of the square with an oak sword and said, "If you leave the bounds you lose, even if it is only with a single foot."

He paced around the edge of the square and continued, "If you fall to your knees you lose. If you fall on your back you lose," he turned the corner with a toothy grin, "if you bleed on the earth you lose. Worst of all, if you yield to your opponent," he spun on his heel as he swung around the second corner, "you lose and you are a coward."

"What win I if I..." Brómber started to ask.

"If you lose? Nothing. Shame, maybe."

"No. If I win."

"If you win you are the better fighter and the better man." Ulf lifted his shoulders as he passed the third corner. "Unless you have wagered something more besides."

"Is Arvid a good fighter?" Brómber asked.

Ulf walked back to the boy and pressed the wooden sword into his hand. The Dane looked down at him and spoke through his smile. "No," he said. "That is why we leave him in charge of the chores."

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