Too late the Watchers at water’s edge raise the alarm. Too late the smoke fire rises to alert those living farther up along the paths which lead to the high slopes and the fjall. He hears the sudden bleat of the OldMother waking from her trance to danger. The SwiftDaughters run from the long hall carrying baskets, the nests of unhatched eggs. He sets the dogs on them. SwiftDaughters are not sacred, although the OldMother is. The dogs scatter them and baskets drop and eggs fall to the cold earth, to be lost in snow or splintered by ice, claw, tooth, or wind. Those that are strongest will survive. The others deserve to perish.

Now the warriors of Hakonin fjord gather their weapons and rush like a herd of furious goats down into the fray. He is proud of his people. He has never seen one of them turn and run. And on this day they have his cunning as well as courage to aid them. His second and third boats have beached farther down the strand and his soldiers have raced up from behind, so that the Hakonin RockChildren are already encircled. Death already sweeps down on them, as dragons and eagles take their prey from the skies. Only they do not know it yet. But as the battle is joined and they realize their plight, they fight the harder. They are strong and fearless, and because of that he calls his soldiers off sooner than he would have otherwise, leaving perhaps half of the Hakonin warriors still in the fjall of the living rather than sending them to the cold stone pathways of the dead.

He gives them a choice.

Proud warriors, each one that is left, and properly raised. They do not throw down their weapons but neither do they fight on when all is hopeless. They do not surrender. They pledge their death, or their life, to the will of their OldMother and her knife of decision.

Now, and at last, when all is lost, she emerges from the long hall. She is stout and as gray and strong as rock, which she much resembles. Her movements are as stiff as those of trees unbent in storm. It is the peculiar beauty of the OldMothers that, like the mountains and the cliffs and the jutting ridges of stone that scar the fields and pastures, they are glimpses of the bones of earth that lace all land together and give strength and solidity to the world. The SwiftDaughters left to her hoist baskets and gather up those eggs, fallen among the detritus of their sisters, which remain unbroken. These they collect together to form new nests, but there are few, many fewer than a tribe needs to survive.

In the pens behind the long hall the human slaves wail and moan; their noise is appalling and irritating, but he restrains himself from killing them outright just to silence that awful mewling. He gestures. His own soldiers part, forming a path down which his human slaves can come forward. These slaves he has gathered to himself as the SwiftDaughters gather the unbroken eggs. At Valdarnin fjord he set these slaves to watch over warriors and dogs alike as humiliation, for the Valdarnin warriors fought weakly and some even surrendered before they knew their OldMother’s will. But he will not humiliate the Hakonin; instead, he lets his human soldiers, such as they are and armed only with weapons of wood, stand watch over the penned slaves. They have served him well this season of fighting. He is pleased to have thought of using them, the strong ones, the ones that aren’t afraid to look him in the eye, to wish to defy him, and who are yet intelligent enough to know that defiance is useless.

“Who are you?” asks Hakonin OldMother. She waits at the threshold. It is gesture enough that she has emerged into the ragged winter sunlight, torn by clouds and a few drifting curls of snow.

“I am of Rikin fjord, fifth son of the fifth litter of Rikin OldMother. I am son of Bloodheart, and it is to his teeth you will now bare your throats.”

“To what purpose?” she asks, her voice like the grinding of pebbles on the shore beneath the hull of his ship.

None of the other OldMothers have asked this question, only his own, Rikin’s Mother, before he set off for the winter’s hunt.

“The many can accomplish what the few cannot,” he replies.

“You serve Bloodheart,” she says.

“I do,” he replies.

“Someday, as does all that is mixed with air and water, he will die,” she says.

“He will,” he replies, “for only the Mothers who are unmixed with any element save that of fire and earth may remain untouched by time for as long as the embers burn and smolder beneath their skin.”

“You arm the Soft Ones.” She does not look toward the human slaves. They are beneath her notice, and like the icy waters her touch is dangerous to them.

“I use what weapons I can gather,” he replies.

“You wear their sigil at your heart,” she says, and now her sons and brothers murmur, seeing that it is true, noting the wooden circle that hangs by a new-forged iron chain around his neck.