looked days old. He reached to scratch the phantom wound in his chest. His thick, calloused finger pushed through the hole in the tunic, searching for an itch, but all he found was scar tissue. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the memory of the wall, the wound, and the darkness howled and strained against its chains.
Unforgiving pressure from his bladder brought him back and told him in no uncertain terms what needed to be done. “Fine, fine,” he muttered. There were no things to gather; he’d say good-bye to Fjölnir, thank him, and be on his way, then take a piss in the woods when he was clear of the farmstead.
The old man had been busy in the yard. He’d set up a workbench and was chiseling something that might become a statue of some sort. He looked up, smiled, and nodded, then went back to work. After a moment, he looked back up and grinned. “Want to earn yourself a bowl of broth? There’s an ax in the shed. If a man were to need to go to the woods for whatever reason, he could do worse than bring back a bit of lumber. Half again a man’s height, about as thick as yourself. Like the piece I have here.”
“That’s a tree,” Audun blurted out.
“See? Sharp as a blade, and this early in the morning, too. Pine, if you please.” There was a definite glint in Fjölnir’s eye, and Audun was sure he saw a smirk as the old man went back to the carving.
Audun stood in the doorway for a moment. Then, cursing inwardly, he went to the shed.
For a farm that looked to be in the winter of its life, old Fjölnir kept some pretty sharp tools. Audun hefted the wood ax. The weight of it was satisfying. The handle was worn smooth.
When he came out again, Fjölnir caught his eye and smiled. He gestured to the east, and Audun, following his directions, was soon walking in a sparse forest. Birches stretched their slim branches toward him, but he ignored them. A couple of days ago he might have seen the claws of cold death in the shapes of the soggy trees, but things were easier now. He had work to do.
When he found the tree he was looking for, Audun smiled for the first time in a long while. The bark felt rough under his hand. “I’ll give you a head start,” he said, patting it like a skittish horse. “Go on.”
The tree didn’t move.
“All right, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He flexed his muscles, cracked his neck, and swung.
The ax vibrated with the force of the blow. He strained to free the blade from the trunk and struck again. His aim was true, and a sliver of wood fell out of the wound. The cold, damp air was delicious in his lungs. He could feel his strength flooding back with every vicious swing of the heavy ax. His shirt soon clung to his back, and Audun gave himself up to the work. Before long, the tree trembled with every stroke. A push, a crash, and it was down.
Working without thinking, he removed the branches methodically and cut the tree down to the requested size. When he was done, Audun stepped back, put down the ax, and scratched his head.
“How—?” There was no horse on Fjölnir’s farm, so there could be only one answer. Audun bent down and wrapped his arms around the log. Straining, he managed to shift it up onto the stump of the tree. “How in Hel’s name did he—?” Audun reached around the log again. Frowning, he let go, picked up the ax, and cut a handhold on each side. Then he drew back and buried the ax in the wood, well past the midway point.
Audun bent his knees, growled low and hoisted the log onto his shoulder, grabbing the ax for support with his free hand. Turning carefully, he marched back to the farm.
When he got there, Fjölnir was waiting for him next to a big pile of woodcuttings. “Very good!” the old man shouted. “Need any help with that?”
“Not from you, old man,” Audun shot back. Normally he wouldn’t have said anything, but something about the graybeard set him at ease.
“Thank you,” Fjölnir said. “Could you put it over there?” He pointed toward a shed half-hidden behind the house; Audun hadn’t noticed it the night before. Fjölnir’s farm was definitely in better shape than he’d first