Tindr: Book Five of The Circle of Ceridwen Saga by Randolph Octavia

Author:Randolph, Octavia [Randolph, Octavia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Pyewacket Press
Published: 2016-03-11T22:00:00+00:00

The first day Tindr went to the hall he travelled with his mother up the short hill. He had seen the warrior face to face at the brew-house the morning after they arrived, and named him Scar. The woman with him, with bright red-golden hair, he thought of like that, Bright Hair. She had smiled at him, looked him in the face and smiled, and had wanted him to come and live with them in Nenna’s old house. Now he was here.

He had been inside before, of course, but now he was come to live, and the barrels of grain and chests of goods that had occupied the hall when his mother let it as a ware-house were all cleared away. It was now a swept and empty place, with stacks of new goods Scar and Bright Hair had bought and had carried in. Bright Hair gestured he should choose which alcove he wanted, and he marked it by hanging his bow and quiver above that closest to the forest.

He put his bedding in it, and took his tools out to the stable behind the hall. There was a sturdy workbench there, but the place had held no horses for long years. He raked and swept out the straw dust, making ready. There was still the remains of a pile of firewood outside the hall, and he sorted through it, restacking that which was still sound enough to burn, chucking the rest into the cold kitchen yard cooking-ring. After this he went back into the hall. Scar and Bright Hair were standing amidst barrels of stores, and the potter from the trading road was with them, showing them the cups and plates she had brought them.

As he waited Tindr’s eye was caught by the pile of Scar’s war-kit. He had seen the bright-hilted seax in its red leather sheath, so different from the knives Gotlanders wore at their hip, which Scar carried across his belly. Now he came close to where sat the long and powerful sword in its scabbard and sword-belt. He squatted next to it. There were strands of beaten gold in the pommel of the hilt, and just under the guard the steel of the blade showed the silvery blue waves of the pattern welding. It was formidable, yet had its own beauty. The weapon-smith made such things, he had seen him at his forge, and sent them on ships far away. It was a tool to kill a man, Tindr knew this; it had no other use. He thought a moment on this, and on the small arrow-heads his Da had taught him to hammer out. He looked now at the two spears, quite different from each other. One was shorter and with a lighter shaft, and a tip not too much longer than those he forged to down boar. The other was long and heavy, like the men of Gotland used when they had need to defend themselves, or to hunt boar. The steel point was incised with ribbing on the socket; the smith had taken care to decorate even this.

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