Hailstone Mountain can be purchased for Kindle here.

At last the girl Freydis came into view, yellow-haired and buxom, leaping the fence lightly (giving me a glimpse of a pretty ankle whether I liked or not) and running lightly through the grass to her uncle, Lemming. Her uncle stopped what he was doing and gave her his full attention, as he ever did.

“I need a new ribbon,” she said. “A blue one, to braid in my hair. Deirdre has some she wove. She’ll trade me one for one of your bronze pins.”

Lemming summoned his strength and said, “No.”

Freydis pouted and asked, “Why?” She was a master pouter, that girl. God had given her a fair, plump mouth and she knew how to use it to get her way, as many men had learned, even men better defended (like me) against her whims than Lemming.

But against him she’d brought a weapon yet more powerful. She’d demanded an explanation. For that silent man, for whom yielding words was like the carving out of some life-organ, to give a reason for refusal was too high a price.

He lowered his eyes, thrall-wise, and said something softly. Freydis kissed him and hurried away. Lemming stood watching after her, his left hand (he was left-handed) holding his sword, tip on the ground, his right hand on his cheek where she’d kissed him.

I decided to waste breath on him. I got off the fence and went through the grass to him.

“You do her no good,” I said. “’Tis harm for anyone to get their way always. It hurts you to see her unglad, I know. But if she comes to grief through willfulness, it’ll hurt far worse.”

He looked at me wordlessly, through deep-set blue eyes full of chained passion that unnerved me. His eyes said, “Let any man hurt her and he’ll answer to me.”

“There are other dangers in the world than men,” I said.

His look did not change.

I gave it up. As well talk homiletics to a horsefly.