lga shook him awake as she had on prior mornings. She was not harsh, but she was impossible to ignore.

“Come, man-creature, you must take food and drink or the others will believe I starve you.”

Mog considered offering her an alternative list of places to put her food, yet despite his current attack of melancholia, he stopped short and merely rolled onto his back. After all, she and her friends had wrested him from a horrible death. He should be grateful, but all he could feel was a profound sense of loss and regret. Olga, oblivious of his emotional turmoil, pointed to the bowl of steaming porridge that lay inches from his head upon the rough plank floor.

“Eat, human, or Gralig will get it.”

Gralig was the largest of her personal wolf pack. He could see the beast’s yellow eyes focused intently upon his food, its ears pricked forward and its tongue making anticipatory sweeps of its grizzled muzzle. Of the four wolves that shared Olga’s pungent lair, Gralig was the epitome of gluttony. Mog sat up, shivering when the cool air struck his bare chest. Olga seemed oblivious of the cold, impervious to it while wearing the equivalent of five strategically placed rabbit pelts. He took the bowl and lifted it to his lips, focusing on the bland gruel and looking away from his keeper.

Mog reflected that were he to share this tale among his male friends they would curse his good fortune to be alone with a scantily clad woman. However, even his most puerile fantasies did not have him trapped gods only knew where by miles of ice and snow. Also, the women of his fantasies did not tower over him or have the ability to snap him in two like a dried twig. Nor, he thought bitterly, did his fantasies include sharing the floor with mangy wolves that growled and fought over every scrap of food, including anything he left unattended. And the food was barely fit for human consumption. He did not have the courage to ask Olga what this gruel contained. No wonder Norn were constantly hunting, it prevented them from having to come home and eat swill.

“Holmgrim wishes to see you today, Manling. You appear hale and so you must get dressed when you have finished your repast.”

“I am named Mog,” he reminded her. She turned her pale eyes upon him as if unacquainted with the idea that he could possibly have a name.

“Helda’s son has grown out of his clothes and has offered them for your use,” she said after a moment, “I have put them there at the foot of your bed.”

“I need a jug and bowl and some hot water,” Mog said firmly, “I must bathe.”

“There is bear grease in that pot,” she replied as she had to his other requests.

“Humans don’t use bear grease to… mask their odor or whatever it is you do with it.”

“Getting wet is dangerous.”

“Only to your stench,” he thought bitterly.

He set aside the portion of the gruel he could not stomach and noted that even Gralig looked less than enthusiastic about the leftovers. Nevertheless, the wolf slurped the bowl clean after Mog staggered shivering to his feet and regarded his new attire. It consisted of a pair of fleece-lined leather trousers and a matching pair of boots.

“Olga? Is there a tunic?”

“Are you such a coward that you wish to hide your belly?”

“I’ll freeze. Humans are sensitive to cold,” he said angrily. He had given up trying to be polite to her or any of the Norn. They perceived it as a sign of weakness.

“It is a wonder your kind persists,” Olga replied as if genuinely perplexed, “Mere cold is such a danger? How do you survive?”

He gave up, as he often did. It was like trying to reason with a particularly stupid child. There would be no bath until he figured out how to return to civilization. Mog shoved his legs into the stiff trousers, miserable that his sense of smell refused to die despite the constant assault of fetid odors. The boots were particularly putrid, but at least binding them in place gave his nose some relief. Olga nudged him with the slimy container of bear fat and he grudgingly gave in and smeared it over his chest and arms. It did prevent the icy wind from chafing his exposed flesh once she shoved him outside ahead of her. She made a concession to his inferior species and let him take the bearskin from his bed to wear as a cloak. He bundled it miserably around his shoulders and chest, cringing as the wind tore into him.

The rounded Norn houses gleamed in the icy sunlight, their metallic sides burnished by the wind that seethed over the brow of the hill and pooled in the valley. Icicles formed a jagged curtain along their eaves and the air glistened with ice crystals. Had he not been so miserable, Mog might have appreciated the stark beauty of that place. At the moment it was simply another reminder of how far he was from home and comfort, and his persistent lack of a place to call home.

And Maeve. While he felt so lost and alone, the specters of the past followed him like a shadow. He had shoved all thoughts of her away, trying not to imagine what had befallen her at the mercy of the Dryders. He cursed Lyssa under his breath, annoyed that the goddess toyed with his heart so cruelly. His needs had never been extravagant. He had been taught that expectations only lead to disappointment. But he was human, and all he had ever wanted was to belong and be loved; a tiny bit of happiness as a shield against the sorrows of life.

“Who’s to say it would have worked out between you?” he thought bitterly, “You never even knew her name or saw her face. You fell in love with an illusion, with a girl pretending to be a goddess.”

That love had sustained him on his difficult path. Even after the Searing, his memories of their time together made him feel that he had lived fully. It had comforted him while all of his dreams lie smoldering in the ruins of his homeland. How fortunate he had been to know such sublime happiness at the temple while so many around him had suffered countless horrors.

Olga nudged him and he stirred from his misery, climbing a steep flight of steps until they crossed the threshold of a wide door. The air reeked of ale and sweat and for once was blessedly warm. They had entered the immense longhouse that he had glimpsed through the narrow windows of Olga’s house. Norn crowded the wide hall’s edges variously guffawing and talking loudly. They were natural boasters, although judging from the various animal heads that decorated the walls, they appeared to produce evidence of their claims. An assortment of weapons competed with the grim trophies for space on the walls. The thick rafters were adorned with shields and ornate shield bossings. Thick pillars hewn from immense logs ran down both sides of the long chamber, each carved with an intricate array of spirals and foreign glyphs.

Olga nudged him past three muscular figures who looked vaguely familiar.

“How is your new pet? What good is it?”

Mog felt the blood rush to his face but Olga ignored them.

“I hope it can fight!” roared another, laughing as if he had made a hilarious jest. Unfortunately, many of his drunk compatriots concurred and Mog cringed away from their beery gusts of breath.

"It must have a hidden gift to compensate,” guffawed another. Mog was visibly blushing and only drawing more unwanted attention as he tried unsuccessfully to disappear.

“Olga has a gift for collecting ugly creatures. There’s not enough meat on its bones to feed Gralig.”

“You would be lucky if the Stone Summit paid half its weight in iron.”

His gut clenched with horror. Did Olga mean to sell him to the Stone Summit?

“Looks like you’re stuck with it.”

“This is the man creature?” boomed a deep voice that made the others grow quiet despite their current level of intoxication. Mog had the impression from the filth littering the floor and the tall stack of emptied beer casks that the party had been going all night and was only now slowing down as the sun climbed toward zenith.

“It is,” Olga said coldly.

Mog dared to gaze upon the behemoth of a man that lurched toward he and Olga as the others looked on with a mixture of drunken amusement and curiosity. Not only was he a towering figure, even by Norn standards, but he was barrel-chested and thickly muscled. His thick brown hair was streaked with gray, giving his fierce, weathered features dignity and a strange bestial wiliness. It hung in long braids capped with gold, as did the thick expanse of his beard and mustache. Like the others, he wore only a heavy pair of hide pants trimmed with a long fringe of fur and bound up around the shins and knees with a pair of fur-lined boots. Thick loops of filigreed gold were bound around his powerful biceps and a river of interwoven tattoos curled over his shoulders and down his chest.

“I am Holmgrim son of Aldred,” he said proudly, the deep timbre of his voice putting Mog in mind of a great bear. The Norn’s coal-dark gaze swept over Mog expectantly and he held his ground, knowing how much stock these people put in the appearance of weakness.

“I am Mog Ruith, son of Simagh and champion of Lyssa.”

“We have heard others speak of mankind with scorn and dread,” Holmgrim rumbled. Mog realized this speech was not for his benefit, but for the curious crowd, “The dwarves say your numbers are legion, that you fight with the tenacity of wolf and the cleverness of raven. What weapon do you favor, manling?”

Mog swallowed as Holmgrim reached for an enormous axe. The blade had a darksome hue and was ornamented with intricate knot work. Its edge was long and sharp enough to split him from collarbone to groin in a single sweep. One warrior he might be able to take provided he did not miss with his spells and his opponent did not use magic himself, but the immensity and strength of the Norn was intimidating and he knew nothing of their kind.

A fatalistic calm fell over him and he sighed. He had faced death so many times in the last seven years he ought to be used to it by now. Clearly Lyssa had far too much fun at his expense and he imagined her laughing among the Norn. If his time to die was now, fine. He would finally get to tell her what he thought of her games.

“I need no weapon,” he said evenly, “If I am of wolf and raven, I will simply use my wit.”

The Norn laughed uproariously and he heard the busy exchange of coin among them as they made wagers. Holmgrim threw back his head and roared, his axe making a sweep through the open air around him. It was only then Mog realized the man was laughing, also, but he could not be certain whether it was in amusement or mockery. The center of the hall was cleared and Olga nudged him after Holmgrim as the man trod toward its center.

“Today I strike down a human!” Holmgrim shouted, “Be on your guard, manling, or run if you think your life precious.”

Mog straightened his back and folded his arms. If life was about to take a dump on him yet again, the sooner this was over with, the better. He breathed deep the beery, sweaty atmosphere and found his center, gazing upon the grim figure through a haze of magic as he perused the ethers. The single-minded burn of the man’s mind had an almost animal quality. Suddenly the figure blazed a strange bestial gold.

“Whatever that is, I don’t think so,” Mog thought angrily, uttering a single syllable and drawing a startled curse from Holmgrim and laughter from the gathered Norn. Annoyed, the man let out a roar and rushed toward Mog. He had a strange moment of recognition as he recalled the day he had humbled his father. Naively, the Norn drew back his axe as Mog chanted softly under his breath. The enormous man tumbled to his knees amid more laughter as Mog backed away watchfully.

Unlike that long ago fight, he had more spells in his arsenal. Mighty spells such that a holy punisher and assassin might need. As a wanderer and protector, he always kept this one prepared and he whispered it softly, his gestures swift and graceful so that to the watching Norn it seemed he did nothing more than point at Holmgrim. The subtle illusion wrapped around the angry form as he rebounded to his feet and charged. His roar of pain pierced the watchful silence, a sound his fellow Norn were clearly unaccustomed to hearing. Holmgrim seemed as surprised as they, panicked when the world darkened and he wobbled blind and confused back to his feet. Then fury spouted from his lips and he shouted what Mog assumed must be a deadly insult.

“You move like a dwarf!”

The force of the Norn’s rage bowled him over, thrusting him back so that he lay sprawled on the ground, his ankle twisting painfully as he fell. A vicious snarl of glee erupted from the man’s lips and he swung again with his axe. Mog crawled swiftly away, the wind of the blade whistling a mere hand’s breadth from his face. He staggered madly to his feet and limped backward, bracing himself to utter another hex moments before the Norn took a swing at him.

This time Holmgrim hesitated, proving more clever than his father and recognizing that he had underestimated his opponent. He was wounded, blind, and his strength was flagging. Mog peered into the Norn’s simple psyche, realizing that what he feared most was not defeat, but humiliation before his peers. He latched onto that fear and bent it to his will, hexing the man with a potent vision of ignoble defeat. Holmgrim reeled and trembled as his life energy poured away. Now he raised up the fist bearing a signet, chanting slowly to activate it. Mog watched with mild annoyance, his energies flagging and unable to gather the concentration needed to stop him.

Holmgrim’s wounds sealed up and the pale pallor of pain and fear left him when the healing signet delivered its magical boon. To Mog’s surprise, however, the man threw back his shoulders and lifted his head, howling and roaring like an animal. He impaled his axe in the planks of the floor and reached a bracered hairy arm toward Mog.

“Come, Mog Ruith! You are deemed worthy and now you must drink with us.”

He felt the mood change and the other Norn came forward to clap him on the back and take his measure. They were clearly delighted by the show and were talking about who would face him next. A tankard of ale that was larger than his head was thrust into his hands and a toast was given in his honor. In his bewilderment he could only stand there and stare at them, grateful that he had been spared and was not expected to reply. He did not feel much like drinking, but it was expected of him. He lifted the tankard with some effort and took a long pull, knowing he would regret it when a wave of heady warmth surged through his body. A roar of good natured delight went up among the Norn and before he knew it, they were smearing a thick indigo paint over his face and body.

“The little Norn can’t take his drink!” one of them announced with delight. Mog wobbled and stifled a belch, strangely amused by this. He was hardly a Norn, not by stature or smelliness and certainly not by his ability to handle their ale. In a drunken haze they convinced him to fight a second contender. It was a little startling when his opponent took the form of a great bear.

“I must be really drunk,” he thought, moments before he passed out.