3. A Rascal's Respect

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He walked on his toes, hoping the creaking floor wouldn't wake his younger brothers.

The sun had just risen. His mother must be milking the cows now for breakfast, and his father must be feeding his horse. But only one of his parents was in the yard when Halgrim pushed the door of the house open.

"Where is Da?" Even his horse was not here.

"We say good morning first." Sitting on a stool, his mother didn't look at him as she squeezed the milk out of the cow's teat into a rusty bucket.

Now was not the time for a lesson in manners. "He didn't go for the raid, did he?"

"We talked about that, Halgrim." Still, she didn't bother to look away from the damned teat. "I'm not ready to have that conversation again."

"It doesn't matter. My conversation wasn't with you anyway." Halgrim returned inside the house, picked up his sword from the floor, and strode toward his horse, which was tied to the fence around the yard.

"You out of your mind?" his mother snapped. Finally, he became more worthy of her attention than the cow. "How dare you talk to your mother like that?"

He had gone a little bit too far, he knew. But he was too furious to mind his tone. It was not his first time to lose his composure, and for sure it would not be the last.

"Da promised me I would be part of the next raid," Halgrim said flatly as he swung up into his saddle.

"Promised you when?" His mother pushed to her feet and approached him. "Where do you think you are going?"

"Ma, please. I must catch up with him before he leaves the town with the band." Halgrim wheeled his horse and spurred it into a canter.

"Halgrim! Come back here!"

No doubt, his mother would be mad at him if he joined his father. But she wouldn't be exactly happy with her unruly son if he stayed by her side either. Most probably, he would spend the whole morning listening to a speech about respecting the elder. For a change, wouldn't it be wonderful if she taught the other two bastards in the house that they should respect their elder brother?

The miserable folks of Horstad greeted Halgrim as he rode through the mud-caked streets. Most of them were elderly or women who woke up early every morning to see if they had something to eat today. Being the nearest town to Rusakia, most of Horstad's Skandivian youth and able men were now mercenaries in the Rusakian army. Those who would survive and return to their families might alleviate their suffering with the Rusakian coin they earned. But nothing would change here before their return. The daily journey of securing food would continue.

Halgrim headed to the bridge, where the band usually gathered before they all rode together outside the town. He was already on the outskirts of Horstad when he spotted that familiar rider coming from the other end of the field. "Engrid?"

"Halgrim?" The brown-haired Skandivian girl halted her horse in front of his, a war ax strapped to her back. "Are you joining the raid?"

The disapproval in her tone irked him. "Are you?"

She nodded. "My uncle told me yesterday that I'm in. I just woke up late this morning."

So, her uncle had decided that his nineteen-year-old niece could finally wield her ax in a real fight, while Halgrim was still unable to convince his parents that he could handle himself on those raids. "You, Bermanians, are soft," Engrid's uncle always mocked Halgrim's father's sword and shield. "You would dance and fence rather than crush skulls and break bones." And that was why the war ax was the most popular weapon here in this part of the world. Halgrim might argue about the Skandivians' opinions of swords and shields, though. But he couldn't blame someone like Engrid's uncle if he regarded Halgrim and his people as soft people. After all, those Skandivians were renowned as the most ferocious warriors in Gorania for a good reason.

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