"Eskalind, where The Powers live . . ."
For nearly 3,000 years, The Powers have protected Eskalind, but Marna, a bladesmith's daughter, lives in neighboring Hudiksland under a corrupt king and frequent threats of invasion.
When an injured Eskalinder stumbles to her door, The Powers appear to lay a new path before her.
A plaintive voice croaked, "Please." A man's voice, but weak. She did not recognize it.
Marna growled her reply, keeping her tone low to not wake the children. "What do you want?"
" . . . lost . . . hurt." That was all she could understand.
"We should help him!" Narnik tugged on her elbow. "What if he is one of our soldiers?" Despite his young age, the boy stood nearly to her broad shoulders, and he was quick and strong.
If it is only one man, and he is injured, the two of us could handle him. Unless he is armed.
Reaching for the thick stick leaning against the wall, Marna stood to her full height. She grasped the would-be weapon with both hands, wishing to The Powers her menfolk had left behind at least one of the swords her father made, rather than this club. How she hated to rely on knives as weapons. For chicken butchering, and herb cutting, fine. But a knife could easily be turned against one.
If only I had a sword.
. . .