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A cascade of waves that spilled down her back, all the way past her hips. Misbehaving tendrils curled around her face, falling into her eyes with the slightest movement.
She blew a hunk off her nose and shoved back the thick locks sliding over her shoulder, tucking loose strands behind her ear. Her hair had always been too thick, too unruly, which was why she braided and tied it within an inch of its life.
This “letting hair down” thing was extremely annoying. She wanted to stalk out to the barn Ere had procured for her and Kai (she was strangely pleased they would rest under the same roof this night) and change into her usual attire.
But, one, her clothes and battle boots were drying by a low-burning fire, the day’s travel through a blizzard and the ensuing snowball fight having made them uncomfortably cold and damp. And, two, now that she’d actually put in the effort to don the borrowed clothes, had her hair brushed by a maid who seemed to know what she was doing, Eir felt committed to the ensemble.
It would be such a waste to scurry back to the barn with her tail between her legs. She was not the sort of woman who quit anything.
“The Frost Giant storms our village every ten years,” the old man continued.
“Generations of village leaders have tried to defend our lands and people from his pillaging. Past chieftains have trained local militias and elite warriors. Even recruited renowned fighters from across the mountains and all the valleys in between, beyond the Dead Lands and Summer Meadows.”
He puffed a few rings of smoke and lowered his bushy brows.
“But none of them succeeded in defeating the giant. A jötunn as powerful as the gods. With the ability to command the frost.”
“What does he look like, Frode?” a man asked on his right.
“Very tall,” the elder rasped.
“The height of twelve men stacked together. And just as broad. He has three eyes in front and two in the back. Four arms with fists the size of battering rams. His feet could crush our houses with one colossal stomp. His jaw wide enough to gobble up a man whole.”
The old man leaned in, and so did his audience, hanging on his every word.
“His footsteps are louder than thunder before the mightiest storm. It is the only warning that he is coming your way. I have lived long enough to know what it is like to flee before the wreckage, as well as to stay and fight.”
He tapped a gnarled cane that looked as ancient as he did against his wooden leg.
“I was the only survivor the one time we had decided to stay in the last hundred years. Everyone else died that day. I was but a boy, just past ten that winter.”
His cloudy gray eyes took on a faraway look.
“There was so much blood…so much carnage. The screaming, both animal and human…I can never forget it. I will always hear it in my mind when I close my eyes.”
“The monster comes every ten years, you say?” it was Ere who interjected on the old man’s left.
He and Sorin sat together at their own bench, apparently just finishing their bowls of stew.
“When would be the next time the creature returns?”
“In a fortnight by my estimation,” the elder answered with lowered brows, puffing ominously on his pipe.
This news came as no surprise to the villagers who were gathered around.
It was only then that Eir noticed how the walls of the longhouse were mostly bare. No dried meats, spices or vegetables hung from the rafters. No decoration to bring any warmth. There were jugs and wrapped parcels stacked in corners, as if the inhabitants were preparing for a long journey ahead.
“Oh,” Ere said, “that is very good to know. We shall make sure to depart well before the time is up, then.”
“We should stay and fight this time!” one of the men in the back inserted.
“This is our home. We worked hard to make it so. Why must we lose it to a monster’s whim?”
“That is a good question,” Ere noted. “Why does this bad-tempered jötunn come rampaging every ten years anyhow?”
“No one knows,” the old man answered.
“But there is a prophesy.”
