She shook her head, dismissing me before she stood to check my armor one last time. “If you’re worried, fight with someone else.” “They’re fine.” I glared at her, insulted. “Watch that left side.” Her kol-rimmed eyes dropped down to the broken ribs behind my vest. Mýra and I had fought for our place at the front. “Always.” I looked behind us where our clansmen stood shoulder to shoulder in a sea of red leathers and bronze, all waiting for the call. Mýra’s hand lifted the long braid over my shoulder and she nodded toward the field. He tipped his chin up at me and I whistled back-our way of telling each other to be careful. His gray-streaked beard hung braided down his chest behind the axe clutched in his huge fist. My father’s rasping whistle caught my ears from down the line and I searched the dirt-smeared faces until I found a pair of bright blue eyes fixed on me. My heart beat almost in rhythm with the sounds, pulling one breath in and letting it touch another before I let it go. The blades of swords and axes brushing against armor vests.
The fog sat on the field like a veil, but we could hear it.
I looked down the row of Aska hunched against each other, ducking behind the muddy hill.
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