mind-reading to anticipate them. Three times her blade met Rothgar's squarely,
and deftly turned it aside. The big warrior gave a grunt of approval and tried
a more complicated pass. Her backward leap, the sudden doubling of her body,
and the excited clawing of her free hand, were not graceful swordsmanship,
certainly, but her steel was in the right place. The next instant, she even
drew a little clink from one of the Jotun's silver buttons.

As she was recovering herself, she felt something like a pin prick her wrist;
and she wondered vaguely what brooch had become unfastened. But she gave it
scant attention for the big blade was threatening her from a new direction.
She leaped to meet it, and for the next minute was kept turning, twisting,
dodging, till her breath began to come in gasps, and her exhausted hand to
relax its hold. Her weapon was almost falling from it by the time the son of
Lodbrok lowered his point. Imitating him, she stood leaning on her sword,
making futile gasps after her lost breath.

A grin slowly wrinkled his face as he watched her. "It appears that one who is
no bigger around than a willow twig may be capable of a berserk rage," he
said. "Do you not feel it that you are wounded?"

Following his eyes down to her hand, she found blood trickling from her
sleeve. Oh, and pain! Now that she had wakened to it--pain! pricking,
stinging, stabbing. Dropping her sword, she caught at her wrist.

"How did it happen? I thought a pin had pricked me!"

Roaring with laughter, he caught her under the arms and tossed her in the air.

"A pin!" he shouted. "A pin! That is Frode himself! A beard on your chin, and
you also will be a feeder of wolves! For that you shall have a share in the