Dreaming the Eagle by Manda Scott

you.’
    She came to him near dusk, with the hens taking the last of the evening light in the doorway. It had rained during the afternoon but the slates of the roof overhung the entrance and the scraped dust bowl was dry. A small, pale hen with a single dark spot on each feather spread her wings in the centre, fluffing her plumage and tilting her head back to catch the heat from inside. It was exceedingly hot. The fires had run all day, using up the greater part of the charcoal. Eburovic had stripped to the waist, abandoning his apron. He worked with his back to the door, hammering. Breaca sat beside the hen, watching the run of iron on iron, feeling the rhythm of it rock through her body, not quite matching the pulse of her heart. She was tired. Her injured hand ached from planting and weeding. She massaged the palm with the thumb of her other hand, letting the roll of the hammer sweep through her, carrying away the irritations of the day. She was more irritable than she had any reason to be and it worried her; she had snapped at the elder grandmother, which was pointless and only brought trouble, and had argued later with Airmid, who was her friend and did not deserve it. Even the ride to the platform had been disappointing, although she had made an effort to conceal that. She let her mind thread back over the moments, trying to find where the day had gone wrong.
    ‘Breaca?’ The hammering had stopped without her noticing. ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Yes.’ She smiled for him. It was not a lie. All she needed was a night’s sleep and she believed that to be possible now. ‘I’m late,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. Nemma is nearing childbirth and Airmid wanted to find some valerian root for afterwards. We looked for longer than we should have done.’
    ‘But you found it?’
    ‘Of course.’ Her smile was real this time. ‘Would I be here otherwise? Airmid is not one to give up on something when she has set her mind to it.’ Which had been, stupidly, the source of the argument. She stood, taking care not to fluster the hen. ‘Am I too late for you?’
    ‘No. Come in. I was just finishing.’
    The forge was much as it had been at dawn; the fire glowed orange, throwing odd, shifting shadows across the walls. The smell was of burnt metal and burning charcoal and the man-sweat of her father. On impulse, she kissed his arm, tasting salt and scorched hair. He hugged her and, looking past his shoulder, she found why the fires had burned so hot for so long: Eburovic had spent the day welding. An unfinished sword lay on the bench, the blade as long as her arm and as wide as her hand, with one end narrowed to a prong that would one day take the hilt. She picked it up. The hilt end fitted well to her hand and the weight of the blade was not too great. The metal still held the bloom from the fire and the blued mackerel stripes of the woven welds that bound the nine narrow strips of raw iron into one broader blade. She swung it once, experimentally, and felt the thin thrill of almost-fear that sang through her whenever she handled her father’s finished weapons. Reverentially, she laid it back on the bench.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘It’s good,’ she said. She had learned from him to be careful with her praise.
    ‘Would you test it against a real blade?’
    ‘Can I?’
    ‘Yes. Take it.’
    She did so. The feeling was more than it had been. A hollow place in the palm of her hand opened to receive it. Holding it, her joints swung more freely, as they did after riding, or practising with the spear. She swung a few times, feeling the weight of it, and then, looking up, saw that Eburovic had squared up in front of her, holding his own sword, the great blade with the feeding shebear on the pommel that held the lives and deeds of her ancestors in her father’s line. He said, ‘Make the back cut to the head.’
    The blade wanted to move. Using both hands, she swung backhanded, aiming for his temple. Iron clashed on iron. A single spark