Eagles at War

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The boy had been fast asleep, but the insistent shaking of his shoulder woke him at last. He opened gummy eyes to find a figure stooped over him. Profiled by the weak lamplight behind, his father’s face – bearded, keen-eyed, framed by braids of hair – was frightening, and he recoiled.

‘It’s all right, little bear. I’m no ghost.’

‘What is it, Father?’ he mumbled.

‘I have something to show you.’

Behind the powerful figure that was his father stood his mother. Even in the gloom of the longhouse and fuddled with sleep, he could see that she was unhappy. His gaze returned to his father. ‘Is Mother coming?’

‘No. This is something for men.’

‘I’m only seven.’

‘No matter. I want you to see this. Out of bed. Get dressed.’

His father’s word was law. Slipping from under the warmth of his bear pelt, he shoved his still-stockinged feet into his boots, which sat by his low bed. Rummaging for his cloak, which doubled as a second blanket, he threw it around his shoulders. ‘I’m ready.’

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