Still not sure why but Amazon.ca doesn’t make an excerpt available for The Aelfheim Gateway. So here’s another excerpt to help you out. The following is Chapter One from The Aelfheim Gateway:

The Story of Latgard, the Trickster God

“Are you going to come back and visit?”

Farling ruffled his younger brother’s already messy hair. “Of course, Brodden, I am just off to Trondheim to find work as a blacksmith apprentice. I will not be busy all the time. I should have time to visit. And if I make enough coin, I promise to return and buy a farm here in Jordheim where we can all live.”

Brodden looked up at Farling. He admired his older brother’s wide smile, woodsmen skills, and fighting abilities. Once, when Brodden was being picked on by several older kids, Farling had stepped in and laid them all out flat with his fists. Even though they had all been the same size as Farling, they lacked his speed and power. Their punches were slow and went wide. But Farling’s punches never missed and bloody noses and split lips bloomed like fresh red roses. Brodden also wished he had his brother’s dark blue eyes, which always seemed moody and mysterious under his dark eyebrows and thick shock of short black hair.

Farling’s mother stepped out of the kitchen, cleaning her hands on her apron. “Be a good boy, work hard, be punctual, and make sure you are always polite around those knights.”

“Yes, mother,” he said with his usual mischievous smile. He winked at his brother.

“And I have a gift for you.”

She motioned to Brodden, who ran into the kitchen and returned holding a sword and scabbard. Brodden was smiling so hard his eyes disappeared into two crescent moons. Farling recognized it as their father’s, and sighed appreciatively as he unsheathed the blade.

“I had it repaired for you,” said his mother. “All the rust has been burnished. And all the nicks have been smoothed out. It is like brand new, sharper than ever.”

Farling admired the clean blade and sharp edge, remembering how tired it used to look.

“Your father prized this sword over all others. He wanted you to have it when the time was ready. I think that time is now.”

“Mantock fixed it?”

“Who else?”

“I knew he was up to something secretive.” Farling strapped the scabbard and sword to his back.

“And here are some clothes and food for the journey,” added his mother, handing him a cloth bag.

“I will be fine.”

“I know you will be. You are so much like your father.” She kissed Farling on the forehead.

Farling roughed up his brother’s hair again. “And you, Brodden, man of the house. You help mother with all her chores.”

“Of course,” he said as his wide smile changed to a small frown. His eyes quickly filled with tears as he gave his brother a hug.

“I will miss you older brother.”

“I will miss you too, little one.”

Farling threw the bag of clothes and food over a shoulder. Standing up straight, he looked every bit a young man of 14 summers.

“I am just going to say good bye to Mantock and thank him for the sword.”

“Of course,” said his mother. “May Freela, goddess of wisdom, look after you on this journey.”

“And may Latgard, god of trickery, stay far away,” grinned Farling.

At the edge of the dirt road, Farling turned and waved one last time at his brother and mother, then disappeared from view.

***

 The sun shone down brightly as Farling made his way over to the blacksmith’s forge. Other people from the village, knowing that he was off to the big city of Trondheim stopped to wish him well.

As he approached, Farling heard Mantock’s familiar clanging of hammer on metal. It sounded like music, a rhythm of bending and shaping metal. Different hammer songs created different objects. Horseshoes made one sound, armour another. Each type of metal needed to be pounded a certain way with a specific strength. Too much and the metal became too thin, too soft and the metal refused to change. If the water was too cold, the hot metal might crack. So many rules, so many things to learn. And Farling had learned and had taught metal to obey him.

Seeing Farling, Mantock stopped. “You are off, I see,” he rumbled, his voice a smoke-filled rasp. Bald as a chicken’s egg, he wore his dark beard long so that it covered his neck and went down to the top of his dirty leather apron. His thick beefy arms and chest like an ox made him ideal for metal work. Mantock was shorter than Farling but more powerfully built. It was rumored Mantock was a former soldier and had settled in the quiet village far away from all the battles.

“Thanks for fixing my dad’s sword.”

“The least I could do.”

Mantock turned down the dampers on the forge to reduce the air rushing in to keep the embers burning longer. He put the hot metal he was working on in a bucket of sand to keep it insulated so that he could work on it later.

“Shall we have one last dance before I go?” said Farling. Mantock smiled and pulled a sword off the forge wall. They walked into the clearing in front of the forge. A small crowd gathered in anticipation.

Farling unsheathed his father’s sword. He and Mantock paced each other in a circle, measuring each other’s steps, waiting for the moment to strike.

Mantock had been the one who had taught Farling how to fight, both with fists and with sword. Mantock had taken a shine to young Farling and had helped him where he could, teaching him everything he knew.

Farling raised his sword just in time as Mantock had struck without warning. The familiar shock passed through Farling’s arms and shoulders as he twisted and struck back. Mantock easily blocked the cut.

As the swordplay continued, Farling’s new sword became a blur as it sang its song. It cut the air, hissing as it went making a sound that pleased Farling’s ear. Mantock’s sword hummed as it cut through the air. And the hiss and the hum were punctuated by the clang of metal on metal, a rhythm of song and smash.

Mantock blocked Farling’s every sword cut, thrust, and slash but Farling could see in Mantock’s eyes that he was struggling. When Farling was younger Mantock had easily blocked all of Farling’s sword thrusts. But now, Farling’s speed and reach had improved.

With a loud war cry Mantock lashed out a great wide sweep of his sword trying to force Farling back. But instead he ducked under Mantock’s sword and brought the sharp edge of his blade to bear at Mantock’s bull neck.

As the sweat poured off his face, Mantock grinned dropping his sword limply at his side.

“A pretty move. And effective. I have nothing left you to teach you. And besides, I am getting too old for the dance.”

Farling wiped the sweat from his brow and sheathed his sword. “To me, you will never be old. I guess as you have no gray hair on your head.”

Mantock grinned rubbing his bald head with his free hand.

“Be careful in Trondheim,” he said gruffly. “City folk do not take kindly to country folk, think you are simple. They will try to provoke you, cause a fight. They think they are better than you. Do not back down. You do not want a coward’s label else it will follow you around like a bad smell. Always be courteous to the knights. And of course, be on your best behavior for King Frederick and Queen Sif. They are good people. And remember to visit the forge of Lanson. A good man, a good blacksmith. And although I have not seen nor heard from him in years he will remember my name. He will give you work before and over the King’s Tournament. He may not pay well but it will be coin in your pocket.”

“Thank you, Mantock. You have been as a father to me.”

“And you, a son. Farewell, Farling. May Grignard’s sword guide yours.”

They shook hands in a grip full of affection. Then Farling made his way down the dirt road that led out of their tiny village towards Trondheim.

 ***

At the edge of the village, Farling saw Brodden.

“Well, little brother, I thought I heard the birds singing your name, telling me I was to see you once more before I left.”

“One last story?” Brodden’s eyes looked hopeful. “My favorite, the one about Latgard.”

“I will be catching a ride to the next village of Brondheim with Florin who’s taking a load of salted cod, but I do not see him yet, so I have time. Do you have any string in your—” but Brodden had pulled out a long string before Farling had finished his question.

Farling smiled as he knotted the string at one end creating a circle. He looped the string back and forth over his fingers and thumbs so that he quickly had what looked like a simple spider’s web.

Brodden stuck out his fingers waiting for the story. And as Farling told the story they passed the string back and forth taking turns holding the string creating intricate designs over their fingers.

“This is the story of how Latgard, god of thieves, was captured trying to kidnap Yorli, daughter of Ymir, King of the frost giants.”

“Yorli was beautiful beyond compare. It was said she put the beauty of the gods to shame. Latgard would often spy on her as she went about her castle in the north high in the mountains beyond Aarlund in the land of Jotunheim where ice and snow live forever.”

“One day, when she was alone, Latgard swooped in and carried her away. When they were far from her castle, he found a pleasant place and put her down. And even though Latgard, god of thieves, was considered handsome, she saw neither beauty nor grace as she was blind with rage at having been taken from her home.”

“He foolishly professed his love for her. She demanded to know what gifts he had brought. Angry at himself for not bringing something special, he searched his pockets. But all he found was a piece of string. He fashioned the string into a loop and made fancy designs with it, hoping to impress the Princess.”

“But all was in vain. She scorned him. Miserable, he did not even try to flee when her father, Ymir and her brothers approached. Her brothers would have slain Latgard the trickster where he stood. But Ymir wisely intervened. He had the young impetuous god shackled with heavy chains preventing even Latgard, the swiftest of all gods, from running away. And so Latgard was presented to Oudrin, his father, bound in shame. The gods thought he refused to escape as he was weak from humiliation. But in reality, he was weak from a broken heart.”

“Ymir demanded punishment from the god’s father. Oudrin also was wise. He knew he had to punish his son as he too did not want to start a war with the frost giants.”

“And so, to demonstrate he showed no favor, he meted out a punishment most terrible. For his crime, the young god was to be turned out, made to stand as a statue for all time in the midst of a great desert, until his curse was broken. It is said he stands there still, eternally vigilant, waiting for his love to find him and place the string on his fingers. He waits for her and cries, tears running down his stone face, every year on the anniversary of his capture.”

“It is said the frost giant’s daughter searches for him for she realized too late he was her one true love.”

While Farling told the story, Brodden had mouthed all the words. They looked at the intricate design he and his brother had made with the string as it lay on his fingers. Brodden reluctantly picked at it and pulled it off.

“Take the string with you,” said Brodden. “So you won’t forget me.”

“I will not forget you, Brodden. I will never forget you.”

***

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