A storm was upon them. Howling wind, coming through the slits of the shutters, flickered the flame and swayed the hanging oil lamp lighting Brand's worktable.
He sat alone, legs extended, ankles crossed and ale cup clasped between both hands. The shutters rattled in spates; rain dripped in thumb-tip size drops from the rough bottom edge of them,. onto the wooden floor. Dull rainbows shimmered in the lamp oil. The rainbows made him think of John O'Reily. He'd said it was a sign from his Christian God to peoples of the earth, from times ong ago. And Brand had interjected he'd been taught it was Bifrost, the bridge leading to Asgard--the Norse gods' home. He remembered fondly the conversation for it was long and lively.
     His ruminative thoughts centered now on how changed his life ... from this time last year. His uncle Tillhagensson's men had just recently delivered the crushing news of Ragnar's death and of the freemen's farms being raided. It had been assumed Halldor had returned here to his home. He had not, and so the men reported back to Tillhagensson, and Halldor's mother, that the boy's whereabouts were unknown. It was less than a week since the raids and Ragnar's death. Brand was alone to allow open weeping for his dead son and missing eldest son, and for his own life, so changed.
     The two messengers sent by Tillhagensson left earlier this day before the gale reached its present fury. They should, by this time, be at his uncle's reporting that he, Brand, had missed Austrii's raiding band. He had arrived home without knowing that a few miles to the east his second oldest son had died on the road, he had just traveled, died from a man raiding to increase his holdings, to make a name for himself--his dog-piss self. This egotistical raiding galled Brand, raiding that was rampant throughout the whole of his country.
     His lands, his title were inherited, not taken from any man, but inherited! He felt no need for more than what he now owned. His father felt this way, and his father before him. He was sensitive to the fact that most men were not so lucky as he. How could he not be? Poverty hung over the land, a heavy mantle soaked through with rain, mist and snow--and now, more and more, being mingled with innocent men's blood.
     Life came hard for ones on a few akrs of rocky land, with large families to support. Brand's land on the fjord was ideal for the trading ship that came at least once a year and for the area's own trading ships to depart, making it a prime target for any one of the petty kings or jarls to try to take. King Espen had drilled this into Brand's skull without letup.
     Brand's land was in places fertile, for growing grain crops, food for man and animal and small amounts of flax for oil and linen. It supported sheep, cattle. He bartered with the freemen, the services of their sons and daughters as servants, scouts and sentries for grains, farm animals, furs and more. Several thralls had become experts at building fishing boats and longships. When the weather allowed they kept busy felling oak trees and rolling them into the shallow, manmade lake near the compound to soak for planks for yet another boat or ship.
     He returned to his thoughts, to his changed life: his best and longest friend, Grimr, dead; his beloved half-sister . . .
        Forced Blood The Norseman takes place in Norway, 855, A.D.
            and written by Linda Newton-Perry and Christopher Perry.