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flowing locks that shone golden in the sun. He did a thing with it—tossing back his head to flip his hair off his forehead—and when he did the hair thing, the girls would squeal in delight and Jarl’s toothy grin would grow wider, his muscles would bulge a bit bigger, and his chest would puff up ever so slightly. This made girls swoon all the more, which was the very effect he hoped it would have. This kind of display of vanity was known in the village as “doing a Jarl,” and no one could do it quite like him, what with his golden hair, his high cheekbones, and his high opinion of himself.
    It drove Dane mad to see Jarl so full of himself. Boastful and brash and so arrogantly humorless! “What do they see in that guy?” he once asked Fulnir while out on a soul-searching walk.
    â€œGreat hair, good looks, a fine singing voice—”
    â€œI know what they see in him! It was just a rhetorical question.”
    â€œOh. Right.” They walked on.
    â€œWhat does rhetorical mean again?” asked Fulnir a few moments later, but Dane didn’t answer.
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    Jarl and Dane stood side by side in the center of the field, preparing to face each other in the final round of competition.
    â€œAnd now…” the ringmaster’s voice rang out, “the final round!” Jarl did the hair thing. Girls went wild. Even some men cheered. Jarl did a two-fisted “victory dance,” playing to the crowd and drawing more cheers. This dented Dane’s confidence, until he caught sight of Astrid waving to him, and he waved right back. Jarl then threw her a wave of his own, grinning his perfect-toothed grin, and under his breath said to Dane: “She’ll be my wife, y’know.”
    Dane eyed Jarl and, keeping a smile on his face for the crowd, said, “She’ll be mine or I’ll die trying.” At that moment the ringmaster again called to the crowd.
    â€œJarl the Fair!…versus Dane the Defiant!”
    Dane’s friends on the sidelines cheered when they heard his name announced. Astrid did too, he noticed, as did Klint, who gave a crawk! of comment from high in the fir trees overlooking the field.
    Jarl merely sneered. “Ooo, ‘Dane the Defiant,’” he said mockingly. “I’m so-o-o scared.”
    Dane’s cheeks burned in anger. He yearned to flatten Jarl right there and easily could have had the flag not been raised, signifying that the final event had begun.
    They drew lots. Dane’s hopes sank as he saw Jarl draw the long straw. It meant Jarl would choose archery. Dane was handy with bow and arrow, but Jarl was a master. There was no way Dane could win. Briefly, he entertained the notion that if he signaled to Klint, the bird could fly high in the air and knock Jarl’s arrow off course. That would surely fix him, Dane thought, cheered by the idea of Jarl humiliated in defeat. But this, he knew, would be cheating, a thing strictly forbidden in Viking society. The Viking code of honor was a sacred bond, never to be broken. So Dane said not a word.
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    From his seat beside Thidrek, Voldar looked down in pride, silently imploring the gods to give his son strength for the final contest. Dane had greatly surprised him in getting this far. He’d thought the boy would surely be eliminated by now, believing him somewhat lacking in stamina. Yet there he was, his own flesh and blood, one of the last two standing. Perhaps Dane had it in him after all. The crowd went silent. The day’s events would be decided by three shots: each man to let fly three arrows, and he who shot the farthest would be declared the winner. Voldar saw that Thidrek too had taken interest in the outcome; his lordship’s gaze was fixed on the field.
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    Jarl and Dane took turns shooting arrows. And when it was over, the ringmaster pronounced it a draw: Each hadshot the same distance. Now it was a free shot; each man would do the trick shot of