"I do not oppose you. I warn you."

"Warn me of what?"

"You cannot defeat the Dragonspawn. You will go to fight him but will end up fighting for him."

Sjord shook his head. "I will fight him and kill him, and you will commemorate what I do. There is your payment."

Eir slipped open the drawstring. The bag held a small fortune in silver. She sighed. "Come, Sjord Frostfist. Let us select the block of wood that will be your memorial."

"Monument," he corrected. "And, it will be stone, not wood."

"Silver buys wood. Gold buys stone."

Sjord scowled, hanging his head. "Wood, then."

Eir pressed past him and strode into the courtyard, with Garm loping behind. "Fir is better than stone, anyway," she said, passing a row of blocks and boles along one wall. "Fir is alive. It grows out of stone. Its roots break the stone into sand."

"Yes," Sjord said, the hopeless twinkle returning to his eyes. "Which of these great boles will become my statue?"

"This one." Eir stopped beside a fir trunk three feet wide and ten feet tall. "This one will immortalize you."

Sjord stared at it as if he could see his own figure trapped in the wood. He slowly nodded. "Good, then. Carve me."

Eir nodded grimly, hoisting the huge bole and planting it on the ground in the center of the courtyard. "You, stand over there."

Sjord moved into position and gestured excitedly to his comrades, who gathered around, quaffing from their flagons.

"Don't move!" she ordered.

Sjord snapped his head up, trying to look ferocious.

Garm sympathized.

As the man posed, Eir returned to her workshop. A few moments later, she emerged, wearing a carving belt filled with dozens of blades, from axes and hatchets to knives and chisels. The band of warriors gazed in awe as Eir strode up before the fir bole.

"Spirit of Wolf, guide my work."