The Frugal Wizard's Handbook for Surviving Medieval England

by Brandon Sanderson

“You’re a good tree. Tall, thick—and most importantly—wooden. Four and a half stars. Would hide behind you again. Half a point off for lack of refreshments.”

All with wooden walls and thatched, triangular roofs. (Two stars. Probably has terrible wifi.)

It was time to make my move. Like the old saying goes. Carp diem. Seize the fish.

If I were to saunter in, explain that I technically owned all of this, and ask them to kindly obey me…I suspected they’d saunter over to me, explain that the sword they’d rammed into my gut didn’t care what I claimed, and ask me to kindly avoid bleeding on the rug.

the eye of Woden,”

Friag, wife of Woden and mother of Thunor,

war against the Black Bear. Woden then forbade us writing.”

(The Anglo-Saxons called foreigners “waelisc” in their language. That’s the origin of the modern name of the Welsh.)

“Vikings,” I said. “I do not know this term,” Ealstan said. “We call them Hordamen.” “Do you know the land they come from?” I asked. “Denmark? Norway? Sweden, maybe?” I was still trying to sort through what was similar to my dimension and what was different. “No,” Ealstan said. “They come from Hordaland in the east, across the ocean.”

“The gods stood with men to resist him. Unfortunately, the Black Bear sought out the great wolf, Fenris, once bound by Tiw. Forced to heel to the Bear’s dictates, Fenris brought with him the implements of metodgodas, the end of gods.

I mean, he was an off-brand Viking with more boldness than brains, but I liked the guy.

‘thrael,’ an old word for slave.

Apparently, the traditional way to greet Hordamen was to run away screaming. So I was amused at their bafflement as we marched right up to them. It was like how a wolf pack might react to a trio of overconfident bunnies.

“Silence, thrael!” I bellowed at her. “Or I shall Nintendo you!”

In most ancient mythologies, even gods can die.

But if a bunch of knights chop you to pieces, you will die.

There is no only when it comes to goodness and joy. The smallest amount is as large as the universe, and one boy saved from a pit is a precious work beyond that of any king’s treasury.”

Zero stars. I’d like to go back to being a demigod, please.

These people had some messed-up mythology. History. Both. Either.

“So where did the first god come from?” I asked Ealstan. “Licked from a rock by a cow,” Ealstan said with a perfectly straight face. “Uh…” “It was a very special cow.”

“And what kind of glance would that be?” “You know,” I said. “Like this.” I gave her an intense look, leaning down beside my horse, then nodded knowingly. “Ah, that,” she said. “Just means they’re constipated.”

Trees, it occurred to me, were like teenagers. They loomed in aggregation.

If I wanted to repair our relationship, I simply had to ruin things! A goal that, for once, played directly into my personal talents.

“The stories all say to avoid aelvs, particularly the handsome ones.” I grinned, taking her hand and standing up. “So,” she said, “you’re probably safe.” “I’ll have you know that I’m considered incredibly handsome among my people.” “Is that so?” “Yes. I have it on good authority from my mother.”

“You’ll have gotten out from under that avalanche, Johnny. You’ll have escaped.”

I’d always been good at faces; just don’t ask me to do hands.

There’s a moment in drawing, at least for me, when a face transforms from shapes and lines into a person. The eyes were a big part, and the dots of light reflecting in them, but the lips were important too.

Runian, your world…what is it like?” “Why do you call him that?” Ryan asked. “It is the name he asked me to call him.” “It’s silly,” Ryan said. “His name is Johnny. Everyone calls him Johnny.” “Runian,” she prodded again,

Ryan had known me all my life. But he’d never noticed I didn’t call myself Johnny. My name was John. It was how I’d always introduced myself. Sefawynn and Ealstan listened to what I wanted. If they cared enough to call me what I’d asked them to…maybe they actually cared about me.

“Killing is desperation, not strength.

Damn, that guy could be profound. And depressing. Five stars. Should be narrating documentaries about disasters like Chernobyl. Or my love life.

“Isn’t Rowena your wife’s name?” I asked. “Yes,” Ealstan said, sounding solemn. “I like my wife. It makes perfect sense to use her name for something else I like.”

There wasn’t enough room for both of us in the saddle unless we pressed ourselves extremely close together. In other words, it was great.

“Do not be ashamed of your joy,” he told us, his voice intense. “Regardless of what aelv Ryan says. This is not a thing of shame. It is why I fight. It is why my sons bled. Never be ashamed of joy.”

I’d assumed an eventual rematch would be a way to take back my dignity. Turns out, nobody can take that from you. You’ve got to throw it away.