After they beached the ship, Ragnvald followed Hakon’s procession in through the western entrance under the watchful eyes of Hakon’s sentries. Inside the walls another ditch lined with sharp stakes protected those within from attack over the top of the walls. Even with the help of draft animals and iron tools, this fort must have taken generations to build. The hall it protected was finely made too, in the new style, with supporting posts set as close to the outer walls as possible. Ragnvald had not been inside such a hall, but he had heard the proportions were far more graceful, more suited to men standing upright than an old-fashioned hall with its low beams. In Olaf’s hall the space was so subdivided that three men could not stand abreast anywhere within.
The great doors of the hall opened, spilling light from dozens of torches and oil lamps out onto the shadowed ground. Within, the hall was packed with men, lining benches and tables. Dogs squabbled between them. Men urged them on with bones and taps on curly flanks. Ragnvald followed in the wake of Hakon and his sons to the front of the hall.
On the dais stood two imposing men. One was old, with blond hair fading to gray, still rangy like a warrior, with long mustaches that fell on either side of a dour mouth. Tangled golden hair crowned the other; a half-grown golden beard hid half his face, though not his blue eyes and brilliant, gap-toothed smile. He still carried himself like a boy, not a warrior, long limbs held loosely as he bounced on the balls of his feet. These would be Harald and his uncle Guthorm, the prophesied king and his trusted adviser.
Ragnvald thought of his dream, for this boy’s hair held the brightness of youth, the brightness of gold glimmering in sunlight, while Hakon’s gold had faded with time. Still, Heming was another blond head—any of them might be his golden wolf, or none of them.
A woman who might have been twin to both of them stood a half step behind—this would be Ronhild the Sorceress, clothed in blue and scarlet. Songs had named her the most beautiful woman in all of Vestfold when she was younger, and she was not too old now to hide the truth of those words. Blond hair swept back from her high brow. She had finely shaped cheekbones, and a full lower lip. She could take any man as a lover she wanted still, even as she grew into those virtues reserved for men and women in middle age: wisdom, far sight, shrewd bargaining.
“Well met,” said Guthorm. He and Hakon exchanged bows.
“How many men did you get?” Harald asked eagerly.
“Another hundred at the Sogn ting and surrounding areas,” said Hakon.
“Our force betters yours now,” said Heming.
Harald bristled. His uncle shouldered in front of him. “The bigger the force, the faster other kings will fall to us,” he said.
“Yes,” said Harald. “Like the seven kings in Hordaland.”
“We will discuss it more later,” said Hakon. “Tonight we feast, to bid welcome to the new warriors.”
Ragnvald was seated near the dais, among Hakon’s richer warriors, where he felt the shabbiness of his patched leather armor and bog-iron sword. He had not reckoned up how many fine young men Hakon had gathered for his war-making, until he saw those already gathered to feast. He would have to fight bravely to distinguish himself from them.
How motley Solvi’s crew had been in comparison. Now Ragnvald did not doubt Hakon’s power, for those he had already gathered looked like warriors out of legend, broad shouldered and well armed. The men of Solvi’s crew had been tough, yes, but grown old too soon, sword-bitten, gripped by the knowledge that each battle could be their last. Hakon’s men were in their prime, few maimed or disfigured yet from fighting. What farmers’ sons swelled their ranks would soon be turned into warriors, with these men for company.
At his table he introduced himself and met in turn: Dagvith, a younger son of a jarl from the east; Dreng, a Danish adventurer, who spoke Norse with an accent that Ragnvald had to work hard to understand; and Galti, eldest son of a coastal jarl slain by Solvi Hunthiofsson. After giving his name and homeland to a slew of new faces, Ragnvald accustomed himself to saying he was from Sogn. Near South Maer, if the man asked further. No one had heard of Ardal, as they had on Solvi’s ship. Men here came from far away, from Vestfold or even across the Baltic Sea, from the settlements of Danes and Swedes on those far shores.
“I mean to kill Solvi,” said Galti when he heard Ragnvald’s name. He said it with a snarl, and Ragnvald knew he was expected to argue that Solvi was his to kill. Ragnvald did not know whether to be pleased or not, that people knew his story when they heard his name.
“I wish you every chance,” Ragnvald said, reaching toward the center of the table to break off a chunk of barley bread. “You could have done it at the Sogn ting. He traveled with few men.” Galti scowled—it seemed he had hoped to bait Ragnvald. Ragnvald did not let this trouble him; his stomach commanded more attention, growling at the rich scent of meat that filled the hall. Steam from the tureens on the tables carried foreign spices to his nose. Hakon must be richly provisioned that he could keep these warriors at his table, week after week.
Galti pared a scrap of something from under his fingernails with his dagger and, after examining it, worried it between his teeth. Ragnvald ladled a generous serving of the meat and cabbage stew onto his bread with a wooden spoon.
“I heard you had reason to avenge yourself on him,” said Dagvith, the jarl’s son, his eyes wide and guileless. He was a young giant with plain, oversize features, and wore his size as if he had not yet accustomed himself to it. His hair was a natural sun-streaked gold, as were the uneven strands of beard dusting his chin.
Ragnvald touched the scar on his cheek. It hardly pained him at all now, but he could feel the difference in every movement of his face—a constant reminder of the cold end of every life. “What?” he said, “You do not think Solvi made me prettier?”
That drew a laugh from Dagvith. Ragnvald dug into his food with pleasure. It was goat—Hakon’s generosity only extended so far. Golden fat studded the broth, and the well-stewed meat melted between his teeth and tongue.
Galti still looked at Ragnvald suspiciously. “No, he did not,” Galti said. Ragnvald resolved to keep a careful eye on him. A man who could not laugh made a dangerous foe—Ragnvald knew that much from Olaf.
“Solvi Hunthiofsson tried to kill me, but he failed,” said Ragnvald. “And I have reason to believe he held the knife for my stepfather. He is my true enemy.”
“This Ragnvald is a thinker,” said Dreng the Dane, “not a hammerheaded know-nothing like you, Galti.” The men scowled at each other, but Ragnvald had the feeling that they knew each other well, and these words counted for little between them.