Three of Solvi’s elkhounds bounded down to greet him. The largest and darkest of the trio jumped up to lick Solvi’s cheek and breathe meaty air into his face. Solvi chucked him under the chin, keeping one eye on the ship. Egil still sat on one of the oar benches, cleaning under his fingernails with his dagger.
“I’ll be starting off home, my lord,” said Egil when Solvi looked his way. He heaved his pack onto his shoulder. Solvi did not wonder why he and Ragnvald had become friends. They both had an eye on the horizon, which boys their age often lacked, and Ragnvald was promised to Egil’s sister Hilda. At the coming Sogn ting, the union was supposed to be formalized, making Egil and Ragnvald brothers in truth.
“You are welcome to the feast as well.” Solvi walked closer. Egil scooted back, losing his perch and falling back onto the deck.
Egil’s eyes locked on Solvi’s sword hand. He made no movement to defend himself. He was a skilled enough fighter in a shield wall or a nighttime ambush, but against Solvi he would lose. Solvi had layers of muscle and five years’ fighting experience, years that made the difference between boy and man. And he was not afraid to cheat—fate had dealt him too many blows for him not to take every advantage. Egil would know that now.
Egil struggled to find his feet, hand on the gunwale. Solvi put his steel wrist guard on Egil’s fingers, pressing until Egil flinched and sat again. He pulled his hand free and rubbed at it like a child.
“You have nothing to fear from me, my lord. But I must bring the news to my sister.”
Solvi smiled. “Take a ring for her,” he said.
Egil’s glance darted to the pile of treasure that spilled loose from a broken sack. He pulled out a thick gold arm ring from the nearest sack of Solvi’s treasure. It was worth more than Egil’s father’s farm, and he knew it. His eyes met Solvi’s.
“Like this one?” he asked. What price silence?
That ring was destined to buy the favor of kings, not a boy still growing in his first beard. If Solvi chose, he could lead men to raze Hrolf’s farm, burn him in his meager hall, and take Egil’s sister as a lesser wife. But Solvi had seen enough blood today. His father had ordered him to kill Ragnvald, not Ragnvald’s friend. He nodded. Egil looked surprised at his fortune. It was a beautiful piece, pure and soft.
“You will not stand witness for him, no matter what happens,” said Solvi.
Egil nodded and tucked the ring into his pack. Solvi steadied him with a hand under his arm as Egil climbed over the gunwale, and then watched as he trudged up the steep path that would take him over the moon-bathed cliffs, back to his peaceful farm, and a sister who would have gold to ease her mourning.
*
On the slope above the shore, Solvi’s father’s hall blazed with light. The smell of roasting meat carried down over the beach on the evening breeze. Solvi walked toward it. Row upon row of stone oil lamps hung from ropes attached to the ceiling, burning brightly, displaying Hunthiof’s wealth as surely as the silver on his belt buckle. The sounds of his warriors fighting, talking, and already growing drunk greeted him.
On the dais, Hunthiof sat with a man who must be Guthorm of Vestfold, and next to him an eager blond boy—Harald Halfdansson.
“Solvi, my son,” said Hunthiof, his voice booming out so all could hear. He stood and spread his arms to welcome Solvi to the high table. Hunthiof wore his beard full now that he no longer made yearly raiding trips. His father had seemed hale and tough when Solvi sailed out the previous summer. Now his eyes were starting to lose their brilliance.
Solvi walked the length of the hall as steadily as he could, his balance still shaky from the weeks spent at sea. All eyes were upon him here in a way that never bothered him when he was in command of a ship or a raiding party. At sea none doubted his dominance, so he never thought of his deformity.
“Is it done?” Hunthiof whispered in Solvi’s ear. He smelled like mead, sweet and alcoholic, rather than the brine Solvi had always associated with him.
“Yes,” said Solvi.
His father peered into his face, eyes narrowed. “Later you must tell me how, so I can make Olaf sure.”
He turned and presented Solvi to his guests. Guthorm of Vestfold was a monster of a man, with the kind of broadness that would turn to fat if he ever stopped fighting. Solvi did not even reach his shoulder. His mouth was a thin, downward slash through his beard, his cheeks pouching into the beginning of jowls.
When Harald stood, Solvi saw that he was almost as tall as his uncle. Wisps of a golden beard blurred the line of his jaw. A young giant then, grown into manhood early. Seeing him made the stories more believable.
Solvi’s men had taken up places by the fire, arrayed around the dais, telling of their travels, their exploits. The boy Harald listened with excitement, a child thrilling to tales of battle. Solvi glanced up to the foot of the hall, searching among the servants bearing skins of ale, platters piled with meat. His wife Geirny was not behind them, directing them, as she should have been.
He frowned. He should not have expected her. In the years they had been together, she had given him only daughters and one son who was too ill formed to take a breath. He would not put her away, for he feared the taint was in his own seed, but neither would he seek her out. He had a Scottish thrall who had warmed his hide sleeping bag on the journey back from the Hebrides. She would do for tonight as well, especially after she had a chance to bathe.
Hunthiof rose to his feet and stood on his seat. Raising his horn, he spoke out, his voice echoing to every corner of the hall. “My war serpents, my treasure hands, welcome home. You have roved and plundered and come back rich and proud. My skalds will sing of your glories. But even their boasting will not drown out the cries of your slain.” The warriors roared their approval and banged their fists on the long plank tables. “Let my son tell me what you have done, and I will reward you accordingly.”
Solvi gave a practiced grin. His father might want to remind Solvi’s men that he, not Solvi, was king, but it was Solvi these men would remember as their lord, the one who led them into battle and brought them back richer than they had left.
His men drank deeply. Hunthiof took up the bag of arm rings and called forth the men who had raided along with him, Solvi naming their deeds, and Hunthiof giving them each a ring, of pewter, of bronze, or of silver. Some were not happy with their rewards. Well, they could blame his father for that, at least, and fight when they were drunk enough. It was a poor feast that did not end with at least one bloody nose.