Ceremonies done, Solvi sat down on the bench next to his father and dug into the hot pile of roast beef the thrall had set before him. The rich red juices had already soaked through the trencher. Solvi’s stomach growled. He had eaten nothing so bountiful since leaving the autumn before—his warriors were terrible cooks. This would likely make him vomit during the night, and he would enjoy that too, the spoils of home.
“Why have you come so far?” Solvi asked Guthorm. Harald and his uncle had already finished their meat while Solvi spoke his warriors’ deeds, and now Guthorm gestured for a serving girl to refill his cup, then frowned and waved her away when Harald did the same. At his father’s warning look, Solvi added, “Vestfold is far richer than our poor land.”
“The fjords here are so steep,” said Harald. “How do the men farm it?” He pitched his voice deep, as though he were trying to keep it from breaking.
“We do not farm,” said Hunthiof. “Farmers are slaves to their land.”
“Yet I see cows on the high meadows,” said Guthorm. “Surely they do not all belong to the elf maidens and trolls.”
“I don’t believe in trolls,” said Harald.
“But you should, for they come from our mountains,” said Solvi, and was rewarded with a flicker of uncertainty from Harald. He took a piece of meat and worried a piece of gristle off it before throwing it to the dogs. “And you did not answer my question.”
“Harald should see the land he would rule,” said Guthorm.
“Farmers tie their cows to trees so they cannot fall off the steep meadows, for if they did not, the cows would drown in the fjord,” said Solvi. “Many fall and drown, and not only cows. This land is hard on those who would rule it.”
Guthorm’s mouth tightened. “We are your guests.”
“Yes, you are,” said Hunthiof, giving Solvi a pointed look. “What do you want of us?”
“Your support, of course,” said Guthorm. “King Hakon has already promised his daughter to Harald.”
“King Hakon has many daughters,” said Solvi with a leer. “I’ve known a few of them myself. Which one did he give you?”
The boy’s sunny eyes darkened, and he put his hand to the knife at his belt.
Guthorm stayed him with a look. “Your son comes dangerously close to insult,” he said. “Do you want a duel over it?”
“My son is drunk and just returned home,” said Hunthiof. “Do not mind him.”
“You know what the tide brings, Hunthiof,” said Guthorm. “Thirty years ago we fought a Danish army together. They found better pickings in England, but in going there, they unified that country under one king. Sweden now has a king, and Denmark. The Holy Roman Empire sends its bishops north backed by armies. The time when every man who owned a valley could call himself a king is passing.” Guthorm paused and looked up at the walls of the hall, where the torchlight cast flickering shadows. Solvi thought he looked further, to the cliffs that bounded Geiranger Fjord.
“If you do not bend the knee to Harald now, he will bend it for you later, and you will not rise again,” said Guthorm. “The kings who join us now will be made rich beyond their dreams. Those who do not will lose all they hold.”
“A bold threat, when you travel in only three dragon ships, and claim a beardless boy as your champion,” said Hunthiof. Solvi looked at his father approvingly. The ships were finely built narrow warships, with carved dragon figureheads, but those dragons were only wood. This Harald, this champion who had never seen defeat or hardship, could not amount to much. He would not be the first king to sit in his flat, easy lands to the south, while claiming to rule territory he had only seen once. No man could be king of all of the Norse peninsula; the mountains and fjords were too isolated from one another. The advantage would always go to a king who ruled no more than the land he could guard by ship, and raid the neighboring lands to keep the borders safe.
“Will you murder us here, Hunthiof?” asked Guthorm quietly. “I would think that since the gods had already cursed you with a crippled son, you would not want to risk their wrath again by guest-slaying.”
Solvi leapt to his feet. “I will not be insulted in my own hall.”
“Sit,” said Guthorm. “I insulted your father, not you. I only insult whole men.”
Hunthiof stood as well. “Is this the kingcraft you would teach the boy? To offend his would-be allies? You will leave, or we will throw you out.”
Guthorm stood, so huge that Solvi, long accustomed to being the shortest man in a group, still felt cowed. “In truth, we never meant to make you our allies,” Guthorm said calmly. “King Hakon would never have agreed.”
“Then why are you here?” Hunthiof roared.
“To give you warning. Depart these lands. Leave them to us and your neighboring kings, and you will survive. The wolf is at your door.” With that, Guthorm swept out of the hall, Harald trailing behind him. Before he left, Harald cast a worried glance over his shoulder.
Solvi marched over to his man Ulfarr, who had his hand up the skirt of a pretty thrall, and shook his shoulder. “Get the men up and out.” He sniffed the air, trying to detect the scent of the pitch that Guthorm would need if he intended a hall burning.
Outside some of Guthorm’s men stood guard as others made the ship ready, putting out the oars. In this calm night, they must row away from Tafjord and wait for a morning wind.
“It is bold,” said Hunthiof, coming to stand at Solvi’s side, his own sword drawn. “They wish to make a song of it, how they came and gave us warning.”
Solvi’s blood was still up; he hated watching them row away unharmed. He should take his men after them, board them and sink them, drown their prophecies and their insults. His father should not have let such words stand against his son, except if he agreed. Hunthiof put his hand on Solvi’s shoulder. “Let them go. It is foolishness.”
“King Hakon is powerful,” said Solvi. “If he agreed . . .”
“As you said, he has many daughters. If he hedges his bets with one of them, what harm in it? He can always make her a widow.”
Solvi swallowed. He thought of killing Ragnvald, how the blow had gone awry. He could redeem himself here, erase Guthorm’s insults. In sailing away, Guthorm and Harald had passed beyond the bounds of hospitality.
“Solvi,” said Hunthiof, a warning that would allow no dissent.
“Yes, Father,” said Solvi. The oars of Guthorm’s ship dipped cleanly into the water, and before Solvi could draw breath again, it had disappeared in the shadow under the cliff.
“Now, tell me of Ragnvald Eysteinsson,” said Hunthiof as they walked back to the hall. Solvi swallowed hard.
“Under the eyes of the helm in the cliff’s face,” said Solvi, “I cut his throat and gave him to Ran.”
“You saw his life’s blood? He breathes no more?”