Ragnvald looked around for Hakon. He had been deep in conversation with Guthorm, near a quiet fireplace, away from the contest. He stood up and strode across the hall.
“I could challenge you now,” said Heming. “You have threatened and insulted me. It would be a legal duel.”
“Do it,” said Thorbrand.
“Son,” said Hakon. “Do not do this.”
Heming broke free of Thorbrand’s grip, shaking his head, and called out in a clear voice. “Thorbrand Magnusson has insulted me, threatened to maim me, and called me a cheater. I demand a duel to defend my honor.”
Harald looked up. “Perhaps you have not heard, Heming Hakonsson, that I plan to outlaw dueling when I am king. It is wasteful and leads to blood feuds, which drain whole districts of their best warriors. No, if you and Thorbrand quarrel, tell me the meat of it, and I will pronounce a sentence.”
“Yes,” said Thorbrand. “Let us have a trial. Heming cheated at arm wrestling. I call your man there to testify”—he gestured at the warrior who had the job of looping the thong around their wrists—“before the gods, his gothi, and his king that he did nothing to the leather to give me more pain in the grip so I would lose.”
“Let Heming decide if he wants to pursue this,” Harald said. “He did not know how I governed my court until now.”
Heming looked wildly at Ragnvald, Hakon, and then Thorbrand. Ragnvald shook his head. “I withdraw my challenge,” Heming said finally.
“That is well,” said Thorbrand. Heming lunged at him, his dagger in his hand, then pulled himself up short, laughing, as Thorbrand flinched.
“Yes, hide behind your king,” said Heming, too quietly for Harald to hear, but loud enough that Ragnvald and the other men standing around could. “Only a coward refuses a duel. We will find a time and place for this, I promise.”
“As do I,” said Thorbrand.
Hakon pulled Heming down to sit next to him on the bench and waved his hand for more ale. If he drank until he passed out, that would be an end to this tonight, at least.
“More tales,” said Harald. “Who here has not heard the tale of Ragnvald Half-Drowned, who slew the draugr of Smola?”
A cheer went up, and Ragnvald cringed. Well, Hakon and Harald’s men would need something to distract them, to heal the rift that Heming had opened.
“I have heard you called Ragnvald Draugr-Slayer,” said Thorbrand. “Tell us the tale.”
Ragnvald glanced at Heming, whose head now rested heavily on his hand. “Heming should have been the one to slay it, but his father would rather risk me than his son. If it were a saga, I should have died and let Heming live a hero.”
Heming smiled drunkenly. “Ragnvald rarely does what is expected of him, especially not dying when others wish it.” Everyone laughed, and Ragnvald felt easier.
“I have not faced a draugr,” said Harald. “I did not even know if they were real.”
Oddi gave Ragnvald a warning look that he could read well enough. He could tell Harald in private the truth of the draugr, as he suspected it, if it even mattered. Perhaps Oddi was right, and the story was more important than the truth. “I still do not know if they are real,” said Ragnvald. “All I know is that he was a strong man”—in life, Ragnvald wanted to add, but stopped himself—“and in death too. He could feel no pain.”
He told the story as well as he could, making much of the power of the sorceress, the beauty of her daughter, but as he came to his own battle with it, he could not find the words to make it heroic. He had been fearful, he had stumbled, he had been too weak afterward to cut the thing’s head from his body. Oddi rolled his eyes.
“He does not tell it well,” said Oddi. “A warrior should have a bold tongue as well as a bold sword.”
“And is yours?” Harald asked. Oddi took the invitation to launch into a tall tale, which he seemed to invent on the spot, of a giantess he had wooed. Ragnvald recognized bits of the story from tales told at Yuletide feasts, though Oddi put his own stamp on it, and Ragnvald found himself laughing at the faces Oddi made when he spoke of plowing the insatiable giantess. Harald roared with laughter when he was done.
“But a boaster outwears his welcome,” said Heming. “Ragnvald does well not to brag.” Ragnvald was surprised to have support come from that quarter until Heming added, “His father was known as Eystein the Noisy—Ragnvald checks his own faults well.”
“Yes, he does,” said Harald. “His family has many virtues. I shall tell a story now, one that I just heard, and do the children of Eystein the justice they deserve.” Ragnvald and the rest of Hakon’s men leaned in to hear.
“You know this Solvi Hunthiofsson, better than I, so you know that he is lame. He was married to King Nokkve’s daughter, but she found him disgusting, and in his pride, he put her aside, to take up with another girl instead.
“She enchanted him, they say,” Harald continued. “He was roving and took the ship in which she sailed. She stood up in the prow of the ship and offered herself to him rather than see him harm the merchant who carried her. He was so moved by her bravery, he made her his wife, and put aside his other wife. They say that she so bewitched him that he would not be parted from her. She made him sail away from his father, and now they go roving together, he and she pirates.”
“You sound as though you admire him,” said Heming. “I thought Solvi was your enemy.”
“So he is,” said Harald. “I would meet this girl for myself, I think, and take her from Solvi. I would not be enchanted by a mere woman, but I would know the woman who did this to him.” He smiled at Ragnvald. “I will have many promised wives to win allies, but she I would marry for herself.”
“Who is she?” asked Ragnvald, feeling cold. “What has this to do with my father?”
“I thought you would know best,” said Harald, frowning.
“Who is she?” Ragnvald asked.
“Svanhild Eysteinsdatter.” Harald met Ragnvald’s eyes. “Your sister. I thought you knew, and that was why Solvi was your enemy.”
“Solvi is my enemy because he dealt me this,” said Ragnvald, gesturing at the scar that tugged on the corner of his mouth with every expression he made.
“That was not over your sister?”
“No,” said Ragnvald.
Harald laughed, though his eyes were uncertain. “She is well named: Svanhild, Swan Battle, for she has won her own battle on the swan’s sea road. I shall have my skald make a song of it.”
“And add to her shame?” Ragnvald asked. His anger was so deep, it felt like a perfect, fragile calm. “Pray, do not.” He stood and stumbled out of the hall, without asking for leave to go.
*
Out into the twilight, Ragnvald threw up the rich feasting meat onto the patchy grass. He retched until he had nothing left in his stomach, and still it heaved when he looked at the mess he had made. No one paid him any mind, though it was early in a feast for a man to become too drunk to keep food in his stomach.