The harper stopped playing and protected his head with his hands as he was assaulted by a shower of bread, cheese, and bones. Many people laughed. Freddy noticed Ingifríthr giggling. Freddy didn’t think she liked Ingifríthr very much. The girl reminded her a bit too much of Cathy.
The harper was trying to play again, but the men were shouting him down. It was all kind of chaotic. I wonder where Loki is, thought Freddy, and then, I wonder why I wondered that. Her brain had moved straight from the chaos in the hall to Loki. She was pretty sure it was trying to tell her something, though she hadn’t yet put together what it was.
“I seem to remember,” said Josiah, “right about now…”
The doors of the hall opened with a crash. Though they were big, heavy doors and shouldn’t have come open easily, they were somehow flung back against the wall. Icy wind tumbled into the hall, and the fire on the central hearth leapt towards the ceiling. A man was standing in the doorway, too far away for Freddy to see anything of him but a dim outline. She did think she recognised the voice that rang out in the sudden near-silence, though she couldn’t be sure, as she had rarely heard Loki speak anything other than English.
“He says, ‘Hello, cretins. What sort of stupidity are you all up to tonight?’” Josiah translated helpfully.
He had apparently been expecting this. No one else had. Heimdallr had hunched down on his bench and was carefully hitting himself on the forehead with a fist. The others in the hall were sitting there with their mouths hanging open.
“They seem like the kind of people who insult each other a lot, though,” said Freddy.
“Among friends,” whispered Josiah. “This is a bit more formal. And public. And includes the Jarl, which is, in your vernacular, not cool.”
Freddy thought it was likely someone would jump up to confront Loki, but it seemed not. There was some throat clearing and nervous fiddling with knives. People were exchanging glances. The thralls had melted away; Freddy couldn’t see a serving girl anywhere in the hall.
Loki moved farther inside, rather unsteadily, and continued to speak. “Well done,” Josiah translated, “flinging trenchers at your incompetent little poet. You people haven’t got the artistic sensibility of diseased reindeer. Oh, and the wedding? What’s the point? She’s a flake, and he’s got no brain at all. Very compatible, but a pity they’re both such a tragic waste of space. It’s nice you’re willing to pretend they’ll be faithful to each other for more than three or four days.”
There was an odd tension forming in the hall. Freddy thought it was because someone should have been challenging Loki, and no one was. It didn’t seem right for these men, who were noisy and cheerful and waved weapons around a lot. Freddy glanced at Josiah. “Why aren’t they…?”
He nodded towards the centre of the hall. Freddy looked harder.
The doors had swung closed again, cutting off the wind. Nonetheless, something was happening to the fire. As Freddy watched, tendrils of flame snaked upward in patterns. Three of them were wrapping around and around each other, almost braiding themselves together. Others were pulsing rhythmically to Loki’s footsteps as he paced the length of the hall, moving slowly towards the high table.
“Fire appeals to him,” said Josiah. “It’s unpredictable. They all know it. They won’t stand up against a god, especially a god who seems to have gone off and got wasted.”
“I thought that was your job,” said Freddy.
Josiah looked at Heimdallr, who was muttering viciously to himself. “His job, not mine. He’s working himself up to it.”
Loki spoke again. “Oh, hello, Jarl,” Josiah translated. “What a lovely party this is. Weren’t you and this idiot’s father trying to kill each other a few hours ago? I love the way you’ve managed to con vince yourself there’s honour involved here somewhere. Well done, you. Let’s all tear a cooked pig to pieces and shout hurrah!”
Heimdallr stood up. To Freddy’s surprise, Josiah reached out and latched on to his arm, tugging him back down onto the bench. Heimdallr opened his mouth, probably to protest, but Josiah shook his head. He said something in Heimdallr’s language, then added in Freddy’s, “Wait.”
The tongues of flame had escaped the hearth entirely now, slipping through the air to wreath Loki. He wasn’t a silhouette any more; the flames lit him clearly. Confused, Freddy saw that despite the fire, Loki was soaking wet from head to toe. He smiled up at Heimdallr in anticipation. She could understand, in a way, why Josiah had made Heimdallr sit down. Loki wanted a confrontation. When it came, he was going to tear the hall to pieces. There didn’t seem to be any real feeling or purpose involved. It was just … chaos.
Half the people in the hall were looking at Loki. The other half were looking at Heimdallr. The next man who spoke was neither of these. It was so unexpected that it took a moment for everyone to register what had happened. By the time people started to turn towards Bragi, he had already moved up behind Loki.
“You have the manners of a disappointed mother-in-law,” translated Josiah, “and no right to speak of honour.”
The hall had gone silent. Loki, smiling merrily, turned to face Bragi. Josiah whispered to Freddy, “The interesting bit is that Bragi is speaking in exquisite alliterative verse. You won’t be able to tell, but everyone else can.”
Fascinated despite herself, Freddy whispered back, “Why is he? Do people do that a lot here?”
“Not yet,” said Josiah.
What happened next was so rapid that Freddy found it hard to follow, especially as Josiah was having to translate both sides of the conversation. As far as she could work out, however, the exchange went something like this:
“Brave talk of honour from an unblooded boy,” said Loki.
“Better unblooded than a wearer of women’s clothing,” said Bragi.
“They’re warmer,” said Loki, “you cowardly master of a rusted sword.”
“A rusted sword,” said Bragi, “but a tongue sharper than a knife, thief of necklaces.”
“People shouldn’t leave them lying about … on their necks … at midnight,” said Loki. “Your tongue won’t do you much good in battle.”
“My tongue will win wars,” said Bragi. “Yours will only cause them.”
“Causing wars allows opportunities for winning rings and honour,” said Loki. “You’ll be singing bravely to yourself under the mead bench all the while.”
“I’ll be composing a song to spur the warriors to battle,” said Bragi. “Where will you be? Seducing another horse?”
“That was for a good cause,” said Loki, “shirker of swordplay.”
“I would rather use swords than play with them,” said Bragi, “father of serpents.”
Josiah gave up on the translation at this point. Freddy could see why. The exchange had been getting swifter and swifter, with one man beginning the instant the other stopped, and it must now have been almost too fast for even the others in the hall to follow. “It’s called ‘flyting,’” Josiah commented. “It wasn’t really a tradition in this culture until … well, about two minutes ago.”
Freddy blinked at him. “You said he—Bragi—would be famous. It’s because of this?”