Jarl Logur sat at the high seat, barrel-chested with a belly that strained his fine-embroidered tunic. His grey hair was long and braided, gold-wire running through it. Gold hung from his neck and arms and, to Varg’s eyes, he looked like a man who laughed a lot. He was certainly laughing now, leaning to whisper into a woman’s ear, seated on his right. She was tall and elegant with an open, honest face. Her hair was plaited and piled on her head, more grey than blonde, and she wore a wool dress of deep blue, an embroidered hangerock apron over it. A tablet-weave belt jangling with keys was tied about her waist. She laughed as she pushed Logur’s shoulder away. Glornir, the bald chief of the Bloodsworn, sat on Logur’s other side. And beside him sat Vol, the tattooed Seier-witch, a thrall-collar tight about her tattooed neck.
R?kia and Svik strode along the mead benches, Svik swaggering as if he owned the hall, taking a seat at the long table on the opposite end from Varg, as close to Logur and Glornir on their high table as a warrior could sit. Varg saw Einar Half-Troll there, too, and the strange-looking man he had seen sparring with Glornir with the shaved head and long braid of hair.
A young man sat down with a thump next to Varg, looking to be half Varg’s age. He had a shock of black unruly hair on his head, straggly twists on his chin, and sharp blue eyes. He wore a tunic blackened with singe-spots, his hands and wrists thick.
“So, you’re the murderer,” he said.
“Murderer!” Varg scowled. “I am no murderer.”
“I heard you were being hunted for murder,” the young man said.
“It was not murder,” Varg said with a growl. “It was a fair fight, if you call four against one fair.”
“Makes no difference to me,” the young man shrugged. “You’re one of us, now.” He grinned. “Name’s Torvik,” he said, offering Varg his arm.
Varg looked at it a moment, then took it.
“Varg,” he said.
“I know your name,” Torvik said. “You’re Varg No-Sense, the madman who bit Half-Troll.”
“I don’t know why everyone keeps talking about that,” Varg muttered.
Torvik laughed, as if Varg had made a fine jest.
“Eat,” Torvik said, tearing a chunk of bread from a loaf in front of him and dipping it into a bowl of stew. “You must be ravenous as a winter-starved wolf, after being whacked and worked by R?kia all day.”
Varg didn’t need telling twice. He started with a thick slab of bread and butter, curds of cheese and salted cod. Each mouthful tasted like gold. The mead was warm and sweet, the sound of talk and laughter filling the room. Soon the pains of his body were dimming.
“Are you Bloodsworn, or one of Jarl Logur’s drengrs?” Varg asked Torvik through a mouthful of flaking fish.
“I am Bloodsworn,” Torvik said, sitting up straighter. “Well, I will be. I am a scout for the Bloodsworn under Edel.”
“Edel?” Varg asked.
“She is the scoutmaster,” Torvik said, pointing to the silver-haired woman who sat close to the high table, her hounds tearing at joints of mutton she was feeding them.
Varg nodded.
“And I am also apprenticed to J?kul Hammer-Hand,” Torvik said, pointing elsewhere in the mead hall, along the table to a broad, thick-waisted man who sat close to Svik and R?kia.
“A blacksmith?” Varg asked, looking from the man to Torvik and the scattered burns on his tunic and arms.
“Not just a blacksmith, though he is the best smith in all Vigrie,” Torvik said.
“The fastest, at least,” Varg said, “to keep the Bloodsworn’s kit maintained.”
“Aye, he is fast, as well, but look.” Torvik held out his arm and pulled the sleeve of his tunic up, revealing a twisted arm ring of silver, threaded with bronze, two hounds’ heads at the terminals. Varg sucked in a breath, it was beautifully crafted, and probably worth more coin than Varg had earned in the pugil-ring.
“What do you mean, you will be Bloodsworn?”
“I have not yet taken the oath, but I will. Glornir says all who would be Bloodsworn must prove themselves first, with some act of courage or loyalty.”
Varg nodded.
“So, we two are on the same journey,” Torvik said, smiling at Varg. “We will be like brothers,” he pronounced.
“I have no brothers,” Varg said. “Only a sister.”
“We will be like brothers,” Torvik said through a mouthful of stew. “You have a sister?” he asked.
“She is dead,” Varg said and filled his mouth with food, ending the conversation.