There was a booming on the mead hall doors: for a moment Varg thinking he was still deep in the tale, hearing the echo of drums beating, warriors screaming. Then the mead hall’s doors creaked open and a gust of cold wind swept in, setting torches flaring and crackling, its icy fingers dragging Varg from the skáld’s saga-song.
Figures stood in the open doorway: two of Jarl Logur’s warriors, clothed in mail with spears in their fists, and between them four others. One man was dressed in a fine wool kaftan and fur-trimmed cap, his breeches baggy and striped, wrapped tight with winnigas from ankle to knee. The other three, two women and a man, were clothed in coats of lamellar plate, glistening like fish-scales in the torchlight. They all wore iron helms with horsehair plumes and curtains of riveted mail to protect their necks, and carried a quiver and bowcase hanging from their belts, as well as curved swords and small bladed, long hafted axes. The man’s helm was edged with gold, and gold wire wrapped the leather hilt of his sword. They all had long, single braids coiling from beneath their helms, like the man Varg had seen sparring with Glornir.
A hawk sat upon the man’s forearm, its wings glossy and with a sharp hooked beak.
Varg remembered seeing others that resembled these people, disembarking from a ship on the docks when he had first entered Liga. A ship from far-off Iskidan, a dockworker had told him.
The noise of feasting faded, all eyes on the newcomers.
The two drengr guards escorted the visitors, until they came to a halt before the dais where the high table sat, Jarl Logur looking down upon them. The skáld Galinn had disappeared.
“Sergei Yanasson of Ulaz calls upon the hospitality of Jarl Logur,” one of the drengr guards proclaimed, and the man with the fur-trimmed hat stepped forwards and gave an elaborate bow.
“Greetings, Jarl Logur,” Sergei said. “It is an honour to stand in your mead hall. Your wealth, battle-fame and hospitality are known across the whale road, in faraway Iskidan and all the realms of the Great Khagan, Kirill the Magnificent.”
“Welcome, Sergei,” Logur said with a wave of the hand. “And dispense with the horseshite, you old fox; we have known each other too long.” Logur stood and stepped down from the dais, wrapping Sergei in his arms and squeezing him tight. When they parted Logur held Sergei at arm’s length, smiling and looking into his face.
“Why are you speaking as if we are only meeting for the first time, my friend?”
Sergei dropped his head. “You do me much honour, a humble merchant from the southlands,” he said. Then he shrugged. “I bring great and important guests from my homeland, and I wanted to make a grand entrance.”
“Ha, now that is better,” Logur said, smiling, his eyes moving to the man and women behind Sergei. “And who are these great and important people that you have brought to my hall?”
“This is Prince Jaromir, son of the Great Khagan,” Sergei said, stepping aside, “escorted by two of his druzhina, as is his right.”
“That is not such a great honour,” Torvik whispered to Varg. “It is said that the Great Khagan has two hundred concubines and a thousand children, and wherever the Khagan goes he is attended by two hundred druzhina.”
“Prince Jaromir, welcome to my hall,” Jarl Logur said, with a dip of his head and a gesture of his hand.
Jaromir unbuckled his helm and one of his guards stepped forwards and lifted it free. His head was shaved, a blond braid curling over his shoulder. He regarded Logur with piercing blue eyes, his face angular and handsome with a short, neatly cropped beard. He dipped his head to Jarl Logur.
“Forgive my arrival, unannounced,” Jaromir said. “I would have sent messengers ahead, so that you could prepare a reception worthy of me, but I have travelled with speed, and I did not want word of my arrival to precede me.” He glanced around the hall, then back at Jarl Logur.
The silence in the hall deepened; only the crackle of torches could be heard, punctuated by the hawk snapping its wings out and screeching. It made Varg jump.
“Welcome to the Battle-Plain, where the war of gods was fought and felt hardest,” Jarl Logur said. “You are welcome to my hearth fire, to my food and drink, and a seat at my table.” His smile broadened, teeth flashing. “As a humble Jarl, that is the best I can do, even for a prince of Iskidan.”
“My thanks.” Jaromir dipped his head again, a short, sharp movement reminiscent of the hawk upon his arm. “But I have not ridden across Iskidan and sailed the whale road to sit at your table and eat your food. Much as it looks… delightful. I have come—”