He had been shocked to see her, though only his eyes had betrayed him. Thorun, her elder brother, had been more vocal about it, while Silrie the Galdurwoman had been as unreadable and indifferent as always. The only one showing anything close to happiness at Elvar’s sudden return had been Hrung, the giant’s head. He had smiled warmly at her.
He remembers all the ale and mead I used to pour into his big mouth.
Thorun had told her she was a disgrace to leave as she had, and worse to return unannounced. Broeir, her younger brother, had mostly just stared at her, looking disappointed. When Thorun had stuttered into silence her father had spoken.
“Why have you returned?” he had asked her. “I doubt it was out of loyalty.”
If he had not added that last part, she would have stayed and talked. Instead she had turned on her heel and left, without uttering a single word. Closed the hall doors behind her to the renewed shouts of her eldest brother.
Strange, how we revert to the behaviour of our childhood, when back in the presence of our family.
I had so much to say: a fine speech planned.
But something about her father drove all rational thought from her mind. It had never been any different.
“Best eat it while it’s hot,” Biórr said to her.
“Huh?” Elvar grunted.
“The porridge. Best eat it while it’s hot. Tastes like whale glue when it’s cold.” He looked into his own bowl. “Maybe it is whale glue.”
Bjarn chuckled.
“You’ve tasted whale glue, then?” Elvar asked him.
“You’d be surprised what I’ve tasted. Starving does things to a man,” Biórr said with his bright smile. “I have not always been this fine, healthy and successful example of a man you see before you this morning.”
Elvar couldn’t stop the smile from cracking her lips. Her eyes strayed to the tavern windows, where the darkness was shifting towards grey.
Morning it is, then.
“Mama, where’s Papa?” Bjarn said, looking up from the tafl game, which he seemed to be winning.
Uspa looked down at him, her lips moving, but no words coming out.
“Your papa’s had to go away for a while,” Biórr said. “He’s asked us to look after you while he’s gone.”
Thrud tutted and Elvar looked at Biórr.
Better a hard truth than a soft lie, my father always said, Elvar thought, but looking at Bjarn’s face, and the tear running down Uspa’s cheek, Elvar found herself surprisingly moved by Biórr’s kindness.
Floorboards creaked above them and a form filled the hayloft’s hatch, boots climbing down the ladder.
“You should have woken me,” Grend said as he reached the ground, clicking his neck, buckling and looping his weapons belt, then stomping towards her. He looked at Uspa and Bjarn, then glowered at Biórr, who smiled back at him.
“Porridge?” Biórr said, starting to rise.
“I’ll get my own,” Grend grunted, walking to the pot over the hearth. He filled a bowl and sat down with them, filling the space between Elvar and Biórr.
More of the Battle-Grim were rising, figures climbing down the ladder and filling the tavern. The landlord and his wife appeared, bringing a fresh pot of oats to hang over the hearth fire, jugs of watered ale and horns and tankards to drink it from. Agnar came down the ladder, Kráka and the Hundur-thrall following him like faithful hounds. He looked at Elvar, nodded and walked to a table near the doorway. A muffled shout came from above and they looked up to see Sighvat’s bulk stuck in the loft-hatch. Someone must have pushed from above, because there was a tearing sound and he fell through, grabbing the ladder to stop himself falling.
“How did he get up there in the first place?” Elvar frowned.
“All things are possible with enough mead in your belly,” Biórr said. “At least, it feels so at the time. And mead is a fine killer of pain.”
She smiled again.
Grend grunted.
Sighvat dropped the distance to the ground and stood there, pulling his tunic straight.
“Stupid loft,” he muttered. “Must’ve been made for a dwarf.”
He helped himself to porridge, emptying the pot and calling out for more. The landlord and his wife brought more oats, stirring in milk and water as more of the Battle-Grim crawled out of the hayloft. Soon the tavern was close to full, warriors filling most of the tables. Elvar sat quietly, eating her porridge, while Biórr and Bjarn went back to their game of tafl. It looked like Bjarn’s bone-carved jarl and his remaining oathsworn were going to break through Biórr’s guardsmen.