The crowd milled and groused but eventually broke up under the firm guidance of Ulfrik's warriors. Clusters of townsfolk drifted toward Ravndal, while smaller groups headed into the surrounding farmland. Ulfrik rubbed his face and sighed, and when he dropped his hands, cool air bathed his face. Gunnar stood before him, skeptically watching Gudmund's corpse hanging still and silent from the black tree.
"He wanted to die a warrior? When did he ever fight for us?" Gunnar turned to his father, eyebrow cocked.
"Never, he hid from battle," Snorri answered for Ulfrik. "However he came among us, it's a good day now that he is gone. And what about you, Young Lord? When will you carry a sword to battle for us?"
Young Lord was Snorri's pet name for Gunnar, with Young Master for Hakon. For Ulfrik's third son, Aren, he had no name and ignored his existence whenever possible. Now both Gunnar and Snorri smiled at Ulfrik, expecting his answer.
"In time, but not yet. The Franks are canny foes, dangerous bastards all."
"Any other man shoving a spear in your face isn't dangerous?" Snorri quipped as he began to limp down the hill. "You were his age when we stood together in a shieldwall. Your father didn't coddle you."
Gunnar's smile broadened, and in that moment he was the perfect image of his mother's bright charm and colossal will. His eyes shined with mischief from beneath his black hair. Ulfrik chuckled and shook his head. Whiskers now darkened Gunnar's jaw and his voice had grown deeper in his chest, yet Ulfrik saw not a man but only his first and favorite child. The Franks were starving for battle. He would not feed them the blood of his firstborn.
Einar collected the remaining hirdmen and fell in with the group as they all returned to the walls. He stopped them with a thick, outstretched arm. "Riders, flying Hrolf's colors."
Five men on horseback cantered uphill from the direction of Ravndal. One held Hrolf the Strider's red and yellow dragon banner. Heat flared in Ulfrik's belly, for Hrolf rarely sent riders to him and only for dire news. He let the men approach, and the lead rider expertly dismounted and walked the remaining distance. He was dressed for war in mail and helmet, gray cloak dragging across the grass as he knelt before Ulfrik.
"My Lord Ulfrik Ormsson, I come with word from Jarl Hrolf." The young man was unfamiliar to Ulfrik, but he raised a battle scared face to his that proved his mettle. "It is an urgent summons."
"Stand," Ulfrik said, waving the man to his feet. "Five riders to deliver Hrolf's summons? Have the Franks outflanked our lines?"
Snapping to his feet, the rider shook his head. "They probe and prod, as you well know this far into the border. Hrolf's orders are simple and direct: travel to his hall at once. Take only what you need for a few days, for you will return home soon."
Sharing a puzzled look with Snorri, he folded his arms. "What is the reason for the summons?"
"Jarl Hrolf tells us only so much. We are to escort you once you've prepared."
Ulfrik agreed to leave after he fed them and rested their horses. They returned to Ravndal in worried silence, fearing what awaited them at Hrolf's hall.
Chapter 2
Ulfrik had turned over his horse to boys who would feed and rub down the tired animals. He stretched and massaged his lower back as the boys gathered up all the horses at the edge of Hrolf's settlement. Their arrival had drawn the usual groups of curious children and idle gossips, and he recognized familiar faces among them. Their escorts led them toward the mead hall that overlooked the dozens of A-frame homes and oblong barracks. While Ulfrik's escorts would not reveal the reason for Hrolf's summons, they at least ensured him there was no immediate military threat.
"The size of his hall awes me every time I see it," Einar said as he fell in beside Ulfrik. He had come along as his second, taking the advisory role his father Snorri had severed. Though he was young, Ulfrik valued his insight as well as his physical stature.
"A man too tall to ride a horse needs a big hall to stretch his legs in," Ulfrik said, and Einar and their escorts chuckled.
Outside the massive doors, guards hailed their escorts, arms were clasped and polite words spoken. No one had to ask Ulfrik or Einar to remove their weapons, for it was rude for any but the jarl and his guards to carry weapons into the hall. They began to unbuckle their baldrics and pull out their long knives and offer them to the guards for safekeeping. Ulfrik gave over his sword and sax, the short-bladed sword for close quarters fighting, a dagger, and then removed two throwing axes from his belt. The guard raised his brow at the assortment of weapons.
"You come ready for battle," the guard said as he cradled the weapons in his arms.
"Without mail, I am naked," Ulfrik said. "So I carry that much with me to feel less shameful."
The guard smiled and handed each weapon to a younger man, who stopped to review the hand axes with a quizzical eye.
"You've never seen a throwing ax?" Ulfrik asked. The boy shook his head and blushed. His older companion moaned and batted his head.
"Of course you've seen them, you fool. Few carry them anymore, that's all." The older man continued to heap Ulfrik's weapons on his junior.
"Jarl Ulfrik is a master of the throwing ax," Einar said. The younger man looked admiringly at Ulfrik.
"You flatter me. But those axes have saved my hide more than once. They're easier to carry than spears, and as useful for weighing down a foeman's shield as they are for splitting his head at thirty paces."
"Well, you've got to be able to hit a man's head while he's running at you." The older guard's voice carried a note of skepticism that flared Ulfrik's pride.
"It's easily done with practice. Here, hand me one and I will give a demonstration."
"Hrolf won't like you flinging axes at the heads of his men," Einar said, his joke breaking up some of the tension. Yet Ulfrik was already striding around the corner of the hall, searching for a good target.
"Take your helmet and put it against that tree stump. I will put my back to it, turn and throw the ax so it lands touching its left side. Would you agree that is an equal challenge to hitting a charging warrior?"
The guards glanced at each other and nodded. Ulfrik suppressed his smile, paced off the distance and waited for Einar to raise his hand when it was safe to throw. When he did, Ulfrik whirled on the balls of his feet, found his mark, and let the ax fly. It chopped into the stump, exactly to the left of the helmet. The gathered men shouted in surprise and applauded. Ulfrik accepted with a slight bow, frowned at Einar who rolled his eyes at the trick throw, and then retrieved his ax. He tossed it to the young guard.
"Keep it and practice. It may save your life one day."
"Mighty Jarl Ulfrik," Einar said. "Your skill is exceeded by your generosity and then your pride."
More laughter ensued, and all returned to the front of the hall. The older guard opened the doors. "Hrolf will be inside. Always a pleasure to see you, Jarl Ulfrik."
A moment of blindness masked the source of the savory aromas filling the hall as he transitioned to the dimness. The smoke hole was open to allow light to spill in, but it failed to brighten the gigantic hall. He paused as his eyes adjusted, then looked down the rows of empty tables and benches pushed to the sides of the hall. It created an avenue of pounded earth, littered with bones from the last meal and fresh straw to conceal it. Across the glowing hearth where slave women tended black iron pots of simmering broth, the high table was lit with lamplight. Jewels glittered on hands and gold armbands flashed as the mighty men at the table leaned forward to see their guests.