- 2 - The farmstead

Despite his initial intentions, Eldar found himself unable to carry out his plan of knocking out Ulrik while he slept. There was something about the young man that intrigued him, something that stayed his hand. Instead, he watched in silence as Ulrik slept peacefully.

As the night wore on, Eldar found himself strangely captivated by the sight of Ulrik's slumbering form. There was an undeniable allure to the young man's beauty, a grace that seemed to radiate from within. He couldn't bring himself to harm someone so... captivating.

With a heavy sigh, Eldar settled back into his makeshift bedroll, allowing sleep to claim him once more.

Morning came with unexpected brightness, the sun casting its golden rays across the forest. It was a rare sight in the approaching winter months, yet the chill in the air served as a reminder of the season's impending arrival. Eldar blinked away the remnants of sleep, the events of the previous night lingering in his mind.

Ulrik was already awake, sitting on the grass and basking in the warmth of the sun, his face illuminated by its gentle glow. He was eating fermented herring fish, a sight that both intrigued and repulsed Eldar. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as Eldar watched Ulrik, captivated by the serene expression on his face.

As Eldar joined him, Ulrik greeted him with a smile. "It's best for us to start traveling north, then," Eldar suggested, breaking the tranquil silence.

"Surely. Want some stinky fish?" Ulrik offered, holding out a piece of the pungent delicacy.

Eldar hesitated, wrinkling his nose at the smell. "It's not poisoned. It's actually the only thing that isn't, apart from the wine." Ulrik reassured him.

With a chuckle, Eldar accepted the offer, realizing that he couldn't afford to be picky after days without food. As he took a bite of the fish, he couldn't help but marvel at the strange turn of events that had brought him to this moment.

"Poison sure is expensive, huh?" Eldar remarked, breaking the silence as he chewed on the fish.

Ulrik nodded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Everyone has their ways of survival."

Eldar eyed him curiously. "Say, how come someone so young possesses such valuable goods?"

Ulrik's expression grew solemn, his gaze distant as if lost in thought. "Ah, the Norns and their relentless weaving," he replied, his words carrying a weight of contemplation. "They spin the threads of fate with unyielding hands, shaping the tapestry of our lives with every twist and turn. Surely you have felt their embrace, as we find ourselves entangled within the web of destiny, wandering through these wooded realms."

Eldar's words hung in the air, a fleeting notion born of wonder and uncertainty. "Maybe you have the favors of the gods?" he mused aloud.

Ulrik's gaze bore into Eldar's with a piercing intensity, almost as if offended by the suggestion. His mouth remained still, a silent testament to the tumult of emotions swirling within him, his eyes speaking volumes where words failed.

As silence settled over the forest, a tacit understanding passed between the two men. They knew that their journey ahead would be long and arduous, filled with trials and tribulations yet to come. Without further ado, they turned northward, their steps purposeful and resolute, as they embarked on the path laid out before them.

After some time of exploring, a sound of running water grew louder, Eldar and Ulrik quickened their pace, drawn by the promise of refreshment. The oppressive weight of the forest seemed to lift, replaced by the gentle caress of sunlight filtering through the trees.

Their eyes alighted upon a picturesque scene: a serene river flowing gently, its waters shimmering in the sunlight. A fawn and a deer, mother and fawn, stood at its edge, quenching their thirst with graceful sips.

Eldar stood transfixed by the beauty of the moment, his gaze lingering on the tranquil tableau before him. Unbeknownst to him, Ulrik approached the animals, causing them to startle and flee.

A fleeting look of distraction crossed Eldar's face, his thoughts drifting to memories of a distant past. Images flashed before his mind's eye: a red-haired woman, her hair aglow in the sunlight; a rustic wooden structure; the laughter of a child; the bleating of goats. For a moment, he was lost in contemplation, the weight of his memories washing over him like a gentle tide.

Ulrik discreetly watched the man's carefree look and smiled. After stopping drinking the water from the palm of his hands, he couldn't help but notice a melancholic look on Eldar. What was on his mind?

He calmly turned to Eldar and asked, "Do you have a wife? Kids?"

Eldar stood serious and shook his head. "No."

Ulrik's gaze softened, a hint of nostalgia lingering in his eyes. "Judging by your aged appearance, I would say so. Isn't there anything more powerful in this world than to bring something to life with your own blood? Something precious, such as a baby, in this vast universe, a world of endless lands, choices, and dreams for them to explore. This is the irreplaceable gift Freyja bestowed upon us."

Eldar chuckled, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "I'm not that old."

The young man laughed in return. "How many winters have you seen?"

"24." Eldar replied. "And you?"

"20. I guess we are not too many winters apart," Ulrik remarked.

"Well, it's not like the life of a Viking is fit for a father. Many die in battle. Even if honored in Valhalla and life, what is the cost if you can't live long enough in these lands with our loved ones?" Ulrik remarked provocatively.

Eldar nodded, understanding the weight of Ulrik's words. "This is why you got to be the best in the battles."

"How many battles have you won?" Ulrik inquired.

"I couldn't keep track. I have been fighting since I was a boy." Eldar admitted with an indifferent look.

Once again, silence descended upon their conversation, prompting them to resume their journey northward, each lost in their own thoughts.

As they continued their journey, the landscape began to change. Trees became sparse, giving way to open flat land with rolling hills in the distance. The biting cold and relentless wind made camping out undesirable.

However, the sight of a nearby farm offered hope. The two discussed their plans as they approached, noticing the neatly harvested crop fields and the inviting glow of light emanating from a modest farmhouse.

"Halt!" A man on horseback suddenly appeared, blocking their path.

"What business do you have on Horik Ulfsson's land?" he demanded, eyeing them suspiciously.

Ulrik stepped forward confidently. "Good afternoon. I am Ulrik, a passing-through merchant journeying north, and this is my bodyguard, Eldar. We seek a place to stay for the night, and, perhaps, a good trade negotiation."

The man approached their wagon, his eyes widening at the sight of their provisions and goods, especially the ornate jewelry box. "You want to meet Horik?"

Eldar looked menacingly at the man. Being a bodyguard seemed fit to his current state.

"Yes, we do. Can you point us in the direction of his house?" Ulrik asked politely.

The man spat on the ground. "Just follow the farm's pathway. It's gonna take a long time if you go by foot, though, especially carrying this wagon of yours."

"No problem," Ulrik replied confidently. "I am in your debt."

Despite Ulrik's attempts to ease the tension, the man remained wary, casting suspicious glances their way.

"Also, avoid chatting with the workers. Boss doesn't like that," he warned.

"Thralls, you mean?" Ulrik inquired.

"No, the workers. And the thralls too," the man clarified sternly.

"Understood," Ulrik nodded, acknowledging the warning.

The farmstead, with each step they took, appeared increasingly dismal. The exteriors of the modest farmhouses were coated in mud, creating an unwelcoming and dirty environment. In total, they counted sixteen farmhouses, most of which were bustling with activity. Women were seen cleaning clothes, while men worked on wooden structures, likely intended for boxes. Only one farmhouse stood silent, occupied by an old, balding woman seated on a simple wooden chair, seemingly lost in thought. Nearby, a young girl played joyfully in the mud, giggling as she smeared it across her face.

Eldar was accustomed to turning a blind eye to the struggles of others, particularly the elderly who succumbed to madness in their twilight years. To him, life was simple, with goals that paled in comparison to the battles he faced. While many warriors held steadfast beliefs in the gods, Eldar merely paid them lip service when necessary for impressions, aware of the hypocrisy it entailed. He harbored no illusions of entering Valhalla upon his death, thinking of it as a falsehood.

Stepping off the path, he approached her cautiously, asking, "Are you alright?" The old woman paused her muttering, slowly turning her gaze toward Eldar's face. As they waited, Eldar observed her weathered features, while Ulrik watched on with indifference.

Suddenly, the old woman's demeanor shifted, and she began shouting, "Banamaðr! Banamaðr! Banamaðr!"—an old Norse term for "killer"—as she spat in Eldar's direction. Startled, Eldar attempted to calm her, restraining her arms until she fell silent once more. Still reeling from the unexpected outburst, Eldar and Ulrik retreated to the path, leaving the old woman to her thoughts.

The young girl, disturbed by the altercation, approached Eldar, tearfully accusing him of disturbing her grandmother. Frustrated, Eldar suggested they leave, but not before offering the girl a share of their provisions: she was sickly skinny. As they continued their journey, Eldar couldn't shake the image of the hungry, neglected child, prompting him to question the cruelty of the farm owner. However, with miles left to travel, he pushed aside these troubling thoughts, for it wasn't his business, focusing instead on the path ahead.

As they approached the path, now in the late afternoon, a grander longhouse owned by the landlord came into view. In stark contrast, the atmosphere seemed livelier - shafts of light beamed from the rich oak wood of the house, accompanied by the vibrant melody of a nyckelharpa and the raucous laughter of men indulging in drink. Upon entering, they were greeted by the warm glow of numerous candles on a raised platform. A skáld played the nyckelharpa, while two servant girls giggled beside a table where a young, intoxicated man sat. In front of a throne stood an old man, the landlord, Horik Ulfsson.

"What brings you to my land?" Horik's expression was frowning.

"I am Ulrik, a trader, and this is my bodyguard, Eldar. We are merely passing through on our journey north," Ulrik explained.

Eldar stood beside Ulrik, his expression unwelcoming, adding to the tension.

"I come bearing goods for trade, particularly jewelry," Ulrik added.

Horik's gaze lingered on Ulrik and Eldar for a moment before softening slightly.

"Jewelry, you say?" he mused, his tone shifting from anger to interest. "Well, you've come to the right place. We may have some business to discuss."

With a nod, he motioned for them to approach, indicating a spot near the dais where they could converse more comfortably. As they settled in, the skáld's music filled the room, creating an ambiance of intrigue and opportunity.

Ulrik glanced at Eldar, silently conveying the need for caution in their dealings with Horik.

As the negotiations began, Ulrik and Eldar remained vigilant, aware that in the world of traders and landlords, alliances could shift as quickly as the wind.

As they settled around the table, a momentary silence hung in the air, broken only by the flickering of candlelight and the distant strains of the nyckelharpa. Horik's gaze shifted between Ulrik and Eldar, assessing them with a keen eye.

"Now, let us discuss this jewelry you have brought," Horik began, his tone measured yet authoritative. "What exactly do you have to offer, and what do you seek in return?"

Ulrik exchanged a brief glance with Eldar, silently reaffirming their shared purpose in this negotiation. With a nod, Ulrik reached into his pack, withdrawing a small chest adorned with intricate carvings.

"We have a selection of finely crafted jewelry from distant lands," Ulrik replied, carefully opening the chest to reveal its sparkling contents. "Each piece tells a story and holds great value. In exchange, we seek fair compensation or perhaps even a partnership in trade."

Horik leaned forward, his interest piqued by the gleaming treasures before him.

"My son, Leif, is getting married. Show me your bracelets," the old man said, motioning for his son, the intoxicated young man, to join them.

"Of course. They're on my wagon; I'll bring them here," Ulrik replied with a smile before excusing himself.

As Ulrik departed, leaving Eldar and Horik in a tense silence, the old man broke the awkwardness with a question. "Where are you guys from?"

"From the south," Eldar replied curtly.

"Ha! You don't look like you're from the south!" Horik chuckled loudly.

Eldar now stared more seriously at the man's eyes.

"Have some mead. It may not be as fancy as whatever your companion drinks, but it's good," the old man suggested, tugging on his beard's braid.

Eldar regarded Horik suspiciously before finally relenting and picking up the wooden tankard in front of him. Horik signaled to one of the servant girls to pour Eldar some mead, dispelling the tension that had lingered in the air.

Eldar hesitated for a moment before reluctantly taking a sip. The taste was harsh and bitter, with a strong aftertaste that left a lingering unpleasantness in his mouth.

"Ugh," Eldar grimaced, struggling to conceal his distaste. "It's... unique."

Horik chuckled knowingly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Aye, it's an acquired taste. But it warms the belly nonetheless."

As Eldar reluctantly sipped the last drop of the unpleasant substance the old man called mead, the atmosphere in the longhouse shifted as two middle-aged men entered from the front door. One appeared younger than the other, but both exuded an air of authority.

The skáld, who had been playing vividly, abruptly ceased his music at their arrival.

"Old man, we are back," one of the men announced, his tone carrying a mixture of familiarity and respect.

Horik rose from his seat, a mixture of relief and anticipation evident in his expression as he greeted the newcomers.

"Welcome back," he said, his voice carrying a note of authority softened by warmth. "You've returned just in time."

The younger of the two men nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling on Eldar with a hint of curiosity.

"Who is our guest?" he inquired, his tone polite but probing.

Horik gestured towards Eldar. "He is a trader's bodyguard, who is journeying north. They've come bearing goods for trade."

The older man regarded them with a measured gaze, his eyes betraying a shrewd intelligence beneath the surface. "Interesting," he murmured, his lips curving into a faint smile. "We shall see what they have to offer."

"Where is your companion, Eldar?" Horik inquired.

"He will be arriving soon. I don't know why he parked the wagon so far from here," Eldar replied, his tone tinged with a hint of frustration and concern.

Horik nodded, his expression unreadable as he absorbed Eldar's explanation. The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the distant sounds of conversation and laughter from outside.

As they waited for Ulrik's return, Eldar couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him. Had Ulrik encountered trouble on his way back? Or was there something more sinister at play in this seemingly peaceful exchange?

With each passing moment, the weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the once jovial atmosphere of the longhouse.

Eldar's thoughts raced as he scanned the room, his senses heightened by the palpable tension. He exchanged wary glances with Horik and the others, their collective unease adding to his growing apprehension.

Just as the silence threatened to become unbearable, the sound of footsteps echoed from outside. Relief washed over Eldar as Ulrik finally entered the longhouse, the chest of bracelets clutched tightly in his hands.

"I apologize for the delay," Ulrik said, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. "The wagon was further than I anticipated."

Horik's gaze lingered on Ulrik for a moment, his expression inscrutable. "No matter," he replied, his tone betraying nothing of his thoughts. "Let us see what treasures you have brought."

As Ulrik approached the table and opened the chest, the room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of anticipation hanging heavy in the air. Eldar couldn't shake the feeling that their fate hung in the balance, teetering on the edge of the unknown.

As the lid of the chest was lifted, a shimmering array of jewelry greeted their eyes, casting a mesmerizing glow in the dim light of the longhouse. Horik and the other men leaned forward, their expressions a mixture of awe and greed as they inspected the treasures laid before them.

"These are truly magnificent," Horik murmured, his voice filled with a hint of admiration. "Such craftsmanship is rare to find."

Ulrik nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Indeed, they are. Each piece holds a story and a value beyond measure."

As the negotiations continued, Eldar remained vigilant, his senses alert for any sign of treachery or danger lurking in the shadows. For in this land of uncertainty, trust was a luxury they could ill afford to give freely.

Ulrik, leaning forward with a glint of reverence in his eyes, responded to the old man's inquiry with a metaphor. "Ah, my good sir," he began, his voice tinged with the echoes of ancient sagas. "Our possessions are like treasures hoarded by the gods themselves, scattered across the realms in their eternal quest for power and glory."

Horik's interest was piqued, his skepticism momentarily set aside as he leaned in to listen. "But surely," he interjected, "such treasures are guarded fiercely by the gods. How is it that mortals like yourselves possess them?"

Ulrik's smile widened, his words laced with a sense of reverence for the legendary tales of old. "Ah, but just as the dwarves, cunningly acquiring and crafting treasures for themselves, so too have we mortals ventured into the realms of myth to claim our own prizes," he explained, his voice carrying reassurance.

The elder man nodded thoughtfully, his skepticism tempered by the allure of Ulrik's metaphor. "I see," he murmured, a newfound respect evident in his demeanor. "Very well, let us proceed with the negotiations, then, and may the gods favor our endeavors."

The young man gestured for Horik and the other two men to take a closer look at the jewelry. Among the array of treasures, two brooches stood out the most: one crafted from gleaming silver, adorned with the sinuous tail of a dragon, and the other fashioned from bronze, featuring intricate patterns of unknown origin.

A gold pendant caught the eye with its radiant glow, hinting at its considerable value. And then there was a solitary ring, crafted from silver with delicate gold detailing, its centerpiece adorned with a vivid green mineral. Upon closer inspection, foreign symbols were revealed, etched into the band, likely originating from distant lands, perhaps even the Byzantine Empire.

"Oh, we forgot to introduce ourselves. I am Frode, the earless, Horik's son. This is..." Frode glanced at the older middle-aged man beside him.

"I am Björn, the fingerless, also Horik's son," the older man introduced himself with a nod, acknowledging his relationship to Horik.

As Horik and the others examined the jewelry, murmurs of admiration and speculation filled the room. Each piece seemed to hold a story of its own, sparking imaginations and igniting desires for the wealth and prestige they represented.

"I like this ring! What do ya think, son?" Horik inquired, eyeing the intoxicated young man.

"Yeah, it's great," Leif mumbled, barely coherent.

"Mind your manners! You are getting married soon. At least pick a piece of jewelry, you incompetent little wretch!" Horik's voice boomed, echoing in the room.

Silence enveloped the space once more as everyone turned their attention to the drunkard.

Björn sauntered over to a tankard and poured himself some mead, noting the absence of the servant girls who had fled upon his arrival.

"Who in hells put the servants' mead in our house?" Björn exclaimed, spitting out the drink in disgust.

"The one we pissed on?" Frode asked, his expression twisted in disgust as well.

"Aye, from the taste of it," Björn retorted angrily.

"It was probably that servant whore Aina. She caught sight of us pissing on it," Frode added.

"That bitch will regret spurning me!" Björn vowed, his tone laced with venom. With heavy footsteps, he stormed through the front door, the wood planks creaking under his weight.

Ulrik observed the scene with a smirk, perhaps a hint of jest dancing in his eyes.

Eldar stood in shock, realizing he had just consumed the mead tainted with urine. He had downed every last drop, leaving none behind.

Horik burst into laughter at the realization that his guest had unwittingly imbibed the foul concoction. Leif joined in, his drunken laughter adding to the cacophony. The two men chuckled like hyenas, their mirth echoing through the room.

Meanwhile, Ulrik observed the scene with a smile, his amusement fading into indifference as he glanced at Eldar. He awaited Eldar's reaction, his gaze steady and unwavering.

Amidst the laughter, Horik explained, "This one here is a champion! He chugged the piss down 'till the last drop!" He pointed at Eldar, eliciting laughter from Frode.

Three men now found amusement in Eldar's expense.

Eldar felt a surge of rage coursing through his veins as he clenched his fists in response to the mockery from the old man. He knew he couldn't simply brandish his hunting knife and put an end to the jesting. The laughter of old men ignited a profound fury within him, one that he always struggled to shake off.

This is why he resolved to himself not to die of old age. Not to wither away like a grumbling old man, especially one drowning in drink. The idea of fathering children was equally unappealing, given their incessant complaints and demands. As for wives, the thought of a lifetime of servitude to a spouse seemed burdensome, despite their primary function being to bear offspring.

Instead, Eldar yearned for a death that was unexpected, abrupt. He desired death to be a challenge, perhaps his final one. Whether it came in battle, at the hands of a murderer, or in a fierce brawl mattered little, as long as he could face it head-on, battle axe in hand.

His visage ablaze with emotion, Eldar's red hair took on an orange hue in the flickering candlelight, while his furrowed eyebrows betrayed his simmering rage, accentuated by the emergence of facial wrinkles. Yet, instead of putting an end to the jest, Eldar chose a different path. He ceased furrowing his brows and, with a bitter twist of irony, decided to join in the laughter—at his own expense.

As Eldar's laughter resonated through the room, Ulrik observed the sudden shift in his demeanor with keen interest. His eyebrows arched in curiosity, mirroring the intrigue reflected in his dark, almost abyssal eyes, which stood out against his long, well-curved blond eyelashes. The warm glow of the candlelight illuminated his features, casting a mesmerizing aura around him.

It was clear to Ulrik that Eldar's reaction had piqued his curiosity, prompting him to join in the laughter. After all, his clientele seemed to have taken a liking to his bodyguard, and Ulrik saw no harm in sharing in the humor of the moment. With a wide grin mirroring Eldar's own, Ulrik's laughter mingled with the others.

"I must immortalize this in my poem: 'The ginger warrior, piss-drunk!'" The unexpected skáld's voice echoed across the room, his excitement palpable despite the distance from the main table.

The skáld, his voice booming with theatrical flair, raised his tankard high as he recited his ode to Eldar:

"Hearken, ye warriors, to the saga of Eldar, the fiery-haired champion bold,

Whose valorous feats and follies alike, by Loki's cunning were foretold.

In the hallowed halls of Valhalla, where the gods doth tread,

Eldar's name shall echo, long after he lies dead.

With a heart ablaze and a spirit unyielding, he ventured through the shadowed night,

In the face of peril, he stood unflinching, a beacon amidst the blight.

Yet heed this warning, comrades dear, for Loki's guile hath no bounds,

And even the stoutest warrior may fall prey to his deceitful sounds.

Raise your horns, and let us drink to Eldar, the fearless and the bold,

Who quaffed the mead, be it sweet or foul, till every drop was told.

May Odin's wisdom guide his path, and Freyja's grace his soul enfold,

For in the annals of our lore, his legend shall ne'er grow old."

As the skáld concluded his poetic recital, the room, which had been drowning in laughter moments before, now erupted into applause for the unexpectedly well-crafted poem.

Eldar, who had momentarily joined in the laughter at his own expense, now sat with his mouth shut and his eyes wide open—an intense light blue hue reflecting an emotion unknown to the average spectator. The skáld's fancy words had clearly struck a chord with him, despite their mention of the foolish beliefs of Valhalla and the gods. His gaze shifted to to his hooded, sharp features in a heartbeat and he forced a subtle smile onto his face.

"I thought you were just a drunken fool, skáld!"Horik exclaimed with a chuckle.

The skáld, undeterred by Horik's words, responded with a hearty laugh, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Ah, but even drunken fools can stumble upon moments of inspiration," he quipped, his voice filled with mirth.

Eldar's subtle smile remained fixed upon his lips, though his gaze lingered on the skáld for a moment longer, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind the bard's words.

Ulrik watched the exchange with quiet observation, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts. Watching  Horik, Eldar, and the skáld, taking in the scene with a detached curiosity.

As the banter continued to fill the room, the skáld made his way towards the chambers, his demeanor carrying an air of quiet dignity. As he disappeared from view, Eldar wondered about the man behind the flamboyant facade of the bard.

As the skáld excused himself to retire to his chambers, Horik leaned back in his chair, a satisfied grin spreading across his weathered face. "Well, now that the entertainment's done, let's get back to business," he said with a hearty chuckle, his voice carrying a rough, no-nonsense tone that reflected his pragmatic nature.

Ulrik, ever the smooth negotiator, met Horik's gaze with a confident smile, his demeanor exuding charm and allure. "Of course, my lord," he replied smoothly, his words laced with a hint of persuasive appeal. "As I was saying before, we have a selection of fine jewelry that I believe might catch your interest."

Horik scratched his beard thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling with anticipation as he recalled the conversation from earlier. "Ah, yes," he said, a spark of excitement in his voice. "I've had my eye on that gold pendant I held on to earlier. There's something about a well-crafted piece of gold that speaks to me."

Ulrik's smile widened at Horik's words, knowing that he had already made an impression. "Ah, my lord, you have excellent taste," he replied, his voice filled with admiration. "That gold pendant is truly a work of art, crafted with the finest materials. It would be a splendid addition to your collection."

Horik nodded eagerly, his mind already made up. "Well then, let's not waste any more time," he said, his excitement palpable. "How much are you asking for this pendant?"

As Ulrik and Horik delved into the details of the negotiation, Eldar remained watchful, his gaze flickering between the two men as they discussed terms. Despite the jovial atmosphere that had settled over the room, he knew that this was the crucial moment, the culmination of their efforts thus far.

Horik listened intently as Ulrik outlined the price of the pendant, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered the offer. "That seems a fair price," he remarked, his tone gruff but approving. "But I'm a practical man, and I like to know what I'm getting for my coin. Tell me, what makes this pendant worth the price you're asking?"

Ulrik nodded, recognizing the need to justify the value of their offering. "Ah, my lord," he began, his voice taking on a mesmerizing cadence. "Allow me to share with you a tale of fate and fortune, a story whispered by the rivers and sung by the winds."

Horik's interest was piqued by Ulrik's words, and he leaned forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on the pendant before him. "Go on," he urged, his voice tinged with curiosity.

"With its design, this pendant is like a shimmering reflection upon the surface of a darkened pond," Ulrik continued, his voice low and hypnotic. "It is a beacon of destiny, guided by the hand of the norns themselves. Just as the fossegrim lures weary travelers with the haunting melody of his harp, so too does this pendant beckon to those who seek the mysteries of the unknown."

As Ulrik's unfolded, Eldar found himself captivated by the enchanting cadence of his companion's words. Each syllable seemed to weave a spell of allure and fascination, drawing Horik deeper into his own ego, momentarily setting aside his initial desire for a bracelet for his son.

However, as the enchantment began to wane and reality seeped back in, Horik shook himself from the trance, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Ha! Deal!" he exclaimed, his voice infused with a newfound clarity. With a resolute nod, he handed over the quantity of silver that Ulrik had requested, sealing the agreement between them.

"I request, my good sir, that perhaps me and my companion can stay here for the night; and part our way in the morning," asked Ulrik, his voice carrying a polite yet firm tone, as he addressed Horik.

Horik considered Ulrik's request for a moment, his gaze shifting between the two travelers. After a brief pause, he nodded in agreement, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Aye, ye can stay the night," he replied, his voice gruff yet accommodating. "But mind ye, no trouble while ye're under my roof."

As Horik spoke, a servant approached, having just arrived to attend to their needs.

"Master, we have no more space for accommodations in this longhouse; perhaps he and the red-haired one can sleep in one of the servant's houses?" the servant woman suggested, her tone deferential as she addressed Horik.

Horik considered the suggestion for a moment, scratching his beard in thought. After a brief pause, he nodded in agreement. "Aye, that'll do," he replied, gesturing for the servant to make the necessary arrangements. With a grateful nod, the servant hurried off to prepare a place for Ulrik and Eldar to rest for the night.

"We have some rye bread and pork stew being prepared by them thralls," Horik added, his tone gruff yet hospitable. "It is going to be ready soon."

"Ah, I thank you for your hospitality, esteemed lord," Ulrik began graciously, his voice carrying a hint of reverence. "In debt of that, I have a gift; wine, from the distant lands of the south, from the lands of the Franks. It is rumored to be the blood of their White Christ." As he spoke, Ulrik presented the bottle of wine with a respectful look.

Horik's eyes widened in surprise as he accepted the gift, his weathered face betraying a mix of curiosity and appreciation. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath, turning the bottle over in his hands as if examining a rare artifact. His son, Frode, leaned forward with equal curiosity, his youthful eyes alight with intrigue as he studied the unfamiliar object.

"Father, what is it?" Frode asked eagerly, his voice tinged with excitement.

Horik chuckled softly, a smile gracing his elder features. "It's wine, my boy," he replied, holding the bottle up for his son to see. "From the lands of the Franks."

Frode's eyes widened in awe. "The Franks? I've heard tales of their lands, but I've never seen wine before," he exclaimed, his voice filled with wonder.

Horik nodded, a sense of pride swelling in his chest. "Indeed, it's a rare treat," he admitted, his gaze lingering on the bottle with newfound appreciation. "Let us partake in this gift, and toast to our newfound friendship." With that, he gestured for everyone to take a wooden tankard from the table, while he himself reached for his drinking horn. "I'll be doling out portions of this foreign delicacy for everyone," added the old man, holding his horn in one hand and the wine bottle in the other.

Ulrik, smiling, was the first to raise his wooden tankard, eagerly awaiting the pour of wine from the old man. Following his lead, Frode, excited to taste the foreign delicacy, reached for his drinking horn. Eldar, with a serious expression, lifted his wooden tankard last. Meanwhile, Leif, the young intoxicated man, lay his head on the table, seemingly carefree and oblivious to the proceedings.

"Look at my son, Leif the fool, not a single thought," Horik added, laughing, as he observed his son's carefree demeanor.

"A toast to...," Horik paused, looking around the table, his gaze settling on Ulrik. "To our unexpected guest, Ulrik, and the fortunes he brings."

"Perhaps a toast to our brave mead drinker is best," Ulrik suggested with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, raising his tankard in acknowledgment of Eldar's earlier feat.

With a hearty laugh, the old man chimed in, "Skål!" as he raised his own drinking horn, echoing Ulrik's sentiment. "Skål!" Ulrik repeated, his voice booming across the room, prompting everyone to join in the toast.

As the time came to drink the wine, a troubling thought crossed Eldar's mind. He recalled Ulrik's earlier remarks about everything aside from the wine being poisoned. However, a nagging doubt surfaced: what if Ulrik had taken advantage of the time it took to bring the wine and jewelry from the wagon to this longhouse poison it himself? The uncertainty gnawed at Eldar, casting a shadow over the supposed safety of the wine.

Ulrik fixed his gaze on Eldar's eyes, a silent challenge lingering in his stare, as if daring him to drink. Meanwhile, the others eagerly quaffed down the wine, seemingly unaffected by any doubts or suspicions. But Eldar remained hesitant, his eyes locked with Ulrik's, a silent battle of wills playing out between them amidst the room.

After a moment of tense silence, Ulrik broke it by raising his tankard to his lips and drinking the wine in one swift motion, the sound echoing loudly in the room.

With a sense of relief washing over him, Eldar followed Ulrik's lead and swiftly downed the wine, reassured by the fact that if there was any poison, Ulrik would have ingested it himself. The act intrigued him even more, sparking a newfound curiosity about Ulrik's intentions.

After all the chugging, Frode grimaced and spat out the wine, exclaiming, "Ugh!"

"This tastes like cow shit," Frode grimaced, "So bitter. Mead is much better."

"Ah yes," Horik chuckled after downing his drink, "I think I prefer mead too. There's a reason why mead is the drink of the gods!"

"So much for their White Christ," Frode added, his expression twisted in disgust.

"And have you ever tasted cow shit, brother?" Leif added provocatively, a drunken and mocking look on his face.

Horik let out a hearty laugh at Leif's remark, shaking his head in amusement. "Enough of your jests, boy. Drink up, or else you'll have nothing but cow shit to wash it down with!" he replied, joining in the banter with a playful wink, offering leif a bit of the wine.

Leif grinned, accepting the offer with a mock bow. "As you wish, father," he quipped, taking a swig of the wine before passing it along.

As the night wore on and the laughter continued, Eldar found himself caught in a whirlwind of emotions. Despite the merry ambience, a sense of unease lingered in the back of his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Ulrik's intentions than met the eye. Glancing at his companion, Eldar observed Ulrik's easy charm and affable demeanor, but beneath the surface, there was a subtle hint of something else—a hidden agenda, perhaps, or a deeper motive that remained elusive.

Lost in introspection, Eldar cradled his tankard, now filled with mead, gladly, untainted by jest. His gaze drifted to the flickering flames of the hearth behind the table, their dance captivating and hypnotic. The crackling fire seemed to possess an otherworldly energy, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls, playing tricks on the mind. Amidst the revelry, Eldar wondered if he had drunk too much, his thoughts swirling like the flames before him.

"The food is here, master," announced a servant woman, her arms burdened with a heavy cauldron strapped in cloth and five wooden bowls stacked precariously in the other hand. Beside her, a boy, likely her son, carried a piece of rye bread, also wrapped in cloth, and five spoons.

With practiced precision, the servant woman distributed portions of the steaming stew into each of the wooden bowls, her movements fluid despite the weight she bore. The tantalizing aroma of the savory pork stew enveloped the room, eliciting an audible rumble from Eldar's stomach as he eagerly awaited his portion.

As the servant woman completed her task, the boy followed closely behind, placing a piece of rye bread and a spoon beside each bowl. The simple yet hearty meal brought a sense of warmth and comfort to the room.

Around the table, conversation flowed less frequently now, as everyone focused on filling their bellies after a long day. The occasional noises of spoons against bowls and the sound of satisfied sighs punctuated the quietude, a testament to the satisfying nature of the meal.

Frode, his brow furrowing with concern, interjected, "Why is Björn taking so long to deal with Aina? He never skips dinner."

Horik's features tightened with a mix of annoyance and resignation. "Aina is a tough nut to crack," he explained, shaking his head. "She's been giving Björn a hard time lately. But don't worry, he'll handle it. He always does."

With a nod of understanding, Frode leaned back in his seat, his expression thoughtful. "Aina can be quite stubborn," he remarked, his gaze drifting to the flickering flames of the hearth. "But I trust Björn's judgment. He'll find a way to sort things out."

The longhouse fell into a hushed silence, punctuated only by the sounds of utensils against wooden bowls and the lively slurping of stew. The scene was one of contentment and satisfaction, as each member of the gathering indulged in the simple yet nourishing meal.

Amidst the quiet, the faint whispers of the servant woman to her son could be heard from their corner of the longhouse, their words obscured by the rhythmic cadence of the mealtime noises.