The whole thing was barbaric and pre-technological; whereas the warriors’ armor was extremely sophisticated—though idiosyncratic.
And there was a god named North somewhere, for a man-hunter named Hansen to find and to deal with.
Golsingh and Taddeusz seated themselves on the two chairs. To Hansen’s surprise, Krita and Unn took cups of jeweled metal from servants and offered them to the leaders instead of joining them at the table.
The face of Golsingh’s blond wife was as cool as the surface of a forest pond which hides all the life beneath its reflection. Taddeusz’ dark daughter Krita had high cheekbones and eyes like fire glinting from a hatchet blade. She wore a sleeveless tunic of blue brocade, cinched with a belt of gold. Her sinewy arms had calluses at the wrists and elbows, places where Hansen’s armor had rubbed him raw.
Hansen had been busy enough taking stock of his new surroundings that he hadn’t paid attention to the way his companions hesitated beside him while other warriors seated themselves at the benches. Servants stood on the inner side of the U—where the hearth must’ve been damned uncomfortable against their calves. They were slicing joints and ladling stewed vegetables onto plates.
Shill muttered something and scuttled toward a bench about halfway between the chairs and the door. Hansen followed, hungry enough not to realize that something beyond open seating was involved.
Maharg hung back. “Malcolm’s not here,” he said.
The benches were filling. Shill glanced over his shoulder, hesitated—but carried out his original intent. Maharg grimaced as he seated himself to the older man’s right—throne—side; and Hansen squeezed in beside Maharg.
“How do I get proper clothi—” Hansen began as a female servant set a plate covered with broiled meat—half-burned, half-raw—and stewed vegetables before him.
The man to Hansen’s right turned and gripped him by the ear. “What do you think you’re doing here, you slave’s whelp?” the man demanded.
The corner of Hansen’s eye placed the carving knife—too far—and the serving fork—just right, as the servant froze in surprise. The warrior who held him was big, young, and very angry. Hansen didn’t know the etiquette at Peace Rock, but he did know that in a fraction of a second, Nils Hansen would be discussing the matter with the survivors, over the body of the man beside him.
“I think,” said Malcolm, taking the other man by both ears from behind, “that he’s the guy who took your brother one-on-one, Letzing. Which you—” Letzing’s fingers relaxed as Malcolm twisted “—couldn’t’ve managed in a million years. So what’re you doing up-bench of him?”
Malcolm lifted Letzing deliberately from his seat. Everyone in the hall was watching, but no one attempted to interfere.
Letzing stumbled as Malcolm walked him backward off the bench. “You wouldn’t do this to me if my brother were here!” he cried out unexpectedly.
Malcolm let him go and said brutally, “Zieborn’s not here. He’s dead. Want to try me tomorrow and join him? Want to try me tonight?”
Letzing was broader than Malcolm and almost as tall, but you didn’t need Hansen’s experience to realize that it would be the contest of the axe and the firelog if Letzing accepted the challenge.
Letzing knew that too. He turned away and stamped across to a seat on the other side of the hall—and well down the bench. Malcolm took his place, looked at Hansen, and said, “Well, we’re the bold lad, aren’t we? But if Maharg doesn’t mind, I certainly don’t.”
Maharg forked a slice of meat into his mouth and said mushily, “Aw, it don’t matter. I figured I’d let him sit beside you this once, is all.”
The meat was unseasoned, tough, and cut into larger chunks than Hansen was used to putting in his mouth. He chewed and stared at Maharg until the powerfully built young man met his eyes.
Hansen swallowed. “And then again,” he said deliberately, “maybe this is how it’s going to stay.”
Maharg flushed and took a spoonful of turnips and potatoes. He didn’t reply.
Malcolm guffawed and accepted the cup handed him by the redheaded woman he’d embraced on returning. “Quite the lad,” he repeated.
The food was not so much bad as boring, and the beer that was the only available drink had a musty undertaste. Still, Hansen was hungry enough to have chopped a piece of one of the draft mammoths if nothing else were available. He concentrated happily on his meal.