Summary
A semi-short historical/fantasy about a half-human, half goddess (A Halfenwraith) goes looking for a human hero to marry. Takes place in a mythical Viking-like world.
Halfdain had seemed both worried and embarrassed as we rode under the swaying corpses and Dalguard looked as though he wished he had stayed safely back in Greenland. Swanhild however looked relaxed and at ease, though her sensuous full lips seemed thinner and unsmiling. Things, however, soon went from bad to worse once we passed that gruesomely decorated front gate.
We were quickly dismounted, searched again for weapons, then marched at a near trot into the so-called ‘great hall’ — though great barn might better describe it! What little light there was came from smoky pine knots burning in braziers and a long, central firepit of coals that hissed and flared as the fat from several roasting boars dripped into it. Smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies hung in the air just above our heads like a dirty grey cloud, through which the blackened beams high overhead could just be glimpsed — making me think of the insides of a great whale or the ribs of a fire-breathing dragon.
But more than the smoke and the stench, it was the noise that assaulted not only the ears, but the mind as well! Men, women and dogs were all raising their voices in an attempt to be heard over those shouting around them. Several fights were going on, as was singing, drinking and pounding both empty and full ale horns on the battered wooden tables.
And on a raised platform at the back of the hall a large, thickset man sat on a rough wooden throne that had been draped with several wolfskins. Even over the length of the hall I could see by the man’s posture that no good would come of this meeting, and I felt the burning intensity of his one good eye taking us all in — especially Swanhild.
“This way, if you please,” Halfdain said, his voice clipped and strained. His blue eyes moved quickly about the noisy, crowded hall as he forced his way forward, shoving a few slow-moving drinkers out of the way. “And remember what I said about not mentioning anything about Leif Ericson,” he half shouted in order to be heard. “Lord Erlot’s temper is bad at best — and worse when he’s been drinking!”
I looked at the large, rough man we were fast approaching and saw him drain his horn and loudly call for another — and then he fixed me with his one good eye.
We were marched up to the raised platform and stood before Lord Erlot’s baleful stare. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep and gravelly, like a number of river stones rolling around in an iron cauldron. The din around the cluttered dais fell silent as its one occupant’s voice boomed out. The silence soon spread to the rest of the hall.
“What manner of beggars have you dragged into my hall this time, Halfdain!?”
“The best kind, my lord! A famous ‘scald’ of great skill and a high-born lady of great beauty!” Halfdain said with much feeling. “Both well deserving of your generous hospitality!”
