Blades of Wolfsbane - episode fifteen

A story in the Ravenglass Universe.

Ragnar entered the mead hall with Kest and Harald close behind. Warriors sat along the central tables on long benches, while the boys, girls, and women sat on smaller tables around the edge of the hall.

A pair of boars hung above the brazier, their flanks half-carved by servants as spit boys turned them in a slow, constant rhythm.

Ragnar salivated at the slabs of meat, the steaming turnips, and mashed carrot.

A bard perching on a stool plucked a lute and sang a chirpy rendition of The Warrior and the Seamstress. Ragnar had heard the song hundreds of times growing up, but since Kest had explained the lyrics had a double meaning, he could no longer hear the line about ‘the warrior’s immense sword’ without grinning.

Ragnar the Elder sat at the head of the hall, with Olaf and Sven at his side. The ravenglass hammer hung on the wall behind him, black and glowing with darkness.

Ragnar sat between Olaf and Maja.

His sister smiled up at him, a doll clutched in her arms. “You were magical today.”

Ragnar sniffed. “I lost.”

“But you looked better. I liked how you danced.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be a dance, Maja.” Ragnar folded his arms. “It was supposed to be a fight. And I lost.”

“I still think you did well.”

He smiled at her and rubbed her hair.

Ragnar the Elder stood and gestured for silence. “Friends!” His voice reverberated along the walls. “Our tables are laden with the fruits of your hard labours. Eat, drink, and be merry.”

Ragnar accepted a plate of boar and a tankard of ale, swilling the tender meat down with more drink. He found himself staring at Olaf, his mind racing—had his uncle given Sven the sharpened blade?

As the evening wore on, the room grew rowdier, warriors arm-wrestling and spilling food to the floor.

The edges of Ragnar’s vision blurred with the ale. He slumped into his chair.

“Friends!” Ragnar the Elder stood again. “We have feasted and drunk our fill. Now it is time to decorate our champion.”

Cheers rang out across the hall as men slapped down on the tables with hands and cups.

“Would Sven and Kest attend me?”

Making eye contact with Ragnar, Kest shrugged, and wended through the crowds to the top table, standing next to Sven.

“As the boys’ new champion, Sven will receive a fifty weight in silver and the winner’s wreath to be worn with pride at all occasions.” He handed Sven a buckskin pouch as Olaf placed a wreath woven from beech branches over Sven’s head.

Sven smiled at the cheers and held his head high.

Olaf faced Kest. “As runner up, Kest receives a twenty-weight in silver.”

“And a hearty congratulations from us all,” Ragnar the Elder added, slapping Kest’s back.

Kest gripped the pouch and glanced at Ragnar, his cheeks turning red.

Ragnar knocked back the rest of his ale, his fingers flexing. He closed his eyes, not wanting to challenge his father, but the snub was too much. He took in a breath and frowned at the fuzzy sensation pressing against his mind.

For a moment, he gazed down at his ale, wondering if someone had slipped a herb into his drink. But he recalled the sensation of the wyvern pressing into his thoughts.

He slammed up his mind’s shields, severing the connection.

“What about your son?” A warrior on the central table stood and pointed at Ragnar. “We all saw what happened. Your son reached the finals. Sven only beat him through blind luck.”

Ragnar the Elder sneered at the warrior and slammed his cup down on the table. “My son fought without honour.” The hall fell silent. “Battles are fought and won with sword and shield, not with the dancing of whores.” He glared at his son. “Ragnar does not deserve a prize and will never be a warrior until he can fight like a man.”

Ragnar stood and faced his father. “With respect, I still defeated the other boys.”

His father snorted and spat on the ground, his phlegm landing in the sawdust at Ragnar’s feet. “You defeated no one, boy. Sit down, before I make you sit.”

Ragnar shook his head. “Why can’t you admit that you’re wrong? I won those bouts fair and square.” He pointed at Sven. “And the only reason I lost is because you rigged the fight.”

His father struck Ragnar across the cheek, knocking him sideways, bringing fresh blood to his already bruised nose.

“You dare to speak to me like that in my own hall!” His father’s eyes bulged, his cheeks turning red. “Let this be a lesson to you all, seasoned warriors and boys alike.”

A long silence stretched as men and women shuffled in their seats.

A deep horn blasted from outside.

Bells rang throughout Meerand.

“Raiders!” Ragnar the Elder snatched his war hammer down from the wall. “Everyone to your positions. Out, out, out!”

“Where should I go, Father?” Ragnar asked, all his anger forgotten.

“Take Maja into the castle and hide with the women.”

“I can fight.”

His father looked as if he’d stepped in something in the kennels. “No. You can’t.”

His words came like a punch to the gut. Ragnar wanted to protest, to argue the point, but instead he held his sister’s hand and offered her a smile. “Come on. Let’s go back to the castle.”