Expungent? Oookay, I think I know what that means… An image of a dog vomiting up grass onto the carpet leapt into his mind. Erk…
Arn pushed the bowl back. ‘So, meat it is, then.’
He slipped the silver dagger from its scabbard, and used it to spear a piece of the red meat Grimson was enjoying. He put it on his plate, and sliced the chunk into smaller pieces. Spearing one of the slices, he put it in his mouth. It was delicious — tender and slightly salty. He couldn’t quite place it — a little like fillet steak and bacon all in one. He speared another piece, holding it aloft while he chewed.
He noticed a quiet had fallen over the table — no sounds of talking, eating, plates being rattled, or even tankards slamming down onto the wood. He looked around. All eyes were on him — or rather, the piece of meat speared on his knife.
Arn guessed everyone had been waiting to see exactly how he ate… especially with his small-sized teeth and mouth.
Feeling self-conscious, Arn raised his free hand, made an ‘O’ with his thumb and forefinger, and said, ‘Delicious.’
The king nodded and repeated the gesture back to Arn. Eilif had pulled her blade, and sat next to the queen holding aloft a speared chunk of meat.
Arn smiled and waved to her, but the queen reached across to make her lower her dagger. Arn guessed, judging by the expression of displeasure on the queen’s face, that Eilif was also receiving a scolding. Beside him, Grimson was also spearing his meat.
Arn smiled. Hey, I’m making an impression already, he thought.
Having piled the table high with food, the attendants returned with all manner of boxes, pipes, stringed objects and what looked like shallow drums. Sitting on the floor in the middle of the table area, they began to play music. Arn winced; to his ears, the music was strange, with discordant notes that usually ended with one or several of the musicians lifting his or her head, and emitting a long, mournful howl.
Arn laughed behind his hand. Guess some things never change, he thought.
The remaining attendants brought around large earthenware jugs containing a dark liquid that smelled like herbs in ale. Arn poured himself half a mug.
He lifted it and sniffed. The soft curl of warm spices tickled his nose. He shrugged. When in Rome, he thought.
He lifted the mug to his lips — nearly gagged, and had to secretly let the liquid dribble back into the cup, trying hard not to allow the contents of his stomach to follow. It was so bitter and so vile, he wondered briefly whether it was supposed to be some sort of cleaning fluid. Arn quickly pushed another small piece of meat into his mouth to try and remove the lingering taste — it didn’t work.
Beside him, Grimson kept up a constant stream of questions: about his home, his family, his weapon of choice — to which Arn simply answered, hockey stick, to the youth’s bewilderment. His curiosity then turned to how fast Arn could run, climb, or jump over things. It seemed the young Wolfen was competitive; it wasn’t long before his questions morphed into his boasting to Arn about his own physical capabilities.
Arn looked around the long table. Everything was so strange, yet so familiar. The Wolfen slumped in their seats, belching loudly, slapping each other’s shoulders and laughing — perhaps ruminating over the day’s events, or those still to come. Though the scene looked medieval, it was so… normal. It was easy to forget that these beings were wolves, or at least descended from them.
Arn also leaned back in his chair. Ape, the vile Panterran had called him. Was he so different, then? Perhaps what he was seeing was not so fantastic after all.
He looked up at one of the hall’s high windows just as the moon appeared from behind the clouds. The night made him feel good, the moon even better. Guess, I’m a night person now, he thought, just as the king raised his hand to silence his guests.
‘Young Man-kind, it is said you have a mighty arm, even though you yourself have professed to not being of warrior stock. Is this a truth?’
Arn cautiously nodded, not sure exactly what he was being asked. He looked to Eilif, who mouthed something to him. Was it an encouragement… or a warning?
The king must have sensed his uncertainty, and added, ‘To make war on a jormungandr by oneself, let alone to crack its hide, usually takes Wolfen steel and a mighty arm — or many mighty arms. But I have been told that you managed to do both with little more than a length of bone. How is this possible, Arnoddr-Sigarr?’
Arn felt the moon’s glow on the back of his neck, the energy it gave him. Was his unnatural strength due to the silver orb being so close to the Earth now? Was its gravity somehow affecting him? How could he explain it, when he didn’t understand it himself? He didn’t try.
‘Ahh, baseball… and a lot of luck, I guess.’ Arn shrugged. There was silence as the crowd obviously expected more from him than just some obscure and alien term that no one in the room understood. ‘It’s a game we play, where we throw a ball really hard to another player who has a bat — ahh, a long piece of wood… Anyway, it’s his job to hit the ball. Gives you strength.’
Grimson whispered, ‘I could try that, if you show me.’
The king leaned forward. ‘And this baseball teaches you how to put so much power into a blow, it can put crushing dents into the armour of the strongest beast in this land?’ He looked along the table to where Andrejk sat with his stitched forehead. ‘And also bash in a Wolfen helmet… and head, as well.’
The guests laughed at the king’s jibe. Andrejk joined in, and lifted his mug in a toast.
The king’s face suddenly became serious. He motioned with one arm for Arn to stand.
Arn rose slowly to his feet. ‘Baseball teaches you to throw straight, but as for cracking the creature’s armour, I just think I must have been lucky enough to hit it in a weak spot.’
‘A weak spot? Hmm.’ The king turned to Strom and nodded. In response, the giant warrior stood, pushing back his chair, its feet grating loudly in the now silent room. He walked slowly around the table, his eyes fixed on Arn.
Grimson nudged Arn and whispered, ‘He wants to fight you.’
‘What?’ Arn hadn’t taken his eyes off the enormous warrior as he approached.
Strom stood in front of him, fists planted on his hips, his deep voice ringing out strongly, ‘There are no weak spots on the jormungandr, young Man-kind. I saw the rents in the thing’s skin — there were several. Several times lucky? I think not even once.’
Arn was still on his feet, but his legs shook and demanded that he sit back down. He started to sink, and looked from Strom to the king, and then to Eilif, who appeared as worried as he felt.
Strom boomed again, ‘Man-kind, it is honourable for a warrior to be modest. It is not, if one is concealing something.’ He raised one of his huge arms, motioning for Arn to join him at the centre of the room.
Arn swallowed. ‘I’m not concealing anything.’ His voice sounded squeaky, even to himself. I am definitely not fighting this guy, today or any day, he thought.
‘Approach, Man-kind; I do not bite.’ He grinned, his sharp teeth suggesting otherwise.
Arn still didn’t budge.
Strom looked to the king, awaiting a sign. The king smiled, lifted his tankard and drank, looking down into its depths for a second or two. He spoke softly.
‘Sterkest slag.’
A roar went up around the table, and the Wolfen started to bang their mugs on the wood and chant. Sterkest slag — sterkest slag — sterkest slag…
Grimson gripped Arn’s forearm, ‘Sterkest slag!’ Looking down at the youth, Arn could see the young Wolfen’s eyes were alight with anticipation.
‘What’s…?’
There was a distant rhythmic sound of creaking wheels as the attendants returned. This time, there were no musical instruments, food, or beer brought forth. Instead, a trolley containing two tree stumps was dragged to the centre of the room. Both were about three feet in height, extremely solid and freshly cut.
A bench was also carried through by four more attendants, and laid close by. On the bench lay a pair of large, single-bladed axes. They looked heavy; even the four-foot handles appeared to be made of iron. Many of the Wolfen cheered and clapped, and started to chant Strom’s name. Some raised their hands and looked to the king, as if asking for something, or vying for his attention.
