Free Sword of Doom by James Jennewein

the visitors from Voldarstad had arrived, the king gave them a formal welcome, greeting them by grasping their arms in turn, warrior style, as was Viking custom, and presenting them each with their own personal drinking horns with pewter-embossed rims and hand-tooled leather shoulder straps, which he had had made just for the occasion. Geldrun raised an eyebrow when William too was handed his own drinking horn, but a look from Godrek told her that rejecting the gift of a king was not at all wise, and so she later whispered to one of the serving wenches to bring the boy only nonalcoholic drink.
    Dane was led in by the king’s assistants, and the sight of him took Geldrun’s breath away. Gone were the mud-spattered horse blanket and torn coat. His hair washed and brushed, he now looked resplendent in a whole newwardrobe—brown breeches of the finest wool, a linen undertunic, a green and white silk overtunic with silver clasps at the chest, a gold-buckled leather belt, and brand-new brushed-suede boots. “A wardrobe fit for a prince,” said King Eldred in compliment as he greeted Dane warmly, and Geldrun’s heart swelled with pride.
    The king bade everyone eat. Cheers of “Hail, Eldred!” went up and the feast began.
    Seated at the king’s table, Geldrun and Godrek were treated like royalty, with servant girls attending to their every wish. It was soon explained to her that King Eldred had invited all the nobles and liegemen from Skrellborg and the surrounding countryside to join in the feast and honor his guests from Voldarstad. There was Thorkelin the Chin, whose massive jaw gave women pause until they heard the off-color oaths that flew from his mouth. There was Arndórr the Clever, a poet who spoke only in rhymed couplets, even when ordering more mead, and his simpleton brother, Gnúpr the Happy, who laughed for no reason and spoke only to the pet piglet he kept in his lap. Geldrun had also made the acquaintance of Sandarr the Seer, the king’s fork-bearded soothsayer, who was going from table to table telling fortunes for gratuities.
    The invitations had stipulated that this would be a polite affair and not the typical Viking banquet where knife fights were common and men ate and drank to the point of vomiting, then continued to eat and drink tothe point of more vomiting. Since there were to be women of refinement present, weapons were to be surrendered at the door, and if people wanted to vomit, they would have to do it outside and not in the traditional tableside bucket.
    Despite these severe restrictions and the insistence on table manners, it seemed to Geldrun that all in attendance—the lords, the ladies, and the few commonfolk who had wangled an invite—were enjoying themselves immensely. The king’s poets-in-residence—they were called skalds—entertained the gathering, declaiming in voices rich and sonorous the epic song-poems of wars and warriors, of love and the death of love, stories they had spent their entire lives learning and perfecting, as was the oral tradition. And, oh, the music! A quartet—a father and his three sons named Kvígr and the Kinsmen, all smartly attired in matching forest-green tunics, playing a flute, lyre, cow horn, and hand drum—had begun to fill the hall with the most pleasing music. She felt the gentle caress of Godrek’s hand on hers and turned to find him holding out a juicy morsel of ox steak for her to eat. She opened her mouth and took it in, the adoring look in his eye making it taste all the more delicious.
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    Lut the Bent had never seen such an abundance of food and drink. There were salted whale and ox steaks, roast pork and reindeer, whole chickens stewed in beer. There were giant lamb shanks, meat pies, and—the king’s favorite, he was told—boiled squirrel. Table upon table was piled high withplates of smoked trout, pickled herring, sliced turnips, barley flatbread, honeyed nuts