Free Sword of Doom by James Jennewein Page A

and bilberries, cheeses mild and sharp. Even more appetizing, he thought, were the shapely serving wenches who circulated through the hall with endless pitchers of ale and mead, and he eyed them with interest, admiring their every billow and bulge.
    He watched in amusement as Svein One Brow challenged Ulf the Whale to an eating contest—and Ulf lived up to his name and amazed the crowd by eating twenty-six squirrels at one sitting, seven more than Svein had managed to put away. When William went missing, Ulf was accused of eating him , and everyone had a laugh when the boy, exhausted by the day’s ride, was found asleep in the corner.
    One of the king’s jesters then delighted the gathering by putting on a display of strength, lifting an entire seating bench over his head—while three of the plumpest women were sitting on it. The room exploded in cheers, the women most appreciative, and the jester, yearning for more laurels, further impressed the crowd by juggling torches. Two, three, four, five at a time he had going, until his cloak caught fire and someone had to drench him with a bucket of water, which, of course, only drew more laughter.
    Seated beside Lut, Drott and Fulnir were so agog at the grandiosity of the feast and so busy craning their necks at the girls, they barely touched their food. Fulnir noticed two local maidens eyeing them from an adjoining table. “Those girls are staring.”
    â€œWhat, I got a booger?” Drott asked, wiping his nose clean of any unsightly material.
    â€œNo, I think they want to meet you,” Lut said.
    â€œ Meet us? Why?”
    â€œYou’re heroes,” said Lut. “Young men of courage. They have no notion of your, uh, limitations.” The boys looked at each other, realizing that here perhaps they could escape their reputations.
    â€œLut’s right. They don’t know we’re dim and stinking.” Fulnir finger combed his hair and got up to go over to the girls.
    Drott stopped him. “So what do we call ourselves if we’re not dim and stinking?”
    Fulnir shrugged, not having any idea.
    â€œWell,” offered Lut, “how about Drott the Dangerous and Fulnir the Fierce?” The boys considered this for a moment, then grinned.
    â€œDangerous and Fierce we are,” Drott proudly proclaimed, and off they went to try out their new, improved personas at the girls’ table.
    A serving wench drew near to refill Lut’s ale jar, and any lingering concern he had about what lay within Voldar’s war chest instantly left his head.
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    Though the hall was alive with gaiety and laughter, Jarl sat brooding, glowering over his ale horn. “I can’t believe it,” he grumbled. Beside him, Rik and Vik were deep intotheir drink and vigorously trying to outbelch each other. Rik paused long enough to ask Jarl what exactly he couldn’t believe.
    â€œDane!” said Jarl. “He walks into town dressed like a buffoon—and now look at him!” Jarl gestured to the king’s table, where the newly refurbished Dane sat with King Eldred on one side of him and the king’s radiant niece on the other.
    â€œLooks right princely, he does,” said Rik admiringly, and his brother Vik agreed, which only drew more oaths from Jarl. Vik wondered aloud how much Dane’s outfit might cost on the open market if one lacked the services of a king’s tailor, and they agreed it would cost upward of ten pieces of silver or a score of goats at least. Rik said that if he had that much silver or that many goats, he would rather spend them on a new steel fighting sword or casks of his favorite ale, and his brother told him that that was why he would never be seated beside a woman as beautiful as the one seated beside Dane. Rik said he was probably right, and Jarl exploded in rage.
    â€œIt’s not fair !” he fumed. “He loses his trousers and everyone makes him out to be a hero! Even when he