She had planned for the Shaigun to sit next to her but Gurple had managed to squeeze up to her right whilst Jaygen had quietly sat on her left. The Shadojak sat at the head of the table, talking with her uncle; Norgie contributing to the conversation beside him. Ragna was on Diagus’s other side, draining a large tankard of mead and unceremoniously wiping his mouth with the back of his arm and gaining a mean look from Ejan. Otholo was sipping red wine from a glass, whilst picking at his food, his eyes drifting every so often over Ejan who seemed oblivious to the attention.
Elora finally gave up waiting and began to cut into her meat when Bray entered the room, washed, cleanly shaven and wearing black jeans and t-shirt, along with a deep frown.
The smile on her lips faded as he sat beside Norgie, not even sparing her a glance, not sparing anyone a glance. Had she done something wrong? She put a mouthful of venison in her mouth and chewed mechanically, her hunger vanishing as she realised something had changed. Did he regret what had happened earlier or was he now acting the un-feeling Shaigun, a front for the benefit of the Shadojak? She hoped for the latter but knew that a secret relationship would be all but impossible with the Pearly White’s gaze on her at all times.
She set her fork down and picked up a glass of wine. It was dry and bitter, much like the direction in which her mood was sinking to.
Jaygen reached for his tankard, which was half the size of his father’s and refilled it from a large jug, sloshing beery foam on the table.
“No more, Jaygen. I said just the one,” enforced Ejan, her voice cutting across the table.
Jaygen placed the jug down heavier than he needed to. “But I’m a man grown now Ma, just one more fill?”
Ejan glanced at her husband who had quieted his own discussion. “What do you think, Ragna? Has our boy become a man?”
Ragna laughed. “Let us see now. My own Da told me that I’d be a man after I can raise the Fist of the North to salute Odin. You do that Jaygen and I’ll fill your tankard myself.”
Elora watched Jaygen’s hope-filled gaze shifting between his mother and father.
“Fine,” he said, slamming a fist down on the table and rising with grim determination.
“Fist of the North?” Otholo put his elbows on the table and leaned in close to Ragna, both watching Jaygen pace across the room to the huge war hammer that was resting by the door.
“The actual ‘Fist of the North’. Red-Path Bowen’s hammer? And Black Owen before him?”
“Yep. Bowen, son of Owen, was my Da; Owen was my Da’s Da, but I never met him. Died in a battle, but the story goes he was as black as his name. My Da too, always seeking the red path - earned his name in another battle.”
Elora witnessed an excitement build in Otholo, his fingers drumming on the table as he watched Jaygen carry the hammer awkwardly in both arms, face a bright red from either the embarrassment of being watched or from the effort needed to lift the weapon.
“Your father has a song, your grandfather too. They can be heard in most taverns in the north but I’ve yet to hear a song for Ragna.”
“You will, Otholo. My time will come, and the Fist of the North will sing it for me.”
“Of course it will,” chuckled Ejan, raising her own tankard. “Ragna of the five bellies.” She leaned closer to her husband and slapped his pot belly then planted a kiss on his lips. “My little Raggy.”
“Raggy?” Otholo mouthed the name to Elora and she smiled, it was a name unsuited to a warrior Viking.
Ragna laughed, throwing an arm around Ejan. “It’s all that delicious food you keep cooking, got me my very own larder in here.”
Elora felt a little envious at their closeness, it was obvious to everyone the affection they had for each other. She spared a glance at Bray and was sure that he had been watching her, only averting his eyes when she turned hers to him.
“Go on then lad, salute your God,” Ragna bellowed, picking the jug of mead up and bringing it to his mouth.
Jaygen set the base of the shaft on the floor, gripping the handle below its heavy head which was at a level with his own, and took a deep breath.
He grew a deeper shade of red, veins bulging in his neck as the hammer lifted. A moment later and his arm was shaking, his body twisting over to one side to compensate for the weight he was struggling with. It was clear he wasn’t strong enough even though the effort must have been verging on painful. Elora winced as the hammer thudded back down on the floor, Jaygen struggling to keep it from falling against the table.
Ragna sprang from the table to help, gripping the hammer in one hand and slapping his son on the shoulder with the other. “Nearly son, it won’t be long before you’re swinging the Fist. You can have half a tankard for half a salute.”
Jaygen seemed satisfied with that and slouched back into his chair, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, whilst Ragna held the hammer high without effort. “Odin!” he bellowed. Then set the hammer on the table in front of Otholo, his eyes alive with enthusiasm. “You want to try, bard?”
“No, the only god I’d be saluting is the god of good wine.” He raised his glass into the air, saluting an invisible deity then swallowed the wine in one go. His mismatched eyes settled on the hammer. “Doesn’t look very pretty does it? Quite plain really, how’d we know it’s the real Fist?”
Elora agreed, it was only a heavy block of steel: flat at one end and tapered to a point on the other but she wouldn’t have put it like Otholo did and not to its current owner.
Ragna settled back in his chair, wrapping an arm around his wife. “It’s not supposed to be pretty. Pretty weapons are for fancy kings and princes to wear at the back of a battle; shouting commands and looking like they’re controlling their men in all their gold finery and silk pantaloons. Norseman weapons are hard and vicious, straight edged and cruel, like the men themselves. An ugly brutal tool for an ugly brutal job. There’s an honesty in that. Why do you think the Shadojak looks so pretty?”
Diagus nodded, an ugly grin causing his scar to pucker out, stretching the skin tight along his cheek bone beneath the pearl.
“And I’m as honest as they come,” said Diagus. “But right now Otholo, I need some honest answers from you.”
Otholo refilled his glass and lounged back in his chair, hands behind his head. “I’m more of the pretty kind, as you can see. But honesty, from a bard?”
“I’d settle for the truth then. Oh, and if it falls short of the truth...” The dead pearl glinted bright and menacing in the lamplight. Otholo nodded, the threat behind the words sinking in. “So, you came to Earth gaining passage through the Shadowlands, yes?” Otholo sipped his wine, attempting to remain calm yet Elora could sense an awkwardness in the way he appeared. Fingers grasping the glass too tightly, a twitch catching his wine stained lips. “How? Anything without a black heart dies there. Not any animal nor any plants can survive. Tell us how you survived.”
Otholo stared at his drink, swishing the red liquid around; dark and rich as blood. “By ship.”
“By ship?” repeated Diagus. “There are no seas, no oceans or any body of water in the Shadowlands.”
“The ship isn’t nautical, it’s aeronautical. We sailed on the winds in the sky, on a ship made from bones, harvested from the souls that flame her sails,” Otholo answered.
“I’ve heard a tale about such a ship; the Necrolosis, didn’t ever think it might be real,” offered Nat. “But how did you get passage and at what cost?”
Otholo laughed. “I offered the ship’s owner a song, and a pretty little song it was too. And he took me across the Shadowlands as promised. But the parting gift for me was a curse. As I slipped through a gate between the worlds, he slipped into me. And a real nasty bastard of a demon he is.”
“The Captain of the Necrolosis is inside you?” asked Diagus. “Is there a way he would take us across the Shadowlands to Thea.”
Otholo laughed again, slamming his hand on the table, tears beginning to form in his eyes. “He spent the last few thousand years searching for a way out of the Shadowlands, that’s the reason he built the Necrolosis. I very much doubt he’s going to just waltz straight back into the hell he was condemned to.”
