brother. Surt must have only just returned from his room, as he was still trying to tighten a few straps across his chest. Einar took pity on him and helped him before anyone even noticed that he, too, had already arrived at the doorway.
‘Thanks.’ Surt smiled and nodded gratefully to his brother.
‘Well, you’re finally here.’ Their mother approached Einar and adjusted his collar, as well as fastening an extra button at the nape of his neck. ‘Now, you look elegant,’ she remarked with a smile and ruffled her son’s hair.
‘Right then, you rascals, let’s go.’ His father adjusted the belt with the axe once more and pushed open the door. The whole Anson family marched proudly out of the house, their chainmail and weapons clanking.
They arrived at the harbour with dignity, but Bragi’s grumbling perfectly summed up what they thought of dressing up in furs when autumn was only just beginning and it was still hot during the day, even in a plain shirt. The brothers glanced with a touch of envy at Einar, who did not yet wear chainmail on formal occasions because he was not yet fifteen. Every Ytren came of age on their fifteenth birthday and could call themselves a warrior. Only then could they wear chainmail as a symbol of that status.
When they reached the jetty, directly opposite the harbour entrance, they took their places as custom dictated. The head of the family, the jarl, stood at the front, with his wife by his side, and his sons behind him, in order of seniority, starting with Bragi on the left and ending with Einar on the right. Athil had been entrusted to the care of his nanny, who stood slightly behind the older children.
‘I hope they haven’t got it wrong and we won’t be standing here until evening.’ Mrumpled his father under his breath. As he spoke, he looked around, assessing where the designated warriors had taken up positions on the decks of the nearby vessels. At first glance, nothing gave the impression of a prepared defence; it was just
