rounded ears tipped with small tufts of ash-coloured hair, sharp fangs revealed in polite smiles, and nimble hands with fingers ending in deadly claws, which until now had been concealed by heavy gloves. Ru’tseh seemed to sense Einar’s gaze and looked him straight in the eye, then smiled warmly. The boy quickly returned the smile and nodded.
‘Today, friends are feasting at my table!’ Einar nearly jumped when his father exclaimed, rising from his seat. ‘Uncork the finest barrels and pour the mead! Let the feast begin!’ The Jarl, announcing the start of the feast, raised both hands, and from behind him came the sound of corks being pulled.
The whole hall shook with the Ytrens’ collective cheer. The first horn, filled with first-rate mead, was placed before his father, and then cups quickly appeared before the guests and Anson’s sons. At the head table, only Einar was given a horn of gethun, a sweet-and-sour juice heavily seasoned with spices.
‘Let the mead and beer flow! Let the wine run! May the drink never run dry! So that we may raise toasts until the next morning!’ Olaf raised his horn, and everyone followed his example. ‘To friendship! To prosperity and peace! To Stairon and the Empire! Cheers!’
Horns and mugs clinked, and for a moment the only sound in the whole hall was that of drinks being swallowed. Soon after the first toast, more followed: to the jarl, to Legate Xives, to Captain Svenson, to the knights, to the Ytren warriors, one by one to each of Stairon’s captains, to the druidic circle in general and to Heres in particular, all before the roast had even begun to brown over the fire.
The festivities quickly heated up , and by the time the hot meat was finally served, most of the revellers were laughing, chatting and, above all, thoroughly tipsy.
At the head table, Olaf entertained the guests with tales of his many travels and skirmishes. The legate and the captain reciprocated with stories of their own. As it turned out, the most interesting tale was how Alrik Svenson had
