The Sea Wolf roared with anger and, seizing my legs, lifted me, intent on thrusting me bodily into the vat. I grabbed the iron rim and held on with all my might. The wood and metal was sticky slick, however, and I could not maintain my grip. Lower and lower I slipped while all those looking on laughed all the harder at my predicament.
Unable to hold on any longer, I took a deep breath as my head plunged beneath the frothy liquid. Bubbles prickled my nostrils and ears; I shook my head furiously, and managed to catch another breath before my head was forced under again-further this time, and though I thrashed around, flailing my arms and kicking my legs, I could not get free. I stopped struggling to save what little air I had left in my lungs, and prayed for deliverance.
Father God, defend me, I thought. It would be a sorry shame to let your servant drown in beer!
Even as I loosed this prayer, I was yanked backwards, overturning the tub and spilling all the ale. I rolled onto my back, gasping for breath, squirming on the ground and shielding my head with my hands and arms against the heavy blows falling on me.
I glimpsed a red face swaying over me and heard an outraged cry. The Sea Wolf seemed to grow another head, for another face appeared on his shoulder, and it was Gunnar's. All at once the teetering barbarian toppled, sprawling over me with my master on his back.
The two rolled like snakes entwined, thrashing and sliding in the beer. I squirmed free of the fight and drew myself up a little apart. The hall's inhabitants, roused from their various stupors, quickly formed a ring around the combatants and goaded them on with taunts and cheers.
"Hrothgar!" shouted some. "Gunnar!" cried others.
Ragnar leaped up on the seat of his throne, clattering a spear against a shield, drawing the crowd's notice long enough to make himself heard. He shouted a command and the rabble surged forward, gathering up the fighting men and sweeping them out of the hall and into the yard where, cheering and shouting, they quickly reformed the ring.
Though the Dane called Hrothgar was larger, Gunnar was quicker and fearless: he stood head-to-head against the big barbarian taking each terrible blow and giving the same-again, again, again, the fists struck, face and neck and shoulder and stomach. Blood flowed from noses and mouths, and still they traded blows, any one of which would have stunned a horse.
Hrothgar, unable to find any advantage over his opponent, broke off abruptly. He stepped back, lowered his head and charged like a bull, bellowing as he came. Gunnar remained motionless, his feet firmly planted. Hrothgar closed on him and appeared to whelm him over, but the barbarian's arms closed on empty air. For, quick as a flick, Gunnar dropped to his knees, seizing Hrothgar around the neck in the same swift motion. The startled barbarian gave out a strangled cry and followed his head to the ground.
Hrothgar made to rise, but my master was on his back. Gunnar joined both hands together, raised them over his head and brought them sharply down on the back of his adversary's neck between the shoulderblades. Hrothgar gave out a grunt like that of a killed ox, and put his face to the ground; he tried once to rise, but his legs collapsed and he hugged the earth in a wide embrace.
Gunnar stood, wiping blood from his eyes and mouth, while the crowd clamoured out his name. He cast his gaze around the ring and raised his arm in triumph. All at once the throng rushed forward, seized Gunnar, raised him up, and carried him into the hall to celebrate his victory.
I watched them go, but made no move to follow. For the sun was shining on a fine bright day and I had no wish to return to that dark, stinking hall.
"They were fighting about you, Irish."
I turned. "Scop!" The sight of him surprised and alarmed me. He stood red-eyed and haggard; sweat ran from him in rivulets down his neck. "Why would they fight about me?" I asked. "What did I do?"
"You drank from Jarl Ragnar's ale vat, and then offered the cup to Hrothgar." He shook his head in mock disapproval. "Most impolite that was."
He turned and began shuffling away. I called him back. "Stay. Please, Scop. I have been looking for you. I thought you would sing again."
The shabby skald slowly turned his head and gave me a sly wink and smile. "I throw my pearls to these swine only with greatest reluctance," he replied. "I sing when it suits me."
"Does this not displease Ragnar, your lord and master?"
Scop frowned and thrust out his chin. "Jarl Ragnar is my lord, but he is no master to me. I sing when I choose."
"But are you not a slave?"
"I was once. No longer. It took twenty years, but I am a free man now."
"Forgive me, brother, but if you are free, why do you stay? Why not go back to your people?"
The ignoble bard shrugged and shook back his rags. "This is my home. These are my people."
"That I can scarce believe," I told him.
