Islands in the Fog Read Online Free Page A

risked losing the real opportunity of hosting the festival: to become another key player in the informal politics of the islands.
    So as men raced, threw spears, hurled rocks, wrestled, and dueled, Ulfrik moved among the groups of on-lookers. Hardar walled himself behind a clique of men from the northern islands. While not hostile, their faces were closed to Ulfrik. He realized they could not be won over, so ignored them.
    As the day drew on, he noted that Hardar finally regained his jovial manner. But Ulfrik also noted that Hardar followed up wherever Ulfrik had visited. At first he thought it was coincidence. Yet soon it was obvious. Is he following behind to check what I said or to smear my name , he wondered.
    Though the sun would not set for many hours, the evening feast was soon. Ulfrik cast an eye down the gentle slope to where the buildings of Nye Grenner clustered. Without a single tree on any of the Faereyjar Islands, timber was an expensive import. The locals had shown him how to build with stone and turf roofs. It made for solid homes, if strange ones to Ulfrik's mind. He had built his hall with imported birch wood and stone. It chugged hearth smoke, scents of roasting meats making him hunger. Beyond the rectangles of green roofs the ocean glittered.
    Snorri found him staring at his hall. He stood next to Ulfrik and shared a smile with him, then turned to face the hall. "You've done well. In just five years, you've built a thriving home."
    "Still can't believe it. I never thought I'd own two sticks, never minds ships, a hall, and a forge. Fate has been kind to me."
    "Your father would've been proud to see this place."
    Ulfrik nodded silently. Suddenly he felt an unmanly lump in his throat. Snorri was an old man now, over forty years of age. He was the last link Ulfrik had to anyone from his youth. Snorri had stood beside him in his first shield wall. He was the last of what Ulfrik considered to be the heroic, old breed of warriors. His thoughts and opinions counted heavy in Ulfrik's heart.
    "We should gather in the guests for the feast. It's going to be the best thing these men have seen, better than anything before."
    "Aye, my wife Gerdie and Runa have got to be the best cooks in the world. The poor fools haven't really tasted good food until they've eaten from our table."
    They laughed together, and started for the hall. "Let's make sure all is prepared. I can't wait to see Hardar's expression once he tastes my hospitality."
     
     
    The hall reverberated with carousing and merriment. Ulfrik had built his hall large, but tonight it filled with so many men it seemed a hermit's cottage. The hearth pit glowed orange, casting laughing faces in a golden hue. Two women fed it dried juniper branches to keep it burning. Smoke from the roasting lamb whorled at the ceiling as it sought the hole in the roof. The doors were thrown wide, allowing a sea breeze to freshen the room. So many had come to sample Ulfrik's hospitality that they had to sit outside the hall. The women of Nye Grenner squeezed between the revelers, bringing them mead and food, laughing at jokes, fending off wandering hands, and settling friendly debates.
    Ulfrik beamed from the high table. Runa sat at his side, radiant in a fine dress and a jeweled pin at her shoulder. Gunnar squirmed on her lap, equally confused and excited by the crowds in his normally quiet home. More tables had been set upon the stage of pounded earth to accommodate the other jarls and their families. Ulfrik wanted to ensure his guests felt respect for their status. They had spent half the night toasting each other, and Ulfrik began to grow dizzy.
    "Your mead is the best I've ever tasted, and I've tasted much!" Jarl Hermind the Fat patted his belly, drawing laughter around the tables. "Do you keep your own bees?"
    "We do. Only started a few years ago. One of my men comes from a line of beekeepers."
    "Then you should trade this mead with me! I cannot wait another year to drink such