blade. I can smell the wine on the breath of your cook. I hope he is your cook. Otherwise, you have a stranger preparing your food.”
The Northmen laughed.
“Where is my cook?” Benjie looked around the room. “I don’t see him.”
“He is in the kitchen,” Hod answered. He cocked his head. “But he is heading here now. His belch is wafting behind him.”
Alba laughed, just a tinkling of sound that was hardly more than a sigh, but Hod turned his head toward her, acknowledging her appreciation. An instant later he was spinning away, his staff circling his head, and several blades clattered to the stone floor, swatted from the air with Hod’s stick.
Three of Gudrun’s men had thrown their knives, each from a different direction, and they all stomped their approval.
“You see?” Gudrun said, turning his palm. “He is quite difficult to surprise.”
“Do you know how to kill a man . . . or only to evade killing?” King Banruud asked.
“I did not think you would appreciate such a demonstration,” Hod said evenly.
Gudrun roared with laughter. “Would you like him to kill one of your men, Banruud? Perhaps one of yours, Chieftain?”
Hod removed the bow across his back and sheathed his staff in its place. He withdrew an arrow from his quiver, and the room stilled. Every man was armed, but no one trusted the other, and a nocked arrow was an imminent threat.
“There is a mounted bear on the far wall. I killed him with a single shot through his bawling mouth to the back of his throat,” Benjie boasted. “Let me see you put an arrow near his head.”
“I can’t,” Hod answered.
“It is a mere fifty feet,” Benjie mocked. “Surely you can hit such a target.”
“I have never met a dead bear who wants to kill me,” Hod said. “I cannot hear what doesn’t have a heartbeat.”
The Northmen laughed uproariously.
“I do better with living targets. But there is an owl perched above you. He has a fine set of feathers.” With a steady swing, Hod brought his bow up and released an arrow toward the rafters. A rush of feathers and a flapping of wings was evidence of how close he came.
“You missed,” King Banruud mocked.
“I didn’t. I simply had no desire to kill him, though he left something behind.”
A feather drifted lazily above Hod’s head, and he plucked it from the air.
Alba clapped, delighted, but before the others could join in, Hod lifted his bow again and shot another arrow into the network of beams above them. A rat the size of a man’s foot fell with a clatter and a thud onto Lady Beatrice’s plate, completely skewered by the arrow.
Her shriek and Benjie’s howl were confirmation of his success.
He sheathed his bow and retrieved his staff, and when Benjie flung the dead rat at him, he neatly sidestepped the gory projectile and bowed to the king, indicating his demonstration finished.
Banruud clapped, appreciative.
“Impressive, very impressive,” Banruud said. But Gudrun was not finished. He projected his voice above the praise for Hod and raised his arms to gather all eyes once more.
“Hod has been my valued servant for many years. But I will lend his services to you, King Banruud. I will return him to Saylok. In exchange for the Songr.” The North King pointed at Ghisla.
The room was silent for a single, indrawn breath. A stunned second passed before Banruud exhaled on a disbelieving laugh. “The singer?” he asked. “You wish to trade me a blind man for a daughter of the temple?”
Ghisla had already been rendered senseless by Hod’s presence, and the North King’s words fell around her, meaningless and surreal.
Hod was also unmoved. His chest didn’t rise and fall like he was winded from his efforts or from distress. He simply stood, perfectly still, listening without expression, but Ghisla could not drag her eyes from his face.
“What use have I for a blind archer?” Banruud persisted. “You offend me with this suggestion.”
“A king and country can never have too many loyal sons,” Gudrun said. “Especially ones so skilled in staying alive.”
“I cannot trade a daughter of the temple. She belongs to her clan first.”
“She belonged to the Northlands first. You should return her to us.”
“She is of Leok,” the king spat out.
“No. She is a Songr. Of Tonlis. I spared her life myself. Many years ago.” Gudrun’s voice was perfectly mild and without accusation. He looked at Ghisla. “Do you remember Tonlis, Songr? Do you remember your king?”
Ghisla’s throat had closed and her memory wailed. Do