All these Sigfussons, and no one ever gave a thought to Steinvor Sigfussdottir, sister to Thrain, Ketil, and the rest. But she existed, and was married to a big, bad-tempered man named Lyting. The couple lived at Samsstadir along with Lyting’s even worse brothers, Hallstein and Hallgrim.
A little while after the creation of the Fifth Court, Lyting and Steinvor threw a family gathering. All the Sigfussons were there, and also Hoskuld, who was gradually reconnecting with his family now that he lived on his own. Grani Gunnarsson and Gunnar Lambason and Lambi Sigurdarson also showed up.
Njal had never bothered to get Hoskuld His-son hitched, but Hoskuld had nonetheless proactively made a child with a random girlfriend at some point. The son, Amundi, had been born stone-blind, and as a result wasn’t able to fight. Thus had he avoided the plot.
As a true Njalsson, Hoskuld Njalsson lived with Njal most of the time, but he dutifully visited his mother Hrodny every other week. The trip took him by Samsstadir every time, and each time he passed, Lyting glowered at him through the blinds.
Of course, Holskuld would ride by as the Sigfusson fam jam was at its height. Lyting happened to be inside, but Steinvor wasn’t, and she stormed in.
“There goes that asshole again. You missed him.”
“Who again?”
“Hoskuld Njalsson. You know, the guy who killed our brother, and rides by our property just to taunt us.”
“Right,” said Lyting. “Fuck Hoskuld. Hey, Hoskuld!”
“Me?” asked Hoskuld Thrainsson, who was used to this sort of confusion. He really needed to get a nickname one of these days.
“Want to avenge your dad?”
A blunt request like that stood no chance against years of conditioning. Hoskuld stood up, and pained expression on his face. “It wouldn’t be fair to Njal.”
“Why do you care so much about Njal?” scoffed his aunt.
“Screw you, screw your stupid party,” said Hoskuld. “I’m going home.” He stomped outside and called for his horses.
“So much for that,” said Lyting, and looked at the rest of the party. “Grani Gunnarsson? Lambi Sigurdarson? You two watched Thrain die, for fuck’s sake.”
The young men shifted uncomfortably. “There was a settlement,” said Grani, and Lambi nodded. “Let’s not open that can of worms all over again.”
“I never got any money from that settlement,” protested Lyting.
“That’s because you’re not family.” Ketil stood up. “Party’s over, Sigfussons. We’re all going home.”
Lyting seethed as he watched them ride away. “Hall-bros! Grab your weapons. Servants too! We’ll teach that Hoskuld a lesson.”
“Which one again?”
“Njalsson.” Lyting facepalmed. “Please don’t kill my nephew.”
“It won’t be confusing any more when we’re through,” said Hallstein grimly.
Poor Hoskuld defended himself valiantly, but it was six to one. He killed two of the servants and wounded Lyting, but eventually he fell, no less than sixteen wounds on his body. His head was still attached – barely – when the attackers rode off, not daring to announce the killing to anyone.
“He can’t be dead,” said Hrodny flatly. The shepherd shook his head. “I saw his body.”
“Was his head still on?”
“Yes, but-”
“Then he’s still alive.” Lifting her skirts, Hrodny marched briskly into the darkness.
Hoskuld’s body was where the shepherd had said, and she shook him by the shoulders. “Wake up!”
“I’m telling you,” said the shepherd, glumly.
“Njal can heal him.”
“Njal’s a lawyer, not a doctor-”
“Shut up.”
Together, Hoskuld’s mother and the shepherd loaded up the body on a sleigh and drove over to Njal’s house. Hrodny refused to say a word the entire way, only ordering “Take him to the garage,” when they arrived. Striding past the servant who opened the door, she went directly to Njal’s bedcloset and flung the doors open.
“Njal! Get away from that sidepiece of yours, and come outside.”
“Who are you calling a sidepiece?” Bergthora snapped, but then she saw Hrodny’s face, and for once in her life decided to let it go.
“What’s going on?” Njal rubbed his bleary eyes – his second sight hadn’t included this.
“Outside,” snapped Hrodny. “You too, Bergthora. And the kids.”
Confused, they all filed out after her.
“Hang on,” said Skarphedin. “Should we have weapons?”
“Not sure?” said Njal, looking at Hrodny.
“Why not,” said Hrodny. “It seems appropriate.”
The Njalssons ran back inside, and returned clinking. “Now what’s going on?”
“Garage,” said Hrodny, still leading the way. She flicked the lights on, revealing to the party exactly what was laid out on the ground.
“Your son,” she said, looking Njal in the eye. “He needs a doctor.”
“He’s dead,” said Njal faintly.
“Sleeping.”
“You’re in denial – no, you’re not,” said Njal. “You’re manipulating me. Now, of all times?”
“Thanks, Njal. Coming from you, that means a lot.”
“Why didn’t you put a clothespin on his nose,” was all Njal could say, reaching out to close Hoskuld’s eyes.
“I was saving that for Skarphedin.”
On cue, Skarphedin stepped forward and solemnly pinched Hoskuld’s nostrils shut. He turned to Hrodny with a more pressing question. “Who killed him?”
“That’s for you and your bloody psychic father to work out.”
“Lyting,” called out Njal, still kneeling over Hoskuld’s body. “And his brothers.”
“There you go.” Hrodny put her hands on her hips. “Bastard or no, he was your brother, Skarphedin. Avenge him!”
“Yeah, what she said!” Bergthora put a protective arm around Hrodny. “Men! You kill each other over stupid insults, but when something serious happens, you talk, and talk, and talk…”
“Mom’s right,” growled Skarphedin, and ran off into the darkness. The others followed after him, leaving the older generation alone with the dead.
Saxo Dramaticus 