A couple of weeks later, Hoskuld dropped by the Njalssons’ house. Glad to see him as always, they plied him with various expensive gifts. Skarphedin’s, a big brown colt, was the showpiece.
“What a good boy,” said Skarphedin, stroking his mane proudly. “He’s never even gotten into a fight.”
“Such a good boy,” agreed Hoskuld, squeezing the colt’s cheeks. Grim and Helgi tossed in a couple of mares, and Hoskuld invited them all to his place for a feast.
When they arrived, Hoskuld’s hall had vanished. The brothers rubbed their eyes.
“I used the material to build three new barns,” said Hoskuld breezily. “Don’t worry – I’ve set up sleeping bags.”
Half the neighbourhood was there, including the Sigfussons. But no one said a word about any of the previous unpleasantness, and as the party wound down, much hugging ensued.
“Nothing’ll ever come between us,” sniffled Skarphedin, wrapping an arm around Ketil, and everyone drank to that. Hoskuld handed out designer goodie bags as the men filed out.
A few days later, Mord stopped at Ossbaer, his face more sour than usual. “A word, Hoskuld?”
“What is it this time?” asked Hoskuld warily.
“I’m only informing you of that which, all things considered, could be deemed to be in your best interests to know,” said Mord reasonably.
“Do you always have to talk in the most convoluted way possible?”
“Indeed,” said Mord. “As a chieftain, it behooves me to do so. For instance, had you taken a more perspicacious look at the so-called gifts the Njalssons recently bestowed upon you, you might have disentangled the insults so artfully woven into them.”
“The what, now?” Hoskuld narrowed his eyes.* “Explain.”
“The horse, which and I quote, ‘has never even gotten into a fight.’ Hm?”
“The last thing I want is a brawl in my stables,” pointed out Hoskuld.
“Did you perhaps consider that it was a veiled reference to yourself, and the conspicuous absence of blood vengeance for your father in your CV?”
“That is a stretch,” said Hoskuld.
“And the mares?” pointed out Mord. “Given that they spoke of the stallion in terms usually reserved for dogs, that would imply the mares are bitches. What does that say about you?”
“What have you been smoking?” Hoskuld got up in disgust, ready to leave.
“Wait,” said Mord, grabbing his sleeve. “Skarphedin wants to be a chieftain. He’s jealous that his own father gave it to you instead. Don’t you recall that he appointed himself chief for the day when you missed a single assembly?”
“That was just Skarphedin being Skarphedin,” said Hoskuld. “I got my badge back at the autumn assembly. He handed it over undamaged – well, just with a mustache drawn on it. But it was in pencil.”
“Njal forced him to,” said Mord. “What about the time they killed your uncle-in-law? At the Thing no less?”
“It wasn’t them, and I never liked that guy anyway,” huffed Hoskuld.
“When you went east with Skarphedin, the other day,” insisted Mord. “He dropped an axe he’d malevolently concealed in his belt.”
“That was his wood-axe,” said Hoskuld. “We were literally chopping wood. Wait – how do you even know that? Have you planted backpackers on my property?”
“Of course not,” said Mord, his eye twitching at the one in the bush behind Hoskuld.
“Sir,” said Hoskuld, “Not only are you full of shit, but you are full of shit to a degree unprecedented in legal history. Not a word escapes you that is free from the ever-present taint of bullshit. Were everything you spouted in this conversation verifiably true, I would nonetheless refuse to give you the satisfaction of acting on a single piece of it. Now remove yourself from my property, or suffer consequences both personal and legal!”
“Hoskuld said what, you say?” Skarphedin stroked his chin.
“That he holds you responsible for Lyting’s death,” repeated Mord. “And he’s thoroughly convinced that you’d planned to kill him when you happened to drop an axe some time ago.”
“That must be a misunderstanding,” protested Helgi. “We were just at his place a few days ago?”
“Precisely,” said Mord. “Hoskuld believes in the old adage regarding friends, enemies, and the relative positioning thereof. Besides, he tried to kill you.”
“Okay, I call BS,” said Grim.
“I have it on the best possible authority,” said Mord. “Consider the amount of wood that goes into a grand chieftain’s hall versus three barns. Where was all that excess wood?”
Kari looked from Njalsson to Njalsson and raised his hand. “Is that a riddle?”
“If you wish to refer to it as such,” shrugged Mord. “For the most part, it was piled around the barn you were sleeping in. Hoskuld had planned to burn it down in the night, killing you and several innocent neighbours in what appeared to be a tragic accident. Fortunately, Hogni Gunnarsson arrived in the night, and Hoskuld didn’t dare carry out such a nefarious plot while he was present.”
“That doesn’t sound like Hoskuld,” said Skarphedin dubiously. “But Hogni did arrive late.”
“He intended to follow you and kill you on the way home,” pushed Mord. “But for the cowardice of his accomplices – Grani Gunarsson and Gunnar Lambasson, incidentally – none of you would be alive as we speak.”
“That does sound like Grani and Gunnar,” said Helgi slowly.
Though at first they were highly dubious, as Mord continued, they slowly came round. And the next time they ran into Hoskuld, they pretended not to know him, no matter how joyfully he greeted them.
Flosi took Hoskuld aside at a feast that autumn. “My lovely niece tells me your relationship with the Njalssons is on the rocks,” he said. “I have to admit, that’s concerning.”
“I don’t know if you could call it that,” said Hoskuld. “They’re just not talking to me. I’m sure it’s all a big misunderstanding-”
Flosi shook him gently. “Hoskuld. This could be real trouble. Need I remind you, these men killed your father.”
That was the wrong thing to say. “They’re my foster-brothers, and my friends.”
“You shouldn’t go home,” insisted Flosi. “Stay with me for a while, both you and Hildigunn. I’ll give you the farm at Skaftafell, and have my brother Thorgeir take care of your place.”
“That’s a generous offer,” said Hoskuld, politely. “But I don’t want anyone to think I’m scared.”
“There are worse things than people thinking you’re scared,” pointed out Flosi.
“Yeah, like people dying because of me.”
“Oh?” Flosi narrowed his brows. “And you getting killed will prevent that? Have you read a single saga?”
“I don’t want to be the one who escalates,” said Hoskuld, and Flosi knew that tone of voice.
“All right,” he sighed. “Here, have a scarlet cloak trimmed with lace.”
“Uh, thanks?”
Everything went quiet that winter, but the coldest ice was between Hoskuld and the Njalssons. A new player began to make a name for himself in the Njalsson camp – Thorhall Asgrim Ellida-Grimssonsson. Last seen as a child prodigy, Hoskuld’s fellow foster-Njalsson was now one of the top three lawyers in Iceland, and well on his way to becoming a household name.
Spring came early that year, and all the men sowed their seeds early.**
* Brought up by the most famous lawyer in Iceland, Hoskuld was fluent in both legalese and bullshit.
** Thorhall bodily fluid count: 1?
Saxo Dramaticus 