Flosi made a valiant and useless effort to hide his grief over Hoskuld’s death. He heard about the lawsuit on the grapevine, along with everyone else, and responded, “Hmmm.”
“Aren’t you going to get involved?” asked the backpacker eagerly.
“No comment.”
When he’d given her the slip, Flosi sent a man over to Hall of Sida, his father-in-law, with a runestick instructing him to collect all the fighting men he could. Recovered from his laryngitis by now, Hall prepared to ride down to the Thing in force. By his side was his promising young heir Ljot.
“This makes two,” said Ljot, satisfied. “Dad, did you hear? There’s a prophecy that if I go to three Things, and come back safely, I’ll live to a venerable old age and be the greatest chieftain in all Iceland.”
“Wonderful,” beamed Hall. “And if you don’t, then what? …Who made the prophecy?”
Woodchips flew everywhere as Flosi carved runestick after runestick. Kol Thorsteinsson. Glum, the son of Hildir the Old. Geirleif, son of Onund Backpack. Modolf Ketilsson.
When he’d written all he could write, Flosi jumped on his horse and rode to Kirkjubaer to find Surt Asbjarnarson, dragging along his nephew Kolbein Egilsson. Without pause, the now lengthy conga line moved on to Thorgrim the Showoff, son of Sexy Thorkel.
“Sure, I’ll go to the Thing with you,” said Thorgrim, narrowing his eyes. “But… Flosi, are you okay?”
“Not really.”
“Fair enough,” said Thorgrim, “Under the circumstances. Anything I can do?”
“Like I said, Thing. This was never going to end well – I’d give up everything I own to go back and stop it. But I can’t.”
Leaving Thorgrim and his most un-viking attempt at sympathy behind, Flosi rode over Arnarstakk heath to find the sanest man in Iceland – Runolf.
“Tell me everything,” he said. “I heard the rumours, but you live near the crime scene. More importantly, I trust you.”
“It’s just like the rumours say,” said Runolf sadly. “The Njalssons killed Hoskuld.”
“But why?”
“They fell out. No one really knows, but it wasn’t anything Hoskuld did. Njal’s sadder than anyone else.”
“How much legal support do they have? If they’re really guilty, it can’t be a lot – right?”
“For now,” said Runolf. “But things could change.”
“Where does the case stand?”
“The panel’s been summoned,” said Runolf. “And Mord gave notice of the slaying – he’s taken the lead on this.”
“Who?” asked Flosi, astonished. “Can we trust him?”
“As his relative, I can confirm that we absolutely can’t,” admitted Runolf. “But it’s been done.” He put a hand on Flosi’s shoulder. “Please, take what I’m about to say seriously: don’t lose your temper and do anything, er, anything. There can be a settlement. Njal will make a good offer, and a feud would be terrible for everyone.”
“I’ll take that to heart,” nodded Flosi. “At least, unless something happens.”
“Something always happens,” pointed out Runolf.
“Something really big. You are coming to the Thing to support me, right?”
“Of course I am,” said Runolf. “And I’m calling in Haf the Wise, too, because getting a nickname like that on the team can’t hurt.”
“You’re a real friend,” said Flosi, jumping back on his horse.
“Where are you going?”
“Ossabaer.”
“You haven’t been there yet?” hollered Runolf, at the dust cloud.
Saxo Dramaticus 