One hundred men, led by Flosi, met in the Almannagja Gorge.
“So.” Flosi gave the Sigfussons a nod. “What is it you want out of this?”
None of the adults spoke up, so Gunnar Lambason raised his hand. “We want the Njalssons dead!”
Flosi vaguely disapproved of Gunnar, but he couldn’t disagree. “All right,” he said. “And you’re all 100% committed? To the end?”
The men nodded grimly.
“Even you, Ketil?”
Ketil’s face was answer enough, but Flosi, suddenly feeling the need for more reassurance, held up a Bible. “Line up and swear – not like that, Grani.”
The oaths were taken. All the usual suspects were present; various local mediumwigs, Hall of Sida’s nephew (without permission), and even Ingjald, brother of Hrodny. The only missing face was Mord’s – by this point, no one in all of Iceland trusted him.
“Now all that’s left is to choose a leader,” said Flosi, briskly. The die was cast. It was almost a relief.
“You’re already leading,” pointed out Ketil. “Don’t play coy.”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Flosi. “So here’s the plan: we all go home and bide our time till the Sunday eight weeks before winter.”
Several men began counting on their fingers, and one pulled out a calendar. Grani just looked confused. “So is that eight weeks before the preceding Sunday, which is October 22, or is it the nearest Sunday to the date eight weeks before the Solstice, which is October 29?”
“Oh, shit,” said Flosi. “I meant the Sunday at the end of the haying season.”
“Bit subjective, isn’t that?” pointed out Ketil. “Depends on the weather…”
“Let’s just say August 27,” said Flosi, flipping through his word-of-the-day desk calendar.*
“Wait, so you’re considering October 22 to be the beginning of winter?” Gunnar gaped. “Why?”
“It’s the equinox- oh crap, it’s not,” said Flosi. “Apologies, gentlemen. Math is not my strong suit. At any rate, we all finish the haying in August. Early morning, August 27, I go to church and then ride straight to Thrihyrning ridge. I’ll be there by Monday night, and you all meet me there and then.”
“You’re riding how far, in how long?” asked Ketil, who knew the proposed route and was dubious.
“I’ll have a spare horse, ride through the night, and stick close to the glaciers. Don’t worry. When we reconvene at Thrihyrning ridge, we go straight from there to Bergthorsvol and take the Njalssons by surprise. We’ll use cold hard steel, and if that doesn’t work, something a little warmer. And till then, no one breathe a word of this.”
Flosi’s leadership, if not his logistical talent, roused cheers. The warband then scattered, whistling and proclaiming “Lah-di-dah!”
Not saying another word to the others, Flosi rode straight home. He refused to take any calls from Hall, and after a few worried voicemails, he blocked his father-in-law.
“Thinking of going east?” said Njal to Kari, quite casually. Kari shook his head.
“I’m staying with your sons. I was a part of the deed, and by Jove, I’ll see out the consequences!”
“Well said,” said Njal. “I expected no less from you. So that makes twenty-five, if you count the servants.”
“Hrodny!” Ingjald smiled nervously. “Why don’t you take a seat-”
“Sit your ass down,” said Hrodny ominously, and when her brother didn’t, she seized his shoulders and applied the appropriate pressure till his knees buckled.
“I hear you swore an oath to kill Njal and his sons.”
“A little bit,” admitted Ingjald.
“My boyfriend, and my late son’s half-brothers.”
“Those guys, yeah,” said her brother sheepishly.
“After Njal saved you from outlawry on three separate occasions? Asshole. He should have just let you get outlawed.”
“I swore an oath,” protested Ingjald. “If I back out now, the others will kill me.”
“No they won’t.” Hrodny held up a bloody hat. “This is the hat my poor Hoskuld was wearing when he died.”
“Why are all the women in this saga carrying bloody murder evidence around for months and months?”
“Because we need it, apparently,” snarled Hrodny. “Are you seriously about to help the people who shed this blood?”
“I won’t! I won’t!” said Ingjald, scuttling backwards as Hrodny threatened to touch him with the hat.
“And you’ll confess everything to Njal?”
“That would definitely be oathbreaking.” Ingjald wagged his head back and forth, weighing his options. “What if I tell you that it would be a good idea for Njal to keep a sharp eye out all summer, and have as many fighting men on hand as he can?”
“It’s rather obvious, but it’ll do,” said Hrodny. “I’ll pass it along to him. Thank you, brother.”
“Appreciate the heads-up,” said Njal. “And the loyalty. If Ingjald really did attack me, that would be… disappointing.”
“Aaaaaah!” screamed a voice behind them, and both whirled round to see Saeunn, the Njalssons’ old nanny, beating up a pile of dried weeds with her cane.
“Darn you!” she squawked, giving it as hefty a kick as her old legs could muster. “Contemptible weeds!”
“What’s it now, Nan?” grinned Skarphedin. “Dementia acting up again?”
“It’s the kindling,” hissed Saeunn. “The kindling, I tell you! Pour a bucket of water on it!”
“There, there,” said Skarphedin.
“It’s what they’ll use to burn Njal, and all the rest of us with him!”
“If we move it, they’ll use the hay or something,” yawned Skarphedin. “Bedtime, Nan.”
“Ignore her,” said Njal escorting Hrodny to the gate. “She’s not quite all there.”
“Are you going to do anything about the weeds?” Hrodny’s eyes boggled.
“Nah.”
* It had been Mord’s, but was left behind in the Sigfussons’ law office as its owner beat a hasty retreat.
Saxo Dramaticus 