Flosi rode down Asgrim’s driveway, his hundred burners close behind.
Asgrim had not left yet. He and a few men were still jamming suitcases into the back ends of various crotchety ponies when they caught sight of the crew.
“Is that Thorgeir?” said someone, shading his eyes.
“Thorgeir’s men wouldn’t be giggling like that,” said Asgrim. “Not now. It must be Flosi.”
“Ridiculous,” said one of the men, but Flosi was already near enough to recognize.
“Inside. Now.”
The men hastened to arm themselves, but Asgrim shook his head, tossing feather dusters and dishcloths to them at random. “No fighting. Clean this dump up! Scrub the floors, put out some more chairs, get the fine china. I’m not going to dignify this man’s chutzpah with a reaction.”
Flosi came in to Asgrim sitting at the head of a long table, laden with food. Hastily prepared food – the vegetables were still thawing – but nonetheless, a feast.
“Hungry?” said Asgrim, impassively.
“Starving,” said Flosi. “Put your weapons down, boys, and let’s eat.”
The men leaned their shields and weapons against the wall and fell two it, though four volunteers stepped forward to guard Flosi as he ate. Asgrim didn’t say a word, but he turned redder and redder.
Flosi, for his part, belched appreciatively and took his time to enjoy the meal.
It was only when the waitresses brought in moist towelettes and thin mints that Asgrim snapped. No weapons were in sight – his orders had been followed – but by his seat was a fireplace, and by the fireplace was a poker.
Without sound or word, Asgrim picked that poker up and swung it at Flosi’s head.
Before it made acquaintance with Flosi’s skull, Glum Hildisson saw the movement in the corner of his eye. His big hand came up, catching the handle just above Asgrim’s grip, and he pushed back, hard. The poker flew through the air, smashing a chandelier, and every man in the building leaped to his feet.
“Stand down!” thundered Flosi, and they all froze, in various combat positions.
“Completely fair,” he continued, addressing Asgrim as if they were alone in the dining-room. “I was doing my best to upset you, after all. Looks like I succeeded. Shall we take this to the Thing?”
“You’d better believe we’re taking this to the Thing,” said Asgrim, who’d gone from red to purple. “And you won’t know what hit you.”
With a shrug, Flosi walked out, his men filing after him.
“What were you thinking?” sputtered Hall.
“Flosi was so brave!” gushed someone, probably Grani.
“Flosi was profoundly stupid,” said Hall. “What was that supposed to achieve? All it did was make our enemies angrier, and that stunt’s not going to earn you any points in court.”
It was a slightly sheepish Flosi that arrived at the Thing a few days later.
Saxo Dramaticus 