the table again, sending reverberations around the room, the king shouted, “Why not simply fight and be done with it as we have always done?” His coarse voice betrayed his anguish and frustration.
Rathe was taller than his father but without the bulk. He was quick-witted; both children took after their mother in that respect. Rathe assumed his father’s rare bad mood was out of concern for his sister. He soothed, “Surely he will be here soon, Father. It is a long journey. We have heard the Northlander always keeps his word.”
Only slightly soothed, but at least a decibel quieter, his father whined, “But he should be here. We should be on the road.”
Shouts from the courtyard below propelled Rathe to the window. After observing the activity for a moment, he announced with his usual calm, “I believe the Northlander has arrived.”
Despite his age, physical condition and faltering agility, King Brewster took the steps down to the courtyard two and three at a time, Rathe following at his normal quick pace. With a flushed face, the king burst breathlessly into the courtyard. The crowd gathered around the stranger and his horse immediately parted to make way for their ruler.
The Northlander watered Jago at the well, seemingly unaware of the excited crowd. With little fanfare, he turned to Brewster and said, “I am Björn, the Northlander. This is my friend Jago. You sent for me?”
The king’s red face, made redder by his race down the stairs, turned a deep shade of rose. He tried to talk, but only sputtered. The stranger before him was average height and slender, barely more than half the size of the king.
Rathe, far more perceptive than most people, saw immediately that this was no ordinary man. There was nothing overtly unique about him except his dark eyes and his charcoal gray hair. But Rathe sensed something extraordinary about him. The man seemed to radiate danger, similar to a coiled snake that is motionless but prepared to strike.
When Brewster finally recovered his voice, he shouted, “I sent for a warrior, not a boy-sized man!”
The townspeople laughed. The king moved closer until he was towering over the stranger. “Is this a trick? A joke? Well, I tell you right now that this is not funny!” He moved menacingly toward the stranger.
Rathe caught his father by the arm and halted him. “Let us hear what he has to say, Father. There is no harm in talking to him.” Rathe’s instincts told him that while his father was an extremely formidable fighter, he would be less than a match against this hawk-faced stranger with his penetrating eyes.
Björn spoke in common language, but with an unusual accent. “Southlanders frequently fail to accept me as a warrior on first sight. Do you wish me to demonstrate that I am the Northlander for whom you sent? Do you require me to prove that I am capable of doing the job you brought me here to do?”
Brewster bellowed, “And how do you think you might prove that?”
Softly, Björn asked, “Do you have a sword?”
“Of course,” snarled the king, even more loudly.
“Will you please have your sword brought forward?”
Brewster turned to his son, saying gruffly, “Rathe, get my sword.”
It was apparent Rathe did not want to get the sword, especially to confront this stranger. But he shrugged, knowing it was useless to argue with his father, who was obviously determined to make a fool of this man.
Rathe took his time about returning with his father’s huge sword. The sword was almost five feet long, five inches wide, and two inches thick in the middle, with extremely sharp edges. It took a man of Brewster’s size and strength to wield such a sword. In fact, his sword smith had custom-made this sword for him years ago.
Grabbing the heavy sword from Rathe, Brewster swung it lightly into the air and asked Björn, “Now, do we fight to prove you are a warrior? I guess it will not cost me anything if I kill you here and now!”
The familiar cynical smile barely creased Björn’s lips as he turned from the king and walked slowly to his horse. Sliding a long, thin sword from its sheath, he returned with the sword in one hand and a black cloth in the other.
The king laughed. “A shrimp of a warrior comes with a shrimp of a sword! And to think I waited a month for you!”
Björn stepped up to Rathe and handed him the cloth. “Blindfold me,” he said.
Rathe did as instructed and tied the cloth tightly over the stranger’s eyes.
“Not over my ears. I must be able to hear,” said Björn, adjusting the blindfold away from his ears, “Are you satisfied that I cannot see?”
“Is this some kind of foolish trick?” the king roared.
Interjecting, Rathe said to his father, “I do not think it is a trick. I am satisfied that he cannot see.”
Taking several steps toward Brewster, Björn stopped directly in front of him. “Now, try to touch me with your sword.”
The king seemed reluctant to play such a game, but then he extended his sword quickly in an attempt to touch the stranger on the ankle. Before the sword touched his ankle, Björn casually brushed it away with his own sword.
“Surely that was not your best thrust?” mocked Björn.
Even though Brewster was angry, it wasn’t his nature to hurt another person without reason. He slowly and gently raised his sword, extending it to attempt to touch Björn’s shoulder. Again, with no apparent effort, Björn flicked the sword away at the last moment. He teased again, “How can I show you what a real warrior can do if you paw at me like a baby?”
Sputtering, Brewster fought harder, getting the same result. He began to put serious energy into his attempts.
Björn continued to knock his sword away. The king began to rain blows on his opponent and each time, Björn flicked his sword away at the last moment. Brewster finally grabbed his sword with both hands and began to swing in arcs parallel to the ground. Björn swept them harmlessly away.
Brewster’s breath came faster until he was furiously panting. He hurled himself forward and attacked with all his strength, swinging blows from every direction, aiming at any and every part of Björn’s body. Try as he might, he could not touch him with his sword. Finally, he stopped, sword upraised.
Björn took the initiative in the uneven duel. Faster than an eye could follow, his sword struck the king’s sword slightly above the hilt. Björn’s thin sword cut cleanly through Brewster’s heavy weapon, and the blade fell to the ground with a clatter.
Björn removed the blindfold.
Between gasping breaths, the king demanded, “How did you do that?” Then with more sincerity, “No matter. You have proved your point. You have proven you are the man I sent for.” Crestfallen, he muttered, “Why did you have to ruin my favorite sword?”
Björn wasn’t finished. “If you do not mind, I would like to show you one more trick.” Pointing into the courtyard, he asked, “Of the three bowmen standing guard across the way, which is your best bowman?”
“Strom, the one in the middle,” muttered the king.
“Strom!” shouted Björn, “do you think you could hit me with an arrow from that distance? You may move closer if you must.”
“I can hit you in the gizzard from here if that is what you want,” responded the bowman.
Björn turned directly toward the bowman, touching his chest near his heart. “Try to hit me here if you can.”
Strom turned his open hands to the king and silently expressed his refusal.
“Do it!” commanded Björn. “I promise you will have no better luck than did the king with his sword.”
“Do it!” shouted Brewster.
Strom