So, when a farmer named Gernard offered to sell a fine young stallion for a bag of scrap silver to whatever man could stay on its back to the count of twenty, there was plenty of interest. The fact that the offer was made in the drinking hall late at night only added to the number of enthusiastic takers. Had Eyvind been present that night, he might himself have acquired a horse and perhaps a name as well, but Eyvind was occupied in the north, and heard it all later from an astonished Thord. They’d gathered at the fellow’s farm the morning after the offer had been made, most of them a little the worse for wear, and once they’d seen the stallion with its twitching tail and rolling eyes and its nervous, sidling gait, all of a sudden there were only three men left who really wanted a bargain. One of the three was Somerled.

It was plain the creature was quite mad and scarcely worth even the low price mentioned. They’d barely begun to count before the first fellow was sprawled on the ground, groaning and clutching his side. Broken ribs, possibly: bruised pride, certainly. They hauled him back over the stone wall, and the second man went in. The stallion was tied; it wore a rudimentary halter with a long rope fastened to a hook in the barn wall. Three men had to hold the rope before Einar Long-Nose could get on the horse’s back. When they let go, he dug his fists into its mane and clung with his knees, his face turning the color of soft cheese, and before they counted to six he, too, was tossed from his perch, narrowly avoiding cracking his head on the stones that bordered the horse yard.

“Not worth the risk,” Einar growled, clambering back to safety as the stallion reared, flailing with its hooves and sending men scattering. “Creature like that’ll never be any good to ride. Look at its eyes.”

“You think?” Somerled was rolling up his sleeves, frowning a little, dark eyes thoughtful as he regarded the plunging, thrashing animal. “Perhaps it only needs to be shown who’s in charge here. Give me a hand, will you?”

There were theories afterward about how Somerled had done it. Some said it was because he was light and agile; some put it down to raw courage. Everyone knew the man was no athlete. There was talk that he used a goad of some kind and terrified the creature into submission. The exact details of it hardly mattered; all present that day agreed that Ulf’s brother had indeed managed to stay on the wild horse’s back for the allotted time, and in addition, caused the stallion to give up its fight and stand in shivering, trembling submission. Somerled had dismounted and walked calmly over to the owner, Gernard, while reaching into his pouch to pull out the animal’s price: a small bag of scrap silver.