“What you need is a poem,” said Somerled. “A fine, heroic verse that sets out the bravery of all who took part in this encounter: yourself as leader, my estimable brother and the other commanders, and the whole force of dauntless warriors who ventured forth against the men of Jutland. And if you would reward the newest of your Wolfskins especially, let us capture his youth and courage in this mode. It is a challenge for your skald, to render such a poem by tomorrow night perhaps, and thus ennoble both Eyvind’s name and your own.”

“Mmm,” mused the Jarl, a little smile playing on his lips. It was immediately plain the idea had taken his fancy. “Well said, Somerled.” He glanced at Ulf, who sat by him. “Your young brother is a clever fellow, never short of new ideas. A cunning strategist on the game board, too, I understand, and no mean poet himself.”

Ulf muttered a response.

“What do you think of this idea, young Wolfskin? Does it please you?” Magnus asked expansively.

Eyvind breathed again. “Yes, my lord,” he managed, glancing across at Somerled and trying not to make his relief too obvious. Somerled’s mouth quirked up at the corner.

“Very well, then,” said Magnus. “A poem it shall be, in heroic style; it will be well fashioned, and we will hear it after supper tomorrow. But I will not ask my own skald, Odd Knife-Tongue, to make such a set of verses. That honor shall fall to you, Somerled Gunnarsson. They call you something of a wordsmith. Make us the tale of your young friend’s bold endeavor and of our victory over the Danes. Make it both strong and subtle, stirring and clever. We shall await the result with great anticipation. As for Eyvind here, we shall let him go for now; doubtless it will not be long before he again shines bright among our warriors.”

So, Somerled had rescued him. Somerled, once such a pathetic scrap of a boy, now moved among these men of power and influence with confident assurance. He was indeed a consummate player of games. Somerled was no warrior; still, there was no doubt in Eyvind’s mind that on this particular field of combat, his blood brother was already a champion. And the poem, once rendered, had been a masterpiece of wording, its allusions so clever even Odd himself was stretched to work them out. Somerled had recited it to tumultuous applause.

As for Eyvind, his own particular problem was soon solved, for on the night of Magnus’s offer, Eirik found him in the drinking hall, and announced that he was taking Eyvind on a visit, and that he wouldn’t accept no for an answer. That was how Eyvind first met Signe.