"It seems that you are the son of Frode the Dane," he said in his
heavy voice. "Frode was a mighty raven-feeder; for his sake I am going to
support you until you can go well on your legs. Have you had anything to eat?"
As she shook her head, Randalin's heart rather softened toward him. But it
hardened again when the thralls had brought the food, and he had sat down and
begun to share it. Seen in a strong light, his rich tunic proved to be foul
with beer stains, while his great hands reeked with grease. His thick lips,
his heavy breathing--bah, he was revolting! Before she had finished the meal,
she had come to the conclusion that she hated him.
Perhaps it was as well that there was something to add firmness to her
bearing. As he swallowed his last mouthful of food, Rothgar said abruptly,
"Canute has put your training into my hands. It is his will that I find out
how much skill you have with weapons."
It was nothing more than she should have expected, yet it came upon her with
the suddenness of a blow. She could only stammer, "Weapons?"
The Jotun's voice rumbled hideously as he talked into his goblet. "Have you
the accomplishment to wield a battle-axe or throw a spear? Can you shoot
straight?"
"No," she faltered.
He rolled his eyes around at her as he threw back his head to catch the last
drop that clung to the golden rim.
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