The great hall swept swiftly into action. All trappings of festivities and idleness were spirited away, replaced by the earnest practicalities of war. If the gods had indeed come, they would want to see what manner of men they were, and by all they held holy, Gunnar and his people were warriors.
Ceremonial robes replaced by leather armor trimmed with heavy fur, the king stood pensively, for all appearances deciding between his warhammer in the one hand and his battle axe in the other. In truth he was reveling, drinking in the heady rush of humours before a clash. Surely, the gods would wish to prove them.
Servants lined the edges of the hall, pounding out the rhythm of battle on large drums of war, a steady cadence for the preparation of the men. A dozen of his finest warriors were putting the finishing touches on their garb, weapons at the ready. Stefnir stood at the doors, eyes to the horizon, slowly regaining his breath.
Finally deciding on the hammer, Gunnar pronounced, “Men, my warriors, we go.”