Supreme Viking System-Chapter 21: The Feast

The moment Anders stepped out of the long hall, the noise behind him faded like a door closing on a different life.

The firelight, the murmurs of men measuring futures with their eyes, the weight of Erik’s words and Sten’s—banner, feast, names—all of it stayed inside. Outside, the air was cold and clean, carrying the sharp smell of salt and pitch from the shore and the dull iron tang that always hung near the smithy.

Anders did not hesitate.

He turned his feet toward the hammer’s song.

The blacksmith’s shop sat low and wide near the edge of the village, its roof darkened by years of smoke. Sparks leapt from the open doorway, brief stars dying in the snow-dusted earth. The rhythm inside was steady, practiced—iron on iron, bellows breathing like a great animal.

The blacksmith himself—Hroth—looked up when Anders stepped in. His beard was braided short to keep it from catching fire, his arms corded and scarred from decades of work.

He squinted.

"You again."

Anders nodded. "You said the parts were ready."

Hroth snorted and turned back to the anvil. "I said I’d try. Doesn’t mean I understand what madness you’ve put in my forge."

He gestured with his hammer toward a low bench against the far wall. On it lay a small collection of iron pieces that looked almost out of place amid horseshoes and axe heads: tiny curved plates, narrow catches, bent hooks, a pair of short cross arms, each carefully shaped.

Anders felt a quiet satisfaction settle in his chest.

"Good work," he said.

Hroth barked a laugh. "Don’t you dare praise me yet. I’ve been forging nails longer than you’ve been breathing, boy, and I’ve never made so many little fiddly bits for something that isn’t jewelry."

"They’re important," Anders said simply.

Hroth wiped sweat from his brow. "That’s what you said when you asked for them. Still don’t see what kind of weapon needs a trigger that small."

Anders crouched by the bench and began sorting the pieces by touch. "One that lets the body do less work than the mind."

Hroth paused mid-swing. "That’s not how weapons work."

"It is if you let them," Anders replied.

Hroth studied him for a long moment. "You’re serious."

"Yes."

"And this isn’t for the feast?"

Anders shook his head. "No."

That seemed to unsettle the blacksmith more than anything else.

"Then why now?"

Anders looked up at him. "Because men are coming who measure strength by what they can see. I want something that works even when I’m not seen."

Hroth grunted. "I still think you’re cracked."

"Probably," Anders agreed.

He gathered the parts into a cloth bundle and laid them carefully beside a length of seasoned yew he had brought with him, the grain straight and pale, worked smooth by his own hands over the past weeks.

Hroth eyed the wood. "Bow stave?"

"Something like that."

"Doesn’t look Nordic."

Anders smiled faintly. "It isn’t."

Hroth opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. He had learned, reluctantly, that arguing with Anders rarely changed anything. "If it explodes," he said, "don’t bring it back to me."

"I won’t," Anders said.

He left the shop with the bundle tucked under his arm, the hammer’s rhythm resuming behind him as if nothing strange had passed through at all.

He assembled it alone.

That mattered. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Not in the longhouse, where eyes lingered too long. Not in the smithy, where tradition pressed heavy on every surface. He worked in a small shed near the treeline, its door half-hung, its floor bare earth packed hard.

He laid everything out carefully.

First the stock—shorter than a bow, shaped to fit the shoulder, not the hand. He had carved it himself, measuring angles until the wood rested naturally against bone.

The Greeks had these, he thought as he worked. First century. Crude, but they understood the principle.

He chuckled quietly to himself.

And everyone forgot.

He fitted the iron cross arms next, binding them with cord and resin, reinforcing the join with thin iron plates. This part took the longest—too tight and the wood would crack, too loose and the tension would bleed away.

He tested it again and again, drawing the string back with his foot in the simple holster Hroth had forged, feeling for uneven pull.

Good.

The trigger assembly came next.

This was the heart of it.

He seated the curved plate into its groove, aligned the catch so it held the string securely but released cleanly. He adjusted it by fractions, tapping lightly, testing the release with a finger.

Too stiff.

He filed it down.

Too loose.

He bent it back.

Finally, it clicked into place with a sound that made his breath leave him slowly.

There.

He ran a hand over the finished weapon.

It wasn’t beautiful.

It wasn’t impressive.

It was precise.

He fitted a bolt—short, heavy, tipped with iron—and tested the draw again. The tension hummed under his fingers.

He did not fire it.

Not yet.

This wasn’t for proving. This was for knowing.

He wrapped it in cloth and hid it beneath loose boards where only he would think to look.

Then he sat back on his heels and laughed softly to himself.

"947 AD," he murmured. "Sure."

The horns pulled him back to the present.

Long, measured calls rolled across the water and into the village, announcing arrivals. Anders lifted his head as the sound echoed through the feast hall, reverberating off timber and bone.

He was seated between Erik and Sten at the high table.

Above him, mounted carefully and deliberately, loomed the bear’s head. Its jaws were open, teeth bared, the ruin of its throat visible to those who knew where to look. Flanking it, the elk’s antlers stretched wide, casting branching shadows across the wall.

A message, carved in flesh and bone.

Anders sat straight, hands resting loosely on his thighs, expression calm. He did not look up.

Sten leaned slightly toward him. "Comfortable?"

"As I can be," Anders replied.

Erik’s voice was low. "Remember. Say little."

Anders nodded. "I plan to say nothing."

"Good," Sten said. "That’s harder."

The doors opened.

The first Jarl entered with his retinue, a broad man with silver threaded through his beard and a cloak heavy with fur. He paused just inside, eyes lifting instinctively to the trophies above the table.

His expression shifted—quickly masked, but not quickly enough.

He approached, offering a carved horn. "For the host," he said, bowing to Erik, then glancing at Anders. "And the boy."

Erik accepted it with a nod. "You honor us."

The Jarl’s gaze lingered on Anders a moment longer before he moved on.

More followed.

Some came smiling, others guarded. Some laughed too loudly. Others spoke little and watched much.

Gifts piled at the foot of the table.

Anders felt eyes on him constantly.

He did not move.

He did not smile.

He counted footsteps. He noted accents. He listened for the cadence of men who spoke often and men who waited.

This was not a feast yet.

It was a test.

At one point, a younger Jarl leaned too close, ale on his breath. "So," he said, grinning, "Bearskin. Is it true?"

Anders looked at him calmly. "What part?"

The man blinked. "That you killed it."

"I survived it," Anders corrected.

Laughter rippled nearby, uncertain.

The Jarl straightened, suddenly aware of Erik’s gaze. "Aye. Well. Still."

He retreated.

Sten chuckled softly. "Well played."

Anders exhaled slowly.

The hall filled.

Noise rose.

Stories collided.

Anders sat beneath the weight of names and bone and watching men, his hidden crossbow waiting unseen, his mind steady.

He did not need to draw it.

Not tonight.

Tonight was for letting men decide what they feared more: the story... or the boy who didn’t need to tell it.

The feast had not yet begun.

But the game had.