And tradition, of course, was sacred to the Skandians-particularly tradition that involved a lot of drinking and carousing late into the night. It was noticeable that the amount of liquor consumed and the degree of enthusiasm in the recounting of Ragnak's prowess seemed to be in direct correlation.

On the second night, Evanlyn frowned at the sound of drunken voices raised in song, counterpointed by the splintering sounds of furniture breaking as a fight got under way.

"They don't seem very sad about it," she pointed out, and Halt merely shrugged.

"It's their way," he said. "Besides, Ragnak died in battle, as a berserker, and that's a fate that every true Skandian would envy. It gains him instant entry to the highest level of their version of heaven."

Evanlyn twisted her mouth in a disapproving pout. "Still," she said, "it seems so disrespectful. And he did save our lives, after all."

There was an awkward silence in the room. None of the other three could think of a tactful way of pointing out that had Ragnak survived, he was sworn to kill Evanlyn.

Finally, the period of mourning was over, and the senior jarls gathered in the Great Hall to elect their new Oberjarl. Will said hopefully, "Do you think Erak has a chance?" But Halt shook his head.

"He's a popular war leader, but he's only one of four or five. Add to that the fact that he's no administrator. And he's certainly no diplomat either," he added with some feeling.

"Is that important?" Horace asked. "From what I've seen, diplomacy is very low on the list of required skills in this country."

Halt acknowledged the point with a nod. "True," he admitted. "But a certain amount of buttering up is necessary when there's an election among peers like this. Nobody gives their vote because you're the best candidate. They vote for you because you can do something for them."

"I guess the fact that Erak's spent the last few years as Ragnak's chief tax collector isn't going to help either," Will chipped in. "After all, a lot of the people voting are the ones he's threatened to brain with an ax."

Again Halt nodded. "Not a good career move if you hope to be Oberjarl one day."

In truth, the Ranger was indulging in a mild form of personal superstition by talking down Erak's chances in the election. There were still issues to be settled between Skandia and Araluen and he would have preferred to be settling them with Erak as the Skandian supreme leader. Still, the more they talked, the slimmer Erak's chances became. He hadn't known about the tax collecting until Will mentioned it. That would seem to put the final stopper on the jarl's chances.

"He probably wouldn't make a good Oberjarl anyway," Horace decided. "What he really wants to do is get back to sea in his wolfship and go raiding somewhere."

The others agreed with this statement. It was reasonable and logical.

But reason and logic have little to do with politics. On the fifth day, a stunned-looking Erak stepped into Halt's apartment. He looked around at the four expectant faces and said:

"I'm the new Oberjarl."

"I knew it," said Halt instantly, and the other three looked at him, totally scandalized.

"You did?" Erak asked, his voice hollow, his eyes still showing the shock of his sudden elevation to the highest office in Skandia.

"Of course," said the Ranger, shrugging. "You're big, mean and ugly and those seem to be the qualities Skandians value most."

Erak drew himself up to his full height, trying to muster the sort of dignity that he felt an Oberjarl should assume.

"Is that how you Araluens speak to an Oberjarl?" he asked, and Halt finally grinned.

"No. That's how we speak to a friend. Come in and have a drink."

Over the next few days, it began to appear as if the council of jarls had chosen wisely. Erak quickly moved to end old feuds with other jarls, particularly those he had visited in his role as tax collector. And, surprisingly, he kept Borsa in the role of hilfmann.

"I thought he couldn't stand Borsa," Will said, puzzled. But Halt merely nodded his head in acknowledgment of Erak's choice.

"Borsa's a good administrator, and that's what Erak's going to need. A good leader is someone who knows what he's bad at, and hires someone who's good at it to take care of it for him."

Will, Horace and Evanlyn had to think that through for a few seconds before they saw the logic in it. Horace, in fact, was still pondering it some time after the others had nodded and moved on to discuss other matters.

As Oberjarl, Erak would no longer be able to go on his annual raiding cruises at the helm of Wolfwind, and that fact tinged his sudden elevation with a certain amount of regret. But he announced that he would be making one last voyage before he handed the ship over to the care of Svengal, his longtime first mate.

"I'll be taking you lot back to Araluen," he announced. "Seems only fair, since I was the one responsible for your being here in the first place."

Will was quietly pleased with the news. Now that the time was almost here to return home, he realized that he would be sad to farewell the big, boisterous pirate. With some surprise, he recognized the fact that he had come to regard Erak as a good friend. Anything that delayed the moment of parting found favor in his eyes.

Spring had come, the geese were returning from the south and there were deer back in the hills, so there was plenty of fresh meat in place of the dried and salted provisions that had formed the bulk of the winter fare in Hallasholm.

When he saw the first hunting parties returning from the high reaches inland of the Skandian capital, Will remembered one debt he still owed. Early one morning, he slipped quietly away on Tug and headed up the trail that he and Evanlyn had followed so many months ago, in a freezing blizzard.

At the little cabin where they had sheltered through the winter, he found the uncomplaining, shaggy little pony who had saved his life. The patient creature had broken the light tether holding him in the lean-to stable behind the cabin, and was quietly cropping the new season's grass in the clearing when Will arrived.

Tug looked a little askance at his master when Will unfastened a small sack of oats, indicating that it was for the pony alone. Will consoled his horse with a quiet pat on the muzzle.

"He's earned it," he told Tug, and the Ranger horse shrugged-insofar as any horse is capable of shrugging. The nondescript pony may well have earned the sack of oats, but that didn't stop Tug's mouth from salivating at the sight and smell of them. When the pony had finished the oats, Will remounted Tug and, holding on to the lead rein, rode back down to Hallasholm, where he quietly returned the pony to Erak's stable.

The night before they were due to leave, Erak threw a farewell banquet in their honor. The Skandians were eager to show their appreciation of the efforts of the four Araluens in defending their land against the invaders. And with the shadow of the Vallasvow lifted from Evanlyn, they paid particular attention to her-repeatedly toasting her bravery and resourcefulness in continuing to direct the fire of the archers as their position was being overrun.

Halt, Borsa and Erak sat in a quiet huddle at the head table, discussing outstanding matters such as the repatriation of the slaves who had served in the archers' corps. Sadly, many of them hadn't survived the battle, but the promise of freedom had been made to their dependants as well, and the details had to be thrashed out. When the subject was finally closed, Halt judged the moment right and said quietly:

"So what will you do when the Temujai come back?"

There was a deafening moment of silence at the head table. Erak pushed his bench back and stared at the small, grim-faced man next to him.

"Come back? Why should they come back? We beat them, didn't we?"