Herger Blood-letter, the noble dreng, is of great help though Amleth is loath to admit it. The whole while the Arrow-tongue is true to his epithet, growling and barking at being fussed over. "I don't need a damned litter; I can walk!" But he was grateful, in his own way, to Herger and the Ægyptian for the salve and bandages.

There is no time to take account of men lost. Wulfnoth's navy wouldn't take long in discovering what became of their men. Amleth joins the rest of his sword-kin on their journey back to Ty Claddagh. On the way, the Baoisgne lord promises Amleth ships and wealth for having delivered Cat to safety. "Just keeping an oath, my lord," the Arrow-tongue answers modestly under his breath, not eager to make a spectacle of himself. Why is it, he thought to himself, that I may stand before thousands and speak, sing, and praise the deeds of others, but receiving praise is so hard for me to abide in public? With his head lowered, Amleth picks at the pommel of his sword. "A pleasure, Foghlaí," the Northumbrian mumbles again.

Near the fire, where a boar roasts upon a spit, a band of battered and bruised Norsemen swap stories from the day's battle and battles of yore. This is more like it. Amleth limps over to the small assembly and claps arms with each of them, remembering each of their heroic feats by their faces. Pedigrees are shared, and Amleth finds he is kin to nearly all of them within four generations. Presently they fall into talk of their travels. Mogh Roith's voice carries over the chatter, laughter, and toasts to the dead: "Good hostess, this pouch of silver should make certain every person drinks tonight!"

"...and they dance in their celebrations as well," Ivar continues. "Graceful, them Saracen women."

"What about the Poles in Welland?" Ulf adds. "Theirs isn't so much a dance as a battle array!"

"The Poles have made it hard for the Jómsvikings there," Swein puts in. "Perhaps the Jómsvikings should try dancing with them!" The warriors chuckle.

"In Lappland, they have very old, ceremonial dances," Amleth shares. "Said to be able to make the stars fall upon their enemies, the Lapps."

"So, let me get this straight," a drunk Bjarni starts, his beard thick with froth. "The Poles and the Lapps can both kill you by dancing?" The band of men share a hearty laugh.

At that time a lovely beer wench arrives with a horn of ale for Amleth.

"So which would you rather have?" Bjarni continues to Amleth, "A Pole dance or a Lapp dance?"

The beer wench's eyes go wide. "Sorry, lads. I'm only bringing ale tonight!" Amleth takes the horn thoughtfully, and the men silently watch the maid return to serving other patrons. With solemn faces, they look back and forth at one another and then erupt in a fit of laughter.

"To Annie of the Morna!" Amleth toasts, lifting high the silver-trimmed horn. In his other hand he wields his blood-stained sword as a symbol of victory. "May Saxon earls and Anarane's tongue fear her always! Odin's favoured prevail! Wæshæil!"

"Wæshæil!" the Ty Claddagh gathering lustily repeats before taking a long draught of their ales. Anarane massages her jaw, but raises her horn as well. She would never slight good fortune when it is hers to share.

Mogh Roith notes the notch in the edge of Amleth's sword and hollers, "What happened to your sword, Arrow-tongue?"

"It fell hard upon Herger's ballocks, that's what!" Amleth's answers, pointing to the dashing dreng and clapping him upon the back. The crowd cheers, agreeing with Amleth's assessment of Herger's might. "Blood-letter. Sword-shaker. Storm-sweller. Defender of women. Herger is feared by Saxon and loved by Norse-Gael." Amleth's words, hypnotic and dramatic, elicit rapture from the gathering. He wanders the room, sure to meet eyes with every man and woman.

"With sure foot and steady hand, Herger felled the foe. His sword never thirsted, for it fed fast upon Hengest-spawn. Accepting his challenge was a foolhardy pursuit, and his rivals failed to heed his knowing grin. Only too late did they discover themselves run to the hilt upon his Weland-wand, their glories cut short, and their paltry accounts finally settled with the All-Father. To Herger!" The horns are raised again.

"To Herger!" comes the response.

"Have we any bloody Celts among us?" Amleth asks softly, and he is answered with a proud affirmative so loud the rafters above them shake with excitement. Amleth laughs. "Many were Norseman who answered to that, but so pissed they knew not what was being asked." Another resounding cheer of pride. "Who dares, I wonder, to challenge Mogh Roith's title to Celt Most Beloved of Norsemen?"

The old banner-bearer, Ketil, breaks the silence. "Well, I would say that the little grey moggy what creeps about the front door is a rather good'un."

Orla leans over to him. "No, Ketil. Not cat. Celt."

"Oh...Yeah, a'right. Mo's it."

"Tonight we celebrate the strength and valour of both heroes and lovers," Amleth continues. "A mite should have an easier task of steering a leaf in a tempest than a man should have in a torrent of fire, guiding a burning barge safely to land. The standard of the Sea Dragon upon the pregnant sail perished in a blaze that fed furiously upon the wind and engulfed its timbers in billowing, black clouds. Stifling, crippling, the flames burst the planks and singed the rigging until the crew could do nothing but ski upon the keel. With a landward gaze, a cool head, and an indomitable spirit that penetrated the smoke, Mogh Roith guided his fiery surge-steed aground. But he didn't do it alone. What of this Catharina, fairest of shield-maidens and daughter of Harald Greycloak? Her heart beat out a lifeline that tied itself fast to her lord and saw him through -- the only bond that could hold him. Odin, himself, dares not sever such bonds. Especially when the bound one is a bloody good Celt."

Amleth pauses and looks to the lovers, grateful to be whole and sharing the comfort of one another's embrace again. He raises his horn to them. "To heroes and lovers!"

"To heroes and lovers!"