Tjalfe?
"Thank you." Haldryn left at once and made his way to the Brave Hunter Tavern.
The place was as lively as the last time he had been there. Voices rose in laughter and argument; cups were raised and drained. The rich scent of roasting meat drifted from several directions at once.
After only a short time inside, Haldryn's mouth was watering. He stopped a passing server.
"One order of roasted mutton ribs. No—make it two."
"Right away."
The family at Peter's shop leaned heavily toward vegetables. Haldryn had increased his overall intake, yet his need for meat remained largely unsatisfied. The lack left him mildly depressed. Meat built strength—and more importantly, meat tasted good.
Vegetarianism had never impressed him in either life.
Eat meat once, feel good once. Eat meat always, feel good always.
A short while later the server returned with two sizzling plates. Hot fat and juices still ran down the ridges of the ribs; the combined aroma of meat and spices was almost overwhelming.
In Asgard, mutton was considered a common meat—never served at formal occasions, yet beloved in everyday life. At the Brave Hunter Tavern it was especially popular: the gray goats of the Landveti Forest, caught that same day.
The local style of eating matched the meat perfectly—hands only.
Compared with Midgard animals the Asgardian gray goat was a formidable creature, but within Asgard it ranked as nearly harmless. The fires used to roast it did not need to be especially hot, so even freshly cooked ribs could be picked up and eaten with gusto, juices and hot oil running freely down the chin.
Haldryn did exactly that.
He finished the first plate and exhaled in deep satisfaction. After the second he called the server again.
Once the bill was settled he asked, "Does Tjalfe come here every day?"
"He does. More than once a day, usually."
"Has he been in yet today?"
"Not yet."
"When he arrives, would you let me know? I need to speak with him."
The server smiled. "Gladly."
"Thank you."
Haldryn waited, occasionally walking the floor. The tavern was one of Asgard's most important places of leisure—drinking, eating, dueling, performing, gathering. Outside of wartime it never truly quieted.
Every so often someone brought in fresh goats, taken that morning from the nearby forest, slaughtered and roasted on the spot.
The volume puzzled him. Asgard was not large; the Landveti Forest should not have been able to supply so many animals indefinitely.
"Come on, let's take a turn through the forest," a bearded heavyset man said to his companions. "Maybe we'll luck into a four-horned goat."
"If you could just wander around and find a four-horned goat," a blond youth replied, "Tjalfe would probably hang himself."
Haldryn approached. "Excuse me… what exactly is a four-horned goat?"
The blond youth turned and smirked. "You look young, but that still isn't a question someone your age usually asks."
Haldryn felt a flicker of embarrassment. The knowledge was simply missing from the memories he had inherited.
The heavyset man explained. "Four-horned goats are rare variants of the gray goat—the rarest creatures in Asgard. A Landveti goat grows from birth to adulthood in a single day and night, yet a four-horned one appears only once every few years.
"And the famous Tjalfe—" he laughed—"lives practically inside the forest and still hasn't seen one in over a hundred years. We sometimes wonder if he awakened some kind of 'bad-luck divine power.'"
Haldryn winced inwardly. Peak unlucky.
The blond youth added, "A hundred-odd years ago Tjalfe actually found a four-horned kid. But he had sworn never to raise a hand against a child, and the odd fellow decided a goat kid counted. He planned to come back once it was grown.
"By the time he returned, another hunter had already taken it.
"After that he never saw another four-horned goat. More than a century. A tragic story… though I always want to laugh when I tell it."
Haldryn nodded. "Why hunt them? Are they valuable?"
"They are," the heavyset man said, "but that isn't the main reason. Catch one and you earn the right to attend the hunting festival held in Nornheim once every hundred years. That's a tremendous honor. Win the festival itself and you receive a reward from Ullr, God of Winter and the Hunt."
Ullr.
In the present age, after Cul and Odin, Ullr was the most authoritative of the gods—and the current guardian of the Bifrost.
"Of course, four-horned goats are dangerous," the man continued. "More dangerous than wolves. Enormous strength, fierce temperament, and nearly unkillable. Any wound that isn't to the head, the heart, or the bone regenerates almost instantly. They're the most dangerous wild animals in Asgard.
"Even someone as strong as me would lose a one-on-one fight. If you're thinking of trying for one, I don't recommend it."
"As strong as you—hah!" His companions burst out laughing. "You're always so funny."
"Hey, Tjalfe!" someone shouted.
"Two more fat ones!"
Haldryn turned. A sword-bearing young man walked into the open area of the tavern with two goats across his shoulders. He dropped them, accepted a handful of coins from a server, and turned to leave without a single word.
Haldryn hurried after him. "Excuse me—are you Tjalfe?"
"What is it?" Tjalfe stopped, voice flat.
"I heard you hunt the Landveti Forest regularly and sometimes collect herbs. Would you be willing to gather Greenchou Grass for me?
"I'll pay, of course. One Rune coin per plant. How does that sound?"
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