Chapter 3 - The Mead Hall Fire

Among the many stories told about Rikus Rikmansen, none was repeated more often than the tale of the Great Mead Hall Fire. Partly because it was true Partly because nobody could quite believe it had happened. And mostly because it was the only time a man managed to burn down an entire building and receive a standing ovation for doing so.

The trouble began three nights before the departure of the Rikmans-yflir. The village was celebrating. The coming voyage had filled everyone with excitement. Warriors drank. Fishermen sang. Children chased one another between tables. Even Sven the Goat had somehow found his way inside despite the mead hall owner's best efforts. Again.

The hall itself was the pride of the village. Built from massive timbers and decorated with carved dragons, it stood at the heart of the settlement. It had survived storms, raids, floods, and generations of drunken Vikings. Sadly, it had never been tested against Rikus.

That evening the benches were full. Ale flowed freely. The musicians played. And at the centre of it all stood Rikus Rikmansen. Whenever a crowd gathered, Rikus considered it his duty to provide entertainment. The fact that nobody had requested entertainment never seemed to matter.

He climbed onto a table holding a mug of mead. "Friends!" he shouted. The room groaned. They knew what was coming. "I have decided to tell the tale of how I defeated six sea serpents!"

"You've never seen a sea serpent!" shouted the blacksmith.

"Details!" replied Rikus.

The crowd laughed. Sven sighed. The goat had heard this story seventeen times. It improved with every telling. And by improved, most people meant less believable. Rikus launched into his tale.

According to him, the six sea serpents had been enormous. According to the fisherman in the corner, they had originally been three unusually large eels. According to Sven, they had probably been pieces of rope.

The story continued. The audience drank. The musicians played. The fire crackled. And Rikus became increasingly enthusiastic. He climbed onto a bench. Then onto a barrel. Then onto a table that had not been designed for heroic speeches.

The table objected. It collapsed. Rikus windmilled his arms wildly. His mug flew through the air. A candle followed. The mug struck a shield. The shield struck a chair. The chair struck another table.

Meanwhile the candle sailed gracefully across the room. Several witnesses later described the flight as surprisingly beautiful. The candle landed directly inside a stack of old birch brooms. The brooms immediately burst into flames. For several seconds nobody noticed.

Then somebody shouted. "Fire!"

The room froze. Every head turned. The brooms were burning. The wall was burning. The curtains were burning. A decorative dragon carving appeared particularly enthusiastic about joining in.

Chaos erupted. Warriors grabbed buckets. Children ran outside. Musicians fled with their instruments. The mead hall owner fainted. Sven began dragging people toward the exits.

Rikus stared at the growing fire. "I may have contributed slightly to this situation."

"You think?" shouted the blacksmith.

The flames spread rapidly. Years of dry timber made excellent fuel. The villagers fought bravely. Unfortunately the fire was equally determined. Soon the entire hall was ablaze. The chief stood in the square watching his beloved hall disappear into smoke. He looked as though he might personally throw Rikus into the sea.

Then something unexpected happened.

A tremendous crack echoed through the night. Part of the floor collapsed. The burning timbers crashed into a hidden chamber beneath the hall. Everyone stared. A stone vault had been concealed under the building for centuries. No one had known it existed.

The flames illuminated dozens of chests. Inside them were silver coins. Gold ornaments. Ancient jewellery. Rare trade goods. And enough treasure to make every villager suddenly forget how angry they had been.

Silence fell. The chief blinked. The blacksmith blinked. The merchant blinked. Rikus blinked.

Then someone cheered. Another joined in. Soon the entire village erupted in celebration. The treasure was worth far more than the hall itself. The village would become wealthier than ever before.

The chief slowly turned toward Rikus. "Did you know this treasure was here?"

Rikus looked genuinely confused. "No."

"You accidentally discovered it?"

"That appears to be what happened."

The chief rubbed his forehead. For a long moment he seemed to struggle with the idea. Finally he sighed.

"Of course you did."

The treasure funded a magnificent new mead hall. It was larger. Stronger. More beautiful. And, at the chief's insistence, considerably more fireproof.

When construction was completed, a grand feast was held. The entire village attended. A carved plaque was placed above the entrance.

It read: 'Built from the ashes of the old hall and the luck of Rikus Rikmansen.'

The villagers loved it. Rikus loved it. Sven suspected it sent entirely the wrong message. The goat's concerns proved justified.

For from that day onward, many villagers began believing a dangerous idea. They began believing that every disaster caused by Rikus would somehow work out in the end. History would show they were mostly correct.

And so the legend grew. The man who burned down the mead hall became a hero. The treasure was discovered. The new hall was built.

And the village prepared for the great voyage. Only three days remained before the Rikmans-yflir would sail. Only three days remained before Rikus would leave home.

And far beyond the northern horizon, fate was already gathering storm clouds.