Iobhar’s voice echoed through the hall as he took the side of his nephew’s face in his rough hand. Giving it a sharp turn, he assessed the damage from the morning’s quarrel which was rapidly growing visible. Garrett’s right eye was swollen shut. A bruise was beginning to flower from his left cheek bone to the outer edge of his jaw, and long, jagged scratches welted up on the soft flesh of his neck. Indeed, a number of the servants bustling about the hall gasped in shock at the sight of the chief’s son, but none dared to fuss over him when they caught the stormy look on Iobhar’s face. Garrett made no answer to his uncle, pulling his head away defiantly and making to leave. His escape was thwarted when a number of exuberant Norsemen entered behind him. “Chief Feh-ruh-ker, your son has an impressive set of bqllr on him,” exclaimed one, his great arms flung wide in his excitement. “He what?”
