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     “This here is but slanderous talk against our King!” exclaimed a stout bald man and shot up to his feet, so irked that he knocked his chair over. “I expected more of you, Eyolf Sólhrafn!”     In blatant calm, Eyolf merely crossed his legs elegantly at one side in his armchair. On benches arranged on the grassy heath, men chattered, looking from their chieftain to the men seated at his sides before the audience: Eyolf Sólhrafn and Yngvar Eindride. The seiðmaðr had replaced his feathered ritual gown with a long rusty tunic that fell nearly to the ankles of his trousers, and his feet were no lon