Conleth turned to Moira. “As our resident expert in all things Ragvald, what on God’s green earth is toga honk?”
From Moira’s expression, she was just as baffled as the rest of them. “I have no idea. I’ve heard the wordtogabefore, though, in some of the old sagas about famous feats of battle. It’s not easy to translate. To… violently yank something, perhaps?”
“I am not keen on the prospect of Ragvald violently yanking anything,” Conleth said. “Particularly not anything of mine.”
Moira spread her hands. “It’s possible I’m mistaken. Wyrmish is a complicated language. The meaning of a phrase can be dramatically different from the literal translation of each word separately.”
Conleth turned to Ragvald. “Please tell me this is one of those times.”
“No, no. The princess has the right of it.” Ragvald made a brief, upsetting gesture. “In the contest, we do this, like so.Toga, yes?”
“I don’t know about anyone else,” Buck said from the circle of onlookers. “But I for one can’t wait to find out what a honk is.”
“I would say that the reality cannot be worse than my imagination,” Conleth said. “But since we’re talking about Ragvald, that would seem to be tempting fate.”
“I thought all warriors engaged in toga honk.” Ragvald sounded as though he was the one confronted with utter insanity. “Surely you must know this concept.”
Moira shook her head. “I think this is another cultural difference, Ragvald.”
“No sauna, no toga honk,” Ragvald said under his breath. “Outlanders. Next you will be telling me you don’t have communal ice baths either.”
“I have bad news for you,” Conleth said. “But not, I suspect, as bad as the news I’m about to receive myself. What is toga honk, Ragvald? Explain it like we’re three years old.”
“It is a contest,” Ragvald said patiently. “A contest of strength and endurance, in which two warriors sweat and strain to see who will emerge victorious.”
Neithersweatnorstrainsounded reassuring. “And does this contest involve axes?”
Ragvald looked as though he’d proposed lighting the camp bonfire with a flamethrower. “Of course not.”
At least half the children seemed profoundly disappointed by this statement. Archie most of all.
“Just to be completely clear, Ragvald,” Moira said cautiously. “Do you useanyweapons in toga honk?”
“Oh, no.” Ragvald reached behind his back. “Only this.”
With a flourish, he produced a coil of rope.
A long, thick coil of rope.
With knots.
“I am having the best day,” Buck observed to no one in particular. “Every time I think it can’t possibly get any better, it does.”
“I already know I’m going to regret asking this,” Conleth said. “But what do you intend to do with that, Ragvald?”
“We grip it!” Ragvald demonstrated, wrapping one end around his brawny forearm. “One on each end, like so! With this knot, here, in the middle between us, see? We stand some distance apart, and at the signal, we both strain most mightily. The first to drag the knot into their own territory is the victor!”
This time, the silence was rather longer.
Archie broke it first. “That’s it?”
Ragvald shook out the rope. “Yes.”
“But that’s just tug-of-war,” another camper protested.
Ragvald’s bearded face broke into a relieved smile. “So youdohave toga honk! I knew you must. There are things that are surely universal to all cultures, like poetry duels, or sleeping on gold.”
Moira opened her mouth, paused, and shut it again.
