“We call upon our male ancestors to protect us—to speak for us among the dark ones.” Eldberg’s voice rang out, addressing all surrounding him. “We offer thisblót, this libation, and we beseech mercy through the winter’s long cold, that we may live to see the sun return.”
Raising his axe, Eldberg swung it thrice about his head before burying it with a splitting thud in the calf’s skull. It was a clean kill, the creature falling to the ground with the blade still lodged in the bone. It gave no bellow—only a sudden jerking and a wide-eyed stare.
Planting his foot firmly against the calf’s shoulder, Eldberg released the weapon and gestured to Sweyn. With a shallow bowl placed beside the creature’s neck, his sworn-man knelt and plunged his dagger deep, bringing forth a gush of blood.
When the vessel was full, he raised it up and Eldberg dipped his thumb into the liquid, marking the forehead of his commander and then his own. While the bull’s life-force soaked the ground beneath their feet, Eldberg brought the dish to his lips and drank.
“Pledged in loyalty, we stand, brother to brother, until we enter that other realm.”
“Until we enter that other realm.” The response travelled the circle with the passing of the bowl, all drinking and receiving his jarl’s mark.
Having completed its journey, the dish returned to the centre of the circle, and each man nodded soberly to his neighbour. There would be revelry later, with the animal’s meat roasted and a portion brought back to this place with a tankard of mead. For now, they would depart in silence, carrying the carcass of the beast between them.
The wind was rising, and Eldberg could smell storm clouds gathering.
“I would speak with you, my jarl.” Sweyn touched his arm, drawing him aside. “For there is more for us to fear than the forces of the hidden world.”
Eldberg surveyed his commander. “You wish to warn me, Sweyn?”
The other squared his shoulders.
“That wench—she has bewitched you.” He wetted his lips, hesitating. “And the rounder her belly grows, the more she has you under her spell.”
“You’re brave, this night, Sweyn.” Eldberg fixed him with a hard stare. “You think to tell me whether this thrall deserves the warmth of my bed?”
Sweyn’s glance darted away. “She rules not only your bed, my lord. The clothes she wears are finer than Sigrid’s, and she no longer performs the duties of a thrall. There are two mistresses now, for the other slaves follow her more willingly than their true lady.”
“If ’tis true, then it speaks more of Sigrid’s lack than Elswyth’s. As to her duties, they are mine to decide.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” Sweyn dared to raise his gaze, “But the men are saying you let this woman—an enemy of Skálavík—twist you to her bidding, that you neglect your visits to the harbour and the mines.” He swallowed hard. “Give her to the men of the guard and you’ll be free again, my lord.”
Eldberg tasted ashes on his tongue. No man had the right to speak to him thus. No man should dare.
He closed his hand around Sweyn’s neck. “You think to judge me?” Eldberg squeezed harder. “You go too far, Sweyn.” Slowly, he raised the man in his grip, lifting his feet from the ground. “She has soothed the disquiet of my grief, and her skills have brought healing to my eye; for that I favour her, but I am her master.”
“Your eye, my lord!” He spluttered, kicking his feet. “She sent my brother deep into the caves of the fjord, making Thoryn bring back every seaweed he could find. There was one she wanted. ’Tis that she used in the poultice—a type that grows only in the dark, hidden.” Sweyn gasped for air. “Her spells use not the medicines you purchased from the Mikklagard Turk. She’s no better than the old woman who lives in the mountain, dabbling in things no man should know.”
Eldberg let Sweyn drop, his lip curling in distaste.
“You’re relieved of your post as commander of the guard. From tomorrow, you’ll report to the mine.”
Sweyn crawled back, clutching at his throat. “That place! No!” He looked up at Eldberg, his mouth slack, disbelieving. “I’ve served you faithfully. I’ve done all you bid.” He shook his head. “I don’t deserve this.”
“You’ve served yourself.” Eldberg touched the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his waist. “I release you from your bond. You’re a free man. Go where you will. If the mine doesn’t suit you, find your fortune elsewhere.”
Sweyn scrambled to his feet, eyes dark with hatred. He went for the blade at his own belt, but Eldberg was too quick. His weapon slashed the back of Sweyn’s wrist before he could draw.
Stumbling back, Sweyn cried out, clutching the wound beneath his arm.
“I have your answer.” Eldberg wiped clean the blood from his dagger. “Know that I let you live only in token of your past service. Tomorrow, you’ll leave. I care not where you go. If I see you again, my blade will open your throat.”
Sweyn spat on the ground. “Curse you to the mouth of Hel, and that bitch!”
Eldberg took a single step forward. It was enough. Sweyn ran, down the headland and away, toward the longhouse.
Rain was falling. He ought to get inside, join his men, but a stronger desire was calling to him, beneath the shadow of the mountain.
He wanted to see the wise woman, Hildr. It was an auspicious night—Alfablót.The night of the dead.
