by Zaya Feli
They turned down what appeared to be a lane, empty of campfires and tents. It led directly to the large building at the top of the slope, the one Rakkian had seen when they'd first arrived. He thought the clear path might be a way for people to easily access the building until Torsten sent a glob of spit toward the camps on the other side. A man from across the empty space stood and made to approach, but someone nearby stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Stay away from those rats,” Torsten growled. “Not that you have much choice so long as you're chained to me.”
“Who are they?” Rakkian asked, frowning. He looked at the camp, which was nearly twice the size of the one they'd just left.
“Fenrisborg and their supporters. Traitors the lot of them.” Torsten's cheerful expression had grown dark. “If it wasn't for the rules of this place, they'd be a few dozen teeth fewer – I'd make sure of it.”
Rakkian's memory of Fenrisborg was hazy. He'd been barely ten winters old when their warriors had attacked his village and taken him across the sea. He'd understood none of the Norsemens' language. A few things stood out: cold, dark halls, freezing nights, and unfriendly keepers. The cries of strangers in the night. Only the food had been decent. The people of Halafjell had hated Fenrisborg as fiercely as they did in Ulfheim. “Is it about the great raid?”
Torsten glanced down at him. “Is that when you were snatched?”
Rakkian shook his head. “That was later.”
“Either way,” Torsten said, leading Rakkian up the slope towards the building. “Eleven winters ago, Fenrisborg gathered all the northern villages for the Great Raid of the Western Isles. Reyadahl, Vinterholm, Kelvaldr, Ravsø, Ulfheim, Tornlund, and Rosvik.”
“Not Halafjell?”
“Halafjell was invited by Ulfheim. We were friends before the raid.”
“What went wrong?” Rakkian asked. His foot slipped on the muddy slope and Torsten caught him by the arm, hauling him to his feet.
“Fenrisborg promised everyone who participated an equal share of the spoils, but when it came down to it, King Torvald gave his closest allies – Reyadahl, Vinterholm and Kelvaldr – the best land and the largest share of the gold. Naturally, the rest of us weren't happy about it.”
“So he burned Tornlund?” Rakkian asked.
Torsten raised an eyebrow. “You're quick, and also right. Ulfheim encouraged Halafjell, Ravsø, and Tornlund to stand with us against Fenrisborg, but our enemy was too powerful. Fenrisborg burned Tornlund as an example of what would happen if we took up arms against them. They outnumbered us since the start, especially after Ravsø turned their back on the resistance, blaming Ulfheim for the destruction of Tornlund. There's been bad blood between our side and theirs since.” He nodded towards Fenrisborg and its allies.
Rakkian frowned. “Now it makes more sense that Jarl Orlan wanted revenge on Ulfheim. He blamed you for dragging them into that mess, same as Ravsø.”
“Sure did. Jarl Orlan lost his wife in the great raid and gained nothing.” Torsten groaned as they crested the slope. “And now they're all dead. Lesson of the day: don't turn on your friends.”
“I'll keep that in mind.” Rakkian leaned forward and looked through the heavy oak doors of the majestic building. A warm light glowed from inside. The door frame was intricately carved into patterns of ravens with wyrms in their beaks; at the top of the door, Yggdrasil spread its roots and branches in all directions. “What is it?”
“The temple of the gods,” Torsten said, stroking an almost loving hand along the wall. “This place is closer to the gods than anywhere else. Here, you may ask anything of them you think you deserve. You might want to think it through, because we won't be back for another four years.”
The temple looked empty. Rakkian glanced at Torsten. “Can I go in?”
Torsten nodded. “Sure. I'll wait here.”
“You don't have anything to ask of the gods?” Rakkian took the chain when Torsten handed it to him.
Torsten's face grew red and he looked away. “Not anything I'd want an audience to hear.”
“Fair.” Rakkian smiled at him and stepped inside.
The space inside was cavernous. It wasn't, as Rakkian had first assumed, built in several stories, but was a single room with a high ceiling. Every support beam – and there were at least fifty of them – was engraved with beautiful twisting patterns and covered in layers of gold leaf. Golden sconces along the walls were crafted into the shape of ravens. At the back of the room stood a circle of nine pillars, each made from a giant tree trunk. Rakkian approached, his footsteps echoing on the wood. Each pillar had a god carved onto its front so they faced the centre of the circle. A distinct smell of metal filled the space, and when Rakkian licked his lips, he tasted it, too. The temple held the same strange, charged energy that radiated from Runiks using their power, but quieter, thrumming under every surface.
When Rakkian stepped into the circle, he realised he wasn't alone. He took a step back, then recognized the figure crouched at the base of the statue. Isa's head was bowed and he rested a hand against the circular base at the god's feet. His lips moved with silent words. He took his time to finish, then raised his head, recognition and surprise flitting over his face when their eyes met.
“Rakkian?” Isa's black hair was tousled, half-covering his eyes, but Rakkian could still see the dark circles under them. He looked pale, even a little sick. How much had they bled him? To Rakkian's surprise, he smiled and a bit of colour returned to his cheeks. “Have you come to ask a favour of the gods?”
“I...” Rakkian flushed, not quite sure why he'd come. Did he want to ask something? Did he even believe? “I'm not sure what to ask. Or what to do,” he said honestly. His eyes travelled down to the bottom of the statue in front of Isa. It was darkened with layers of blood, both old and fresh, and the sight made Rakkian take another step back. So that was the source of the smell.
“You don't have to be afraid,” Isa said, rising. He didn't look unsteady, so maybe he wasn't as unwell as Rakkian had thought. “You don't have to bleed, either. I promise. We've both lost our fair share. I'm sure the gods won't mind if we abstain.” Isa's eyes went to the chain in Rakkian's hand.
Rakkian blinked, his heart doing a funny little skip. Isa was being unusually soft-spoken. He had smiled at him. There was something different about him – maybe the blood loss or the atmosphere of the temple. Maybe both.
“All right,” Rakkian said, stepping forward again. “You'll have to tell me what to do.”
“Easy.” Isa stuck a hand inside his coat and drew out a small bundle of dried herbs, holding them out to Rakkian. “Pick a god. Leave a gift and ask your question.”
A quiet coo made Rakkian look up. Skygge sat atop the statue where Isa had knelt. She flew down and landed on Isa's shoulder, sidling close against his neck. She nuzzled her beak gently through his tousled hair.
Rakkian took the herbs from Isa, careful not to break them between his fingers. Standing in the centre of the circle, he looked around. He knew some of the figures. Odin was easy to recognize with his long beard and missing eye. King of the gods, worshipped by the kings of Midgård. On Odin's left stood his wife, Frigg. At her feet lay carved runes atop the blood-covered base. Thor's statue stood on Odin's other side, the tallest of the nine, both hands resting on his hammer, Mjölnir. He was the god of war, and it was his name Rakkian heard invoked most often. Next to Thor stood Freja. There were runes at her feet as well, along with bundles of herbs and a single, burning candle.
Rakkian turned in the direction of the statue where Isa had been kneeling. The god held an axe in one hand; his other was missing. “Is that Tyr?”
Isa nodded. “Tyr decides who lives and dies in battle.”
“And these?” Rakkian asked, turning to the remaining gods in the circle.
Isa pointed. “Njord, god of seafaring and the seas.” He moved to the next one. “Frey, god of farming, prosperity, and fertility.”
Frey had a hand
some face and wore a long tunic shaped to a point that ended at the knees, unlike the other gods.
“How come he's dressed like that?” Rakkian asked, moving closer.
“He's not,” Isa said, folding his hands behind his back. “That's his cock.”
Rakkian flushed intensely and stepped back, out of range of the god's oversized member. “Why is... No. Go on.”
Isa chuckled quietly behind Rakkian, “That's Forseti, god of justice. Ullr, god of archery and hunting, and Balder, god of light, innocence, and beauty.”
Rakkian turned towards the last god, fiddling with the little bundle of sweet-smelling herbs in his hand. Balder's face had been carved with careful attention, giving him kind eyes and a slight smile. Curls framed his face down to the shoulders. One hand was held out, the image of a sun carved on its palm. He stood opposite Tyr so that the two gods seemed to look at each other. Rakkian knelt at Balder's feet and set the bundle of herbs down.
“I'm not surprised,” Isa said, coming to stand by his side.
“Kjartan said I remind him of Balder.” Rakkian looked at the statue's kind face. “What now?”
“I suppose you do,” Isa said. He retreated a few steps. “Stand up and tell your god what you'd like from him. Maybe if he likes you, he'll give you what you want.”
Rakkian looked over his shoulder. “What if he doesn't like me?”
Isa shrugged one shoulder.
Placing a hand against the statue's chest, Rakkian swallowed. His good sense told him nothing would come of whispering wishes to a carved piece of wood, but he reminded himself that he'd seen one of the gods' creatures in the woods with his own eyes. He'd felt its power and fury as it dug its claws into his chest. He swallowed again, throat clicking dryly. “I want to be happy.” Rakkian kept his voice quiet, but it still echoed between the temple walls. “I want to be free. I...” He looked over his shoulder, wondering how many of his deepest wishes he should reveal to Isa.
Isa stood still, arms folded over his chest, and watched him.
“I want to decide my own fate,” Rakkian finished, letting his hand slide off the statue.
A moment passed where neither of them spoke. Then Isa clapped his hands, the sound making Rakkian jump. “Well, that's it.” Isa turned to leave, but Rakkian touched his shoulder to stop him. Even through the thick coat Isa wore, Rakkian felt a ripple of energy like a waking beast and he drew his hand back before the sensation could grow.
Isa looked at his shoulder and then at Rakkian.
“What did you wish for?” Rakkian asked.
Isa's pale eyes bore into his. “Victory,” he said.
Rakkian frowned. “Against who?”
“Not who. What.” Isa reached out, fingers sliding against Rakkian's palm before gripping tight.
Rakkian gasped as snapping energy prickled his skin, travelling up his arm. Something ignited inside him, growing and growing like oil on a fire, too bright—
Isa released him with a hiss, stroking a hand over his own chest. A visible shiver rolled through him and for a moment, Rakkian thought he saw pain on his face. “You see?”
Rakkian nodded, taking a deep breath to ease the tension inside him. “That was... uncomfortable.” He rubbed his palm.
“I'm sorry.” Isa lowered his gaze and headed for the doors.
Rakkian followed, catching up to him. His steps echoed in the cavernous hall.“But you could drain me. Use my energy. That didn't feel like this.”
“I know,” Isa said. He ran a hand through his hair, looking tired again. “I spoke to Ingrid about it. She wasn't sure she could explain it either, but magic lives in the soul. This mark is on my body. Maybe that's why.”
“This doesn't happen when you touch other Sjaelir?”
“I told you.”
“Because I'm – what? More powerful?” Rakkian asked.
“I'm guessing so, yes.”
“But why me?” Rakkian stopped near the temple entrance, forcing Isa to stop, too.
Sighing deeply, he shook his head. “I don't know, Rakki. Luck, maybe. Or the opposite, all things considered.”
Torsten appeared in the doorway. “You boys done?”
Rakkian nodded.
“Then move aside for a man in need,” Torsten said, pushing his way past. He took the chain from Rakkian and passed the length to Isa. “Keep an eye on him until I'm done, will you?”
A horn sounded close by, so loud and deep that Rakkian felt the vibrations through the soles of his boots. “What's going on?”
“The sacrifices are about to begin,” Isa said, heading outside and around the side of the temple.
The tension in the chain forced Rakkian to keep up. “What about Torsten? He asked us to wait.”
“I'm sure he won't mind,” Isa said, waving his hand dismissively. “I want a front row view this year.”
Isa led him around to the back of the temple. At the bottom of the slope lay a massive lake, stretching out like a giant mirror in the middle of the forest. A wooden platform like the one in Ulfheim had been built by its shore, reaching over the water. Near its edge stood a table darkened by years of spilled blood.
Rakkian felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He very much did not want a front row view to what was about to happen. He recalled Ingrid's face, serious and unflinching when she'd talked about human sacrifices. There was nothing he could do when Isa tugged him down the slope, closer to the platform.
More and more people gathered around them until Rakkian couldn't move back even if he hadn't been chained. He had to crane his neck to see the crowd gathered all the way up the slope and along the shores of the lake.
The chatter stopped as if on command and an eerie silence fell over Jættedahl. The crowd made way for three women dressed all in white, striding towards the platform with metre-long curved knives in their hands. The women turned to the crowd and raised their hands. “Tonight, we drink alongside the gods,” one of them shouted, and the crowd erupted in roars and cheers so loud the sounds vibrated in Rakkian's chest. The atmosphere was electric and Rakkian stepped closer to Isa when a girl pushed eagerly up beside him. Music started again, but not the cheerful kind that invited dancing. The tunes were deeper and heavier, a drum echoing across the water like the too-slow beating of a giant heart.
Rakkian felt his own heart begin to race. From his right, a man strode forward with three chickens in his arms. The women in white came forward and accepted a chicken each. The crowd was silent, only the music playing as the women knocked the chickens' heads against the stone table and severed them. Their wings flapped wildly in death as the women gripped them by the legs and held their bodies over large golden bowls, then carried them to the edge of the platform and let it run into the water. They placed the bodies on the planks of the platform and the crowd cheered once more.
And so it continued. Each village presented three chickens. A goat. A ram. A pig. Fenrisborg produced two horses for sacrifice and the crowd cheered louder than ever.
Rakkian kept his eyes firmly on his own feet, watching the shadows grow longer around him, muscles starting to ache from standing still for so long. Torches were lit to keep the growing darkness at bay, the sunset seeming to add a red hue to a night already soaked in blood. He'd seen plenty of animals slaughtered in his life, but never on this scale. So many lives ending in such a short time. It made his head spin, and the heavy smell of blood on the air didn't make it better. To distract himself, he leaned towards Isa and spoke, voice raised to make himself heard over the sudden cheers of the crowd. “What will happen to them?”
Isa dragged his eyes from the platform. “We'll eat them, of course,” he said, frowning. Then he laughed. “We have more than a thousand mouths to feed. Do you really think we'd let all that good meat go to waste? The gods understand the deal. They get their share of blood,” Isa assured him, turning his eyes back to the scene in front of them. He inhaled deeply, as if the smell of blood brought him strength.
Then everything fe
ll silent.
The crowd split in two and Rakkian moved with them. When he looked up, his heart missed a beat. The platform was soaked in blood. The table, too. The women's white dresses were no longer white, which, Rakkian realised, must have been the point. From farther up the slope, claps and shouted words echoed.
“Enjoy Valhalla, brother!”
“Journey safely, sister!”
“Greet the gods with joy!”
Rakkian twisted around to get a glimpse in spite of himself. Six people, one from each village, came down the slope. They too were dressed in white, and their expressions were calm and determined, not fearful as Rakkian had expected. One woman even smiled and waved, garnering shouts of favour and praise from the crowd.
They were actually doing it. Rakkian couldn't take his eyes off the six as they ascended the platform, knowing that in a few moments they'd be bleeding out on the dark planks. With a shock, Rakkian recognized Ulfheim's sacrifice. He was a middle-aged man, every exposed part of his body covered in tattoos. Rakkian had seen him at Jarl Hjalmar's funeral, although they hadn't spoken.
Three more people ascended the platform, each carrying a curved knife like the ones the women in white held. They were going to kill all the sacrifices at once. Rakkian couldn't imagine how this could possibly be considered a great honour.
Rakkian's stomach churned and he heard the sound of his own heavy breathing over the steady beat of the drums starting back up. He'd never seen a real battle. He'd hidden during the fight in Tornlund and he'd hidden as a child when Torvald came to steal him from his home. He wanted to hide now, but he couldn't.
The women dipped their fingers in the blood on the table and drew runes on the foreheads of the seven sacrifices, whispering words too quiet for Rakkian to hear. Then, before Rakkian was ready, the executioners stepped behind them, wrapped one arm each over their chests and raised the knives to their throats.