Beyond a Darkened Shore(89)

Arin’s face darkened in an impressive imitation of his brother’s. “Did I not prove myself battle-ready in éirinn?”

“You did, but I had no choice there. You will stay here and watch over the village; you haven’t yet come of age for battle.”

Arin’s face fell, but he bowed his head tersely. It was clear Leif would not be dissuaded.

After the last man had offered himself to the cause, the servants brought forth enormous iron cauldrons. It took two strong men to carry each steaming cauldron in, and when they had placed them before the table, one of the men turned to Leif.

“For the blóta,” he said, and handed him a bowl full of a dark liquid.

Leif brought forth a long-handled brush from the bowl. “By this blood, we ask the gods for strength and good health in the battle to come.”

Everyone in the room repeated the prayer, and then Leif flicked the brush until droplets of blood sprayed through the air. One drop landed on my forehead, and I touched it tentatively as it tracked down my face. The Northmen around me bowed their heads and murmured thanks to Odin or Freyja, but I could only stand in an awed sort of silence. There had been a time when I would have sneered at their ritual, been disgusted by the pagan sacrifice, but now that I was one of them . . . I could only see the good intentions behind it.

After making a full circuit around the room, Leif brought the bowl of blood to the foot of a crudely carved statue. He sprinkled more blood on it before returning to the front of the room.

“Let us feast,” he said.

Two of the servants immediately pulled out the steaming meat from the cauldrons, while others piled food high on tables so long they ran the length of the room. Roast lamb and pork, dried fruits and nuts, salted fish, fresh fish, and bread so dark it was nearly black. Our table was set with wooden bowls and plates, sharp knives, and horns of mead. I sat beside Leif at the head and watched with an amused smile as everyone, but especially the Northmen we had sailed with, fell upon the food as though they were starving.

“I’m relieved that’s over with,” Leif said in a low voice to me.

I shot him an incredulous look. “So you were nervous.”

“It’s the first time I’ve addressed the freemen without my father and led the blóta.” He frowned. “I’m not sure what’s keeping my father—I don’t relish speaking in front of so many.”

I set my knife down to better stare at him. “This is what frightens you? Speaking in front of a crowded room?” He nodded sheepishly. “Well, if I hadn’t noticed you were pale beforehand, I would not have even thought you were uncomfortable. You did a good job.”

“I imagined I was speaking to them in the midst of a battle.”

My laughter took us both by surprise, and soon, he was joining in.

The children finished first as children do, and their high-pitched laughs and screams punctuated the din as they began chasing one another about the hall. The now familiar sound of the Norse language flowed around me, and I leaned back, savoring my dessert of honeyed fruits and nuts.

I was happy for the feast, happy Leif and all of his allies could take part in it, for it might be the last feast we enjoyed for some time.

The feasting and dancing lasted long into the night, and after Leif had his fill of the bountiful food, he sat upon his throne wrought from wood and antlers with a horn of mead and watched. Many came to him, talking of the upcoming battle, or of more mundane matters, but always his eyes were upon me.

I enjoyed his gaze. Forgetting myself, I’d drunk far too much mead and danced until my legs were shaky and my cheeks were flushed. When he was finally alone, he caught my eye and gestured to the chair next to him, thoughtfully padded with furs. I fell down upon it in a heap.

“You are enjoying yourself here, among all these pagan barbarians,” he said, with that teasing smile so familiar to me now.

I leaned my head back and smiled. “They may have horrid table manners, but never have I met a more welcoming people.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth, and I felt a wave of desire lick up my stomach. But before he could say anything else, Agnarr’s deep voice resonated from his place around the fire pit.

“Arin has just asked me to tell the tale of the j?tnar,” Agnarr said, pausing to take a sip from his horn of mead. “Do you know it?” he asked one of the small boys nearest him.

“No, Agnarr,” the boy said, his eyes wide.

Agnarr smiled and glanced at me. “Neither, I’m sure, does the Celt.” He gestured for me to join them around the fire. “Come, it would be good for you to hear the story of the enemy we will face tomorrow.”

When I stood, Leif followed, and the others made room for us on the wooden bench.

“Long ago,” Agnarr began, and everyone gave him their rapt attention, held captive by his rich voice, “in the void that existed before time began, two opposing forces reigned. In the north, it was ice and wind and rain, such that nothing could survive. And in the south, it was a blistering heat. It was from this meeting of ice and heat that the first being was formed: Ymir. He was a giant bigger than any of the mountains on earth. A j?tunn son and a j?tunn daughter sprang forth from his armpits as he slept—the first of the j?tnar, the Frost Giants.

“When Father Odin later slayed Ymir, the giant’s blood formed such a deluge that all but two j?tnar drowned. From Ymir’s flesh the earth was formed, and the rocks were formed from his bones. His skull became the sky above us, and his blood, the sea. The two remaining j?tnar repopulated their race: some who would later help the gods . . . and others who would turn against them.”