์Mid to late January. 795 A.D
"You shall camp here." The priest indicated a prime position mere paces from the temple's shadow. "Among the kings and great jarls, as befits one who honors the Æsir so richly."
"Thank you," Bjorn said, his tone carrying the formal courtesy due to one who served the gods, though his eyes already swept the area with tactical precision.
Rollo stepped forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the priest. The sight of the giant warrior seemed to make the holy man shrink slightly, despite his sacred authority. "When do the sacrifices start?"
"In two days," the priest answered, his voice steadying as he focused on the ritual calendar rather than Rollo's intimidating presence. "The ceremonies will begin at dawn, with the first of the nine offered each day until the cycle is complete."
As the priest departed to assign other camps, Bjorn's retinue moved with efficiency. Floki supervised the unloading of their ship-tents—each was a massive structure that could house twenty men comfortably.
Torstein and Arne, with the help of the thralls, began marking the boundaries of their territory with rope and iron stakes, while others hefted sea-chests containing weapons, silver, and provisions for the nine-day festival.
But even as they worked, every man kept his eyes moving, cataloging the camps that surrounded them.
While it's true this was friendly gathering, it was still a concentration of the North's most dangerous men, each with his own ambitions and grudges. Men who played the game, and are still alive.
The placement itself spoke volumes. Directly to their left, barely thirty paces away, stood the tent of a Danish king, his banner snapping in the cold wind. The camp bustled with activity as thralls erected smaller tents for the king's jarls and huscarls.
To their right, a Swedish jarl had claimed an equally prestigious spot.
Behind them, slightly elevated on a gentle rise, sat what was clearly one of the most powerful presences at the gathering. The tent was enormous, its sides decorated with intricate tapestries depicting battles and hunts.
Rollo paused in his survey of the surrounding camps, his face settling into grim recognition. "So that's King Halfdan."
The camp he indicated sat perhaps forty paces away, positioned well within the inner circle of power. The banner that marked it bore the symbols of Vestfold and Agder, the twin kingdoms that Halfdan ruled.
Rollo moved back toward where Siggy sat arranging their belongings, his voice dropping to a growl that only their inner circle could hear. "It's a shame we're on sacred ground. Otherwise, this would be the perfect time to settle accounts with that bastard."
Ragnar glanced briefly toward Halfdan's camp, his expression unreadable, but said nothing.
Bjorn didn't turn to look, instead continuing to direct the placement of their own defenses. Bjorn simply answered Rollo's first statement. "That's indeed him," he said, his voice carrying just loud enough for his men to hear. "Including many others."
His gaze swept the field systematically. There, the three-headed serpent banner of a Götaland jarl, his camp bristling with young warriors eager to prove themselves.
Further out, he counted the banners of at least 6 different Kings and Jarls from all over their world.
"By Thor's beard," muttered Arne, hefting a wooden pole toward their tent site. "More than half the North must be here."
Floki, now standing beside Helga as she supervised the unpacking, turned his strange, bright eyes toward the assembled camps. "The important half," he corrected.
Rollo sneered from the side, "Well that one looks like he is about to jump and kill us, especially you Bjorn."
Rollo's attention had shifted to another quarter entirely. A sneer pulled at the corner of his mouth as he nodded toward a distant banner. "Well, that one looks ready to leap across the sacred ground and gut us all, especially you, Bjorn."
This time Bjorn did turn, following Rollo's gaze to a figure he had missed in his initial survey. A young man stood at the edge of a smaller but well-armed camp, staring directly at them with the unblinking intensity of a hunting wolf.
What struck Bjorn immediately was the wolf pelt draped over the youth's head and shoulders, the mark of a berserker, or at least someone who claimed that fierce heritage.
'A berserker?' Bjorn's eyes shifted to study the camp's banner, and understanding dawned. "Probably the son of King Gandalf."
Rollo's laugh was harsh as winter wind. "More like his last living son."
With provocation, Rollo caught the young man's furious stare and responded with an exaggerated nod and the kind of broad, mocking smile that had started wars. The gesture was contemptuous, exactly the sort of insult that demanded blood in response.
Helsing, for that was surely who the berserker-cloaked man must be, went rigid with barely contained fury. His hand dropped instinctively toward his weapon.
Yet he remained frozen at the edge of action, trapped by the nature of the ground beneath his feet.
Here, under the gods' direct gaze, violence was forbidden. To break that peace would invite divine wrath that no mortal could survive.
x-x-X-x-x
2 Days later.
The stone altar dominated the sacred grove, its surface was stained dark with the blood of centuries. Nine ropes hung from the ancient oak above it, each waiting to bear its terrible burden.
The crowd pressed close in a vast semicircle, hundreds of freeman, jarls, and their retinues arranged by rank and status, with kings and great earls nearest to the altar.
At the back of the crowd, pressed against the far edge of the gathering, Athelstan pulled his borrowed cloak tighter around his shoulders. His face had gone pale beneath his hood as the full scope of what was about to unfold became clear.
Nine stakes driven into the ground around the altar held the sacrifices; eight magnificent animals and one man, a man whose crime, if he had any, Athelstan didn't know and didn't really want to learn.
The high priest raised his arms, and a hush fell over the assembly. His voice, when it came, carried the weight of ancient ritual: "Mighty Odin, All-Father, we offer you these gifts that you might look with favor upon our endeavors."
Three women emerged from behind the altar, their white robes pristine against the dark stone. As they began to sing, their voices rose in harmonies that seemed to come from some other world; wordless melodies that made the hair on Athelstan's neck stand on end.
The sound was beautiful and terrible at once.
The first animal was brought forward; a goat whose eyes rolled white with terror as it was forced onto the altar.
"Smile."
Bjorn's concentration broke at the unexpected word. He found Halfdan beside him in the front rank, the king's dark eyes fixed on the proceedings but his voice pitched low enough that only Bjorn could hear.
"What?" Bjorn's response was barely a whisper.
The priest's blade flashed, and the Goat's lifeblood poured out across the altar stone. The women's singing swelled, their voices weaving around the sound of the dying animal's final breath.
Halfdan murmured, his own face a mask of appropriate solemnity for the watching crowd. "What's wrong? Nothing to smile about these days?"
A ram was dragged forward next, its hooves scrabbling against the stone as it was lifted onto the altar.
At the back of the crowd, Athelstan watched in horrified fascination as the priest's movements became a deadly dance, each cut precise and ritualistic.
"If you came here to see my smile," Bjorn scoffed and whispered back, "then you came to the wrong place. "
The ram's blood joined the bull's, flowing in dark rivulets down the altar's sides. The women's song shifted, becoming more urgent, more primal.
Some of the watching men began to sway slightly in rhythm with the haunting melody.
Halfdan's lips barely moved as he spoke. "How curious. I would have thought standing so close to the gods might lift your spirits. After all, you've paid so dearly for this privilege."
A horse was brought forward, not the better stallion Bjorn had offered, but a smaller mare whose coat gleamed like polished bronze. The priest waited for the women's song to reach its crescendo before striking.
Bjorn replied, his voice carrying no more emotion than if they were discussing the weather. "The gods have seen fit to grant me many things. Joy has never been among them."
Two other goats followed in quick succession, their bleating lost beneath the rising volume of the singers. The altar was slick with blood now, the stone drinking in the offerings greedily.
"Strange," Halfdan continued, his tone conversational despite the whispered volume. "From a cow shed to a ship, from a ship to Kattegat's chair. If that is not the gods smiling upon you, then i don't know what else is."
A sheep was hauled up next, its wool white as snow until the priest's blade found its mark. At the back of the crowd, Athelstan's hands clenched into fists beneath his cloak.
The Christian monk had seen death a lot since he came here; battle, execution, the slow wasting of disease, but this ritualized slaughter, accompanied by those otherworldly voices, shook him to his core.
Halfdan paused then continued. "Such a prominent position and such generous offerings. The priest himself seemed impressed by your... acquisitions."
Bjorn finally turned slightly, just enough to catch Halfdan's eye while maintaining the appearance of proper attention to the ceremony. "Speaking of acquisitions, I find myself wondering about yours. How fares your son these days? Harald, is it not?"
The priest selected a pig from the remaining animals, and Halfdan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as the blade descended. "My son thrives, as princes should."
Two more animals remained now, another goat and the human. The women's singing had become something primal now, voices intertwining in patterns that seemed to pull at something deep in the listeners' souls. Several of the watching men had begun to hum along, their voices adding to the eerie harmony.
"Indeed," Bjorn whispered. "Though I hear his heart has been... captured. By a princess, no less." Bjorn paused, as if searching his memory, "The daughter of King Eirik of Hordaland. What was her name again?"
The goat's death was swift, its blood now adding to the growing pool. Only the Human sacrifice remained now. He simply without anyway to escort him, once he reached the stone altar, he turned towards his people, and nodded at them one last time. Then he took his white upper cloth, and laid down on the altar.
At the crowd's edge, Athelstan bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, forcing himself to watch, to witness this barbarity that his adopted people considered sacred.
Bjorn acting as if he finally remembered, while watching solemnly the sacrifice. "Ah yes, Elisif. Beautiful name. And beautiful Girl, from what I hear. Quite the prize for any king's son bold enough to claim her."
The high priest raised his blade high, and the women's song reached its final, terrible crescendo.
"She would make a fine match," Halfdan said through gritted teeth, "for any worthy prince."
"Any worthy prince?" Even in a whisper, Bjorn's amusement was audible. "How generous of King Eirik to keep his options so... open."
The blade fell, and the Man's life fled with his blood. The women's voices cut off as if severed, leaving the grove in sudden silence. At the back of the crowd, Athelstan sagged against a tree, his face gray with shock and revulsion.
"Tell me," Bjorn continued in the hushed aftermath, his voice still pitched for Halfdan's ears alone, "when Harald came calling, how exactly did King Eirik receive him? With the honors due a great king's son? Or perhaps something more... modest?"
The silence stretched as the priest began the ritual of hanging the sacrificed bodies. Halfdan's hands were clenched at his sides, his breathing carefully controlled.
"After all," Bjorn added, watching the grisly work with apparent calm, "to dismiss you as merely another petty king—you who rule two kingdoms and stand to inherit a third..." His whisper carried the weight of a shout. "This Elisif must be truly exceptional to inspire such humility."
As the first body was hauled up into the sacred oak, Halfdan found his voice. "King Eirik will see reason in time."
"Will he?" Bjorn tilted his head slightly, like a wolf scenting prey. "Or has he already reached his conclusions about what your bloodline is truly worth?"
The ritual complete, the crowd began to disperse, nobles and jarls filtering back toward their camps in small groups. The hanging sacrifices swayed gently in the breeze, their blood feeding the roots of the sacred tree.
Bjorn turned to leave, but paused to deliver one final thrust. "You know what you should do, King?"
Halfdan remained silent, staring at the blood-soaked altar.
"Smile," Bjorn said softly. "Surely there's something in your life worth celebrating these days?"
As the Earl of Kattegat walked away, Halfdan's calm voice followed him.
"Come spring, Boy, I hope you can still find so much to smile about."
At the back of the now-dispersing crowd, Athelstan remained frozen against his tree, the images of the sacrifice burned into his mind. The women's eerie song still echoed in his ears, and he wondered, not for the first time, what kind of god demanded such tribute, and what kind of men were willing to pay it.
------------------------------------------------------
Bjorn had made it perhaps halfway back to his camp when the figure stepped into his path. Not blocking it entirely, that would have been too overtly aggressive, but positioning himself so that acknowledgment was unavoidable.
The man was perhaps thirty winters old, with the scarred face and broad shoulders that spoke of countless battles. A raised line of white tissue ran from his left temple to his jaw, the kind of wound that should have killed but had instead become a badge of survival.
"So," the stranger said, his voice pitched to carry to the small crowd that always seemed to gather around Bjorn wherever he went. "The boy who cannot die."
Bjorn stopped, taking in the man's stance, the quality of his weapons, the confidence in his bearing. After a moment, he sighed, a sound that managed to convey both weariness and mild annoyance.
"Another stranger who greets me with stories rather than his own name."
A bark of laughter escaped the scarred man. "Not everyone who walks these sacred grounds needs to announce themselves to every whelp who passes by." He stepped closer, close enough that Bjorn could see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes. "But you... you are Bjorn, the one with many titles. The one they whisper about in great halls and compose songs about around hearth fires." His voice dripped with disdain. "The boy they claim walks hand in hand with the gods themselves."
The crowd was definitely listening now. Several jarls had stopped their own conversations to watch this exchange, sensing the potential for violence or, at the very least, entertainment.
Bjorn studied the stranger's face, reading the barely contained hostility there, the way his hand rested casually near his sword hilt. "And you are?"
The man straightened, his chest swelling with unmistakable pride. "Ingjald, King of Uppland."
Bjorn blinked once slowly. Then his expression settled into something that might charitably be called polite blankness. "Ah." Another pause. "Never heard of you."
The words hit Ingjald as if they were a physical blow. His face flushed red beneath his tan, and his hand actually moved to his sword hilt before he caught himself.
Bjorn was already turning away, dismissing the king as easily as he might a bothersome thrall. He had taken perhaps three steps when Ingjald's voice followed him, tight with barely contained rage.
"We'll meet again soon, Ragnarsson."
He had no idea how right he was.
x-x-X-x-x
Later, as men stumbled back to their camps or collapsed on sleeping benches, smaller groups formed around the fires. Bjorn found himself approached by a succession of visitors, each with their own agenda.
A Danish jarl pulled him aside with talk of marriage alliances, his daughter was of age, and Bjorn's growing reputation made him an attractive prospect. A Swedish king hinted at joint raids, suggesting that Bjorn's knowledge of English defenses could benefit them both.
Three different groups tried to sound out his position on the brewing conflict between Kings and Jarls that are close to him, or even far away, like the conflict between Jarl Borg and King Horik, each hoping to determine where his loyalties might fall if the dispute turned violent.
As if he cares.
Through it all, Bjorn maintained the diplomatic balance of a man who understood that premature commitments could prove fatal. He listened more than he spoke, promised nothing concrete, and managed to leave each petitioner feeling that they had gained some small advantage in their courtship of the rising Earl of Kategatt.
Besides, after his long term plan bore fruit, most won't be alive anyway.
As darkness settled over Uppsala's sacred grounds, the character of the gathering shifted. What had been solemn ritual by day transformed into something far more primal as night claimed the camp.
Bjorn made his way back through the maze of tents and cooking fires, the sounds of celebration was growing louder with each step he took toward his own camp.
The air hung thick with woodsmoke and the earthy scent of mushrooms that many of the gathered men had begun consuming, they were said to open the mind to divine visions.
Torches cast dancing shadows between the canvas walls, and from every direction came the sounds of revelry: deep laughter, the rhythmic beating of drums, and chants that seemed to pulse with the very heartbeat of the earth.
Some voices rose in fertility songs, their words lost to time but their meaning unmistakable in their primal cadence.
He paused at the edge of his own camp's circle of light, taking in the scene before him. His retinue had indeed embraced the night's offerings. Several of his warriors sat around the central fire, their eyes bright with the effects of the sacred fungi, speaking in hushed, wondering tones about visions of ravens and wolves dancing in the flames.
Rollo had disappeared entirely, likely to the tent of some women. The sound of muffled laughter from that direction suggested his uncle had found willing company for the evening's festivities.
Floki sat near the fire with Helga, the boat-builder's usual manic energy subdued into something almost peaceful as they shared quiet words and gentle touches, lost in their own private world enhanced by the mushrooms' gifts.
Other members of his crew had scattered to pursue their own nocturnal adventures. Thorstein had struck up a conversation with a Danish Chieftain's daughter earlier, and both had vanished after the feast. Arne and several others had joined a group from a neighboring camp where the drums beat loudest and the chanting was most intense.
But not everyone had abandoned themselves to the night's pleasures. Ragnar sat apart from the main celebration, his weathered face thoughtful as he whittled a piece of wood with steady hands.
"Somebody wishes right now they were home," Bjorn observed, settling down beside his father on the log.
Ragnar raised his head from his carving, one eyebrow arching with amusement. "Do I look that miserable?"
"You have that look. The same one you get when you're forced to sit through another jarl's endless war stories about battles that grow more heroic with each telling."
A snort of laughter escaped Ragnar. "At least war stories have some truth buried in them. This..." He gestured with his knife toward the surrounding revelry, where distant drums pounded and voices rose in increasingly wild chants. "This is just men convincing themselves that losing control brings them closer to the gods."
"And yet here we are."
"Here we are," Ragnar agreed, returning to his whittling. "Though I notice you're not exactly throwing yourself into the festivities either. No Danish or Norwegian princess caught your eye? No Swedish jarl's daughter whispering sweet promises in your ear?"
Bjorn stretched his legs toward the fire, considering the question. "I find myself thinking that this would be the perfect time for you to give me some fatherly wisdom. You know, something about thinking with my head rather than..." He gestured vaguely toward his groin with a wry smile. "What's down here."
Ragnar paused in his carving, looking at his son with genuine surprise before breaking into laughter. "You want me to tell you to keep your cock in your trousers? At a fertility festival? Surrounded by half-drunk women who'd consider it an honor to bed the great Earl Bjorn?"
"Well, when you put it like that, it does sound rather foolish."
The huscarls maintained their vigilant watch despite the celebration around them.
Near the largest tent, young Gyda slept peacefully alongside several other children from their group, too young yet for the night's adult ceremonies, they had been given their own space away from the more intense activities.
From somewhere in the darkness came the sound of approaching footsteps, and Athelstan emerged from the shadows beyond the firelight.
The monk looked haggard, his face drawn with exhaustion.
"Not partaking in the evening's... festivities?" Bjorn asked.
Athelstan shook his head slowly. "I find myself... needing time to process what I've seen today." His voice carried the strain of a man wrestling with profound questions about faith and the nature of the sacred.
"Yeah... well good luck with that." Ragnar added.
Athelstan left again trying to clear his head.
And so the first day of the sacrifices ended peacefully despite everything; and the last day of the sacrifice was slowly drawing near.
And thus the first day of sacrifice ended in uneasy peace; and now, slowly, the final day drew near.