“Swedes!” he called out. “You are here for good harvests and prosperity. They grow from blood. I have given you blood already, king’s blood. Follow me and I will give you more.”
Voices from the crowd, shouting about the oak and the sacrifices.
“You have sacrificed for years and what good has it done? You sacrificed the wrong things. You must sacrifice what is dearest to you. Start again. I will give you a better sacrifice.”
Shef pointed across the clearing. “Sacrifice your oak. Cut it down now, and set free the souls that hang from it. And if the gods want blood, send it to them. Send the gods their servants, the priests of the temple.”
Across the clearing, a small black-clad figure had scrambled from a horse, was running under the ghastly swaying boughs. He had an axe in his hand, snatched from a gaping priest. He reached the oak, raised the axe and swung. A groan again from the crowd at the sacrilege. Chips flew, men stared upwards for the avenging thunder. Nothing. Just the hard noise of metal on wood as Erkenbert swung like a man possessed. Slowly eyes turned towards the priests. Bruno’s men rode forward, herding them towards the stone. Herjolf turned towards Shef’s followers, seizing the moment.
“Right,” he shouted. “Crossbows, down here and make a ring. Ottar, get your Finns organized. The rest of you, seize those men. And you,” he called to Bruno, “stop your little fellow before he does himself an injury. Make a ring round the oak and get four men at it who know their business.”
The Swedes watched in amazement and acquiescence as Herjolf made his grisly preparations. Before the morning was over the Kingdom Oak would be in flames, and tossed onto it as a pyre, the bodies of its servants.
“Does that make the one-eye king of the Swedes?” they asked each other.
“Who knows?” went the answers. “But he has brought back the sun.”