“What is in it?”
“A decoction. Boiling water poured onto another mushroom. Not the red one with the white spots this time, the one that makes the seeing-drink. Nor the other one I know of, the death-cap mushroom, the one—” Hund lowered his voice again “—that looks like a prick.
“There is a third. The Finns call it the tuft-ear mushroom, after the big cat that lives in the forests. It sends men into frenzy, makes berserkers of the mildest.” He handed over the flask. “If you need it, take it. Give it to Cuth—to our friend.”
Shef took it thoughtfully.
Outside the great temple at Uppsala was a yard, roofed over with thatch but earth-floored, wattle-walled, the rain driving in through every chink. Nine score men and women crowded into it, hands tied into iron rings set into long bars. Given time and effort, a man could break free, untie others. But guards patrolled up and down, clubbing savagely at anyone who shifted, made anything that looked like an attempt at escape. The guards were having more trouble than usual, as they remarked to each other. Not only were there far more for the sacrifice than in living memory. They were not the usual bone-bags, dying by noose or blade only days ahead of death from cold or starvation. That was as it should be, the guards said, aiming blows to break fingers or collar-bones. The gods would have fresh meat for a change. Perhaps the Swedes’ ill-luck was caused by the gods having to boil their victims down for soup.
Cwicca, nursing a fractured arm gained when a guard saw him trying to pull the iron ring out of its bar, whispered out of the corner of his mouth to Thorvin next to him. “I don’t like the look of Udd.”
The little man indeed seemed almost on the point of tears: natural enough, but neither Englishman nor Wayman wanted to give their enemies a chance to mock. He was staring at one of the Swedes, a priest, who had come into the slave pen. It was the custom of the Swedish priests of the temple, of the Kingdom Oak, to taunt and jeer at their captives, believing that their fear and despair were acceptable to the gods. Some said it was a custom set by their ancient king Angantyr. Others said the bastards enjoyed it. Udd’s lower lip was trembling as he listened to the Swede’s shouts.
“Don’t think it will be quick! Don’t think you’ll get off easy. I have made the sacrifice at this assembly for twenty years. When I was young, then I made mistakes. I let men slide to the gods not knowing they’d gone. Not now! Those I hang, they’ll still be awake with their eyes open when the ravens of Othin come to peck them out. How will you feel then, when the raven sits on your head and reaches out its beak. I’ve seen them! You’ll try to lift your hands, won’t you? But I’ll have tied them down.
“And that’s not all. Even after you’ve gone to death, gone to the gods, what do you think will happen then. You’ll sit on clouds with harps in your hands, you Christians, eh? No! You are slaves here and you’ll be slaves there.”
The priest began to sing a sacred song, his voice and rhythm strangely like Thorvin’s. This was where the Way had come from, Cwicca realized with a flash of insight. From beliefs like this one. But changed, not made gentle exactly—the Way-followers were as fierce as any—but without the undercurrent of desperate anxiety that made the true pagans, the hard-core, so addicted to pain.
“The thurs who shall have thee is called Hrimgrimnir,
Behind Hel’s gate your home;
There the wretched slaves beneath roots of trees
Get dogs’ piss for drink.
No other draught shall thou ever drain…”
Udd’s head dropped, his face twisted, the pagan priest saw and broke off his chant with a crow of victorious laughter. As he did so Thorvin too began to sing, his deep voice carrying on the very tune of the pagan’s, but to a different rhythm:
“I saw a hall standing, sun-bright it shone,