Hedin lifted his chin a fraction from the block and stared out at Ivar’s troops, “Are those not ewes who follow you?”
“You bastard!” Ivar yelled, spittle foaming at the edges of his mouth, and motioned for the executioner to continue.
When Ulf, a drinking companion of Selik’s, was brought forward, he commented bravely, “I am well content to die as are all my comrades. But I will not let myself be slaughtered like a cow. I would rather face the blow.”
The executioner hewed him in the face with his bloody sword.
By the time the tenth Jomsviking stepped up to the executioner, Ivar was clearly agitated because the executions were not going as he had planned. Undoubtedly, he wanted to see the elite Vikings grovel for mercy, to cry for salvation. The crowd was turning against him, murmuring with admiration for the brave warriors. Even his own soldiers no longer cheered over the deaths.
But Ivar doggedly repeated his question to the next man, Jogeir. “What dost thou think of dying?”
“I would like to piss first.”
Thork shook his head at Jogeir’s defiant vulgarity. Ivar’s face turned almost purple with outraged disbelief but nodded his permission to do so. When Jogeir finished relieving himself boldly in front of the masses, he commented casually, “Life certainly turns out differently than expected. I had thought to skewer your wife afore returning to Jomsborg.” At that, he shook his staff arrogantly, to the crowd’s laughter, then pulled up his braies. His head was gone afore the pants were tied.
Thork closed his eyes painfully as Selik stepped forward. A few women in the crowd sighed loudly at his beauty. Apparently, Selik was right. The scar did not mar his handsomeness, after all.
“I have had a good life,” Selik boasted, playing the crowd expertly, throwing his magnificent hair back over his shoulders. “I do not wish to live any longer than those brave comrades who have fallen afore me, but please give me the dignity of being led to my death by a warrior, not a mere thrall.” He contemptuously scrutinized the executioner, who looked as if he might like to decapitate Selik with his bare hands. “Also, spare me that vile stick in my fine hair.” He raked his fingers through the silver strands, and Thork saw several women in the crowd stare at him open-mouthed. “Instead, hold my hair away from my head and pull the head sharply so my hair does not become blood-stained. I wouldst enter Valhalla in all my beauty.”
The crowd sighed in admiration at his beauty and bravado. The foolish lackwit! He joked even on the way to death. Thork blinked away the tears in his eyes.
Selik’s daring words and godly appearance pleased the crowd so much that they cheered loudly and banged their shields, urging Ivar to grant the wish. He agreed reluctantly, calling a nearby hesir to assist. In a kneeling position, Selik bent his neck so his forehead touched the block. The soldier grabbed the thick strands of hair and twisted them into a queue, pulling painfully up and over his head. The executioner raised his blade, but at the last moment, Selik deliberately jerked and the hesir’s arm was lopped off at the elbow.
The wounded man screamed as he clutched his bleeding stump. Enraged, Ivar grabbed the executioner’s sword and was about to behead Selik himself. But the crowd loved Selik’s audacity and moved forward in a wave of support.
“What is your name?” Ivar asked through gritted teeth, cautiously keeping an eye on the mutinous mob.
“Selik.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Wouldst you join the ranks of my troops?” Ivar’s eyes shifted uneasily to the mob which was quickly turning against him.
“Nay, I could not, but… ,” Selik hesitated, seeming to assess the crowd’s mood before continuing more boldly, “but if you would release me and my Jomsviking comrades, along with the boy, Eirik, I would swear an oath that we will leave your lands and never return.”
Ivar judiciously turned to the angry people, asking, “Should the Jomsviking Selik be spared?” With shouted cheers and clanging shields, they voted to stay his execution.
Thork blinked disbelievingly. Selik would not die. In truth, they were all spared who lay here still on the ground awaiting execution. He started to smile, but then saw Ivar approaching. The hate on his face contorted his features into an ugly, monstrous mass of puffy flesh. He walked directly up to Thork and snarled, “Give this message to Sigtrygg: I will see him dead yet.” For emphasis, he kicked Thork in the chest with his heavy boot.