Einer’s father plunged the dagger down. He stabbed the stallion in the throat, just under its jaw. Blood splattered out and hit the back of Einer’s right hand. His father carved through the flesh, pushing the dagger all the way through the horse’s throat to finish it quickly.
The horse kicked and made a gagging noise that reminded Einer of Ragnar’s dying moments.
He never looked away from the stallion’s eyes, stayed with it until the end, when the last strength left the animal.
His father pushed his fingers to the horse’s neck. His hand was dark with blood when he pulled it away, and he marked his own face with the colour, from the forehead down to the cheek. Then Einer’s mother crouched down and marked her own face too.
Hilda held the bowl underneath the horse’s neck to fill it up. When she was done and stood up with the stone-bowl full of blood, Einer placed the horse’s head down on the blood-red grass.
He rose from its side, walked to Hilda’s and glanced at her. She held the bowl of blood high above her head as the warriors continued to bang their shields, and for a while she silently communed with her father’s dead body, laid out on top of the nine-wooded pyre in the middle of the wide circle of villagers.
Einer did not take his eyes off her. He knew the stone bowl was heavy, but Hilda showed no sign of struggle. She was strong.
Without warning, Hilda turned to him, arms outstretched, holding the bowl. Einer dipped his fingers in the blood and marked his face, as his parents had done. The smell of metal was overpowering. When he was finished, Hilda handed him the bowl, wet her own fingers and flicked blood onto her own face.
One of Einer’s father’s thralls advanced with the golden bowl of blessed mead. Hilda took it and gave Einer a nod.
Behind them the horse was carried away, out of the crowd; out of sight. Its meat would be prepared and cooked for tonight, its bones offered onto Ragnar’s grave.
With the stallion’s blood, Einer blessed everyone who stood close to the pyre; everyone who in life had been close to Ragnar. To all who had blood on their face Hilda served the sacred mead. She had to refill the bowl several times.
The stone bowl began to feel heavy in Einer’s hands by the time he reached Finn’s wife. He smeared the blood on her cheeks and moved along to her husband. Finn’s smile stank of superiority. Recently Finn was everywhere; with the famed warriors, at Einer’s father’s side, and at Hilda’s, with that cold stare that Einer doubted he would ever grow to understand.
It was a relief to move along to Hilda’s uncle and aunt, and their daughter, Tyra, who was as good as a sister to both Einer and Hilda. Einer dipped his fingers in the blooded bowl one last time, smeared the dark colour onto Tyra’s face and dried his hand on the back of his blue tunic. With his bloody fingers, he rearranged a flower in Tyra’s hair, and smiled to her. Hilda took his place and offered Tyra a sip of the blessed mead.
Together Einer and Hilda walked to Ragnar. The warriors hammered their shields in rhythm.
The pyre was so tall that Ragnar lay a handspan above Hilda’s head.
The skald’s arms and fingers were covered with rings; he would not go to Hel bare. His fingernails had been cut short so Loki could not use them in the afterlife, and his hands rested on the hilt of his unsoiled sword that had never had a chance to taste blood. Ragnar had never been fit to go back into battle. His limp had kept him away for more than two dozen summers; a sad destiny.
It hurt to see Ragnar like this. The smell that surrounded the old man was heavy and foul, like that of a rotting animal left behind by a pack of wolves.
Einer coloured his fosterer’s face with the stallion’s blood. The pyre was so tall that even Einer could not reach to the middle of it. In turn, Hilda climbed up the side of the stacked wood and leant in to reach Ragnar and pour the sacred mead over his lips so it flowed over his cheeks and chin and dripped out over the silk pillows he lay on. More carefully and gracefully than Einer had known her capable of, she climbed down again.
Two thralls rid them of the heavy bowls. Einer’s hands had been steady throughout the ceremony, but they began to tremble almost as soon as he let go of the blooded stone bowl.
The villagers stomped their feet. The air was tense and expectant as the sound resonated from the burial ground, out towards Ash-hill.
A thrall was guided up the slope towards them, in through the crowd and around the pyre like the stallion had been. It took two thralls to hold him up and make him walk. People turned to look as he passed. He was brought around once, outside the crowd, for all to see, before finally being guided towards Einer’s father.
The admirable thrall was Carlman. Before Einer had begun raiding, he had often stayed in Ragnar’s longhouse during the summers when both his parents were abroad, and during those times, it had been Carl who had taken care of him.
The thrall would serve Ragnar well. In honour of his choice, he had been given both mead and dream caps, more than he had ever been given before, and he was brought before the villagers free and unbound; an unusual but brave choice. He was a thrall, but had chosen to be there.
‘Ragnar Erikson, son of Erik Ivarson,’ Einer’s father yelled loud for everyone to hear. ‘May this thrall serve you always, with as much vigour and care as he served you in Midgard.’
The villagers took steps back and forth, commencing the dance. The two thralls who had brought Ragnar’s servant to the burial ground let him stand on his own.
Einer’s father turned to Carl. ‘Speak, thrall!’ he ordered.
The servant was dressed modestly. He swayed and Einer feared the dream caps and mead had made him forget his words.
‘In life, I served my master,’ Carl shouted, just when Einer was certain he was in no state to speak at all. ‘In death I shall follow.’
They yelled and roared as loud as they could. Einer swung his heavy shield around from his back and tapped it with his fist, along with the hundreds of other warriors. When they stopped, and the burial ground quieted again, there was only the stomp of their feet left. The rhythm accompanied the thrall as he walked towards the pyre, arms raised in the air.
He slipped when he climbed up the wood.
It pained Einer to see Carl leave, but he was proud that the thrall had decided to sacrifice himself, and he was certain that in return Carlman would gain the knowledge he sought in the afterlife. Sacrifices were always rewarded.
For a short moment, Carlman stood on the top of the pyre, his hands raised in the air. The warriors banged their shields for him. Then Carl knelt down besides his master.
The two thralls who had helped him to the burial grounds climbed up to tie his wrists to his ankles with horsehair rope.
A torch was brought forward. Hilda took it and walked towards the pyre. Carl gaped at her with fear in his eyes, but he did not move. Einer could almost hear the servant’s blood pound, like the stallion’s had.
Hilda stopped in front of her father and raised the torch high into the air. The warriors stamped while they tapped their shields. Einer’s throat was tight. Carl cried as he watched Hilda. Carlman had served Hilda her entire life. It was befitting that she was the one to send him on his way. She held the burning torch in outstretched hands.
‘Death,’ the chanter sang from the other side of the pyre.
Everyone began to sing as Hilda lowered the torch in outstretched hands.