Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge?

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Authors: Ellen Kuhfeld
people were watching, to the head of the band.
    The bailiff had taken Thorolf’s pouch of silver, and Otkel was certain it would never return. And now there was this trooper trailing along. ‘Help him however you can’, HA! A Welshman? The fellow had to be a spy.
    Otkel fumed, while his face remained solemn. The wagon creaked behind him, and there was the comforting presence of his men. The morning sun was well up and the day was warming. It would have been cooler without his bear-fur cape. He began to sweat, but he kept the cape. Thorolf deserved a well-dressed escort for his last ride here on Midgard.
    There were people on the road who gave them a respectful right-of-way. Otkel’s vision was keen. In the distance he could see oncomers as they sighted his band. They would scratch their heads and gesture to one another. Then somebody – there always seemed to be somebody—would come up. They would talk together, and point. Their eyes would widen, and they would move to the far side of the road.
    Sometimes there would be a flash of smile, vanishing almost before it began. Otkel marked those faces in his memory.
    There was a side road some distance beyond the abbey road, less used than this merchants’ thoroughfare, leading down an arched avenue of elms. The band of Northmen turned down it. Immediately the sound of the horses’ hooves and the rattle of the wagon-wheels quieted. The main road had been beaten down, the dirt washed away by the rains, the rocks left behind. Here, the grasses still held sway and the rocks were few.
    They traveled in silence below the elms. It was like riding the length of an enormous longhouse. Rays of light lanced through leaf-windows into the dimness beneath. Slowly the forest changed. Graceful elm gave way to gnarly oak, and the land began to rise. Ahead, through the trees, was a handsome hall shining in the sun.
    The road came into a large clearing with two hills. One hill had a building at its top, three times as tall as a man and covered with rounded shingles so it seemed scaled like an ancient dragon. It was small for a temple, but well-built. Near the temple was a great oak with golden torcs and silver arm-rings, bronze helmets and other sacrifices hanging from its branches. Much of the clearing around and beyond this hill was devoted to a temple farm and its buildings, all handsomely painted.
    The other hill was bare, with a circle of burnt stones at its summit.
    When they left the shelter of the trees, they saw tall wooden poles set into the ground close beside the trail. Some were plain and some carved with faces. Otkel and the others dismounted there, and gave their horses into the care of a temple servant. Leif stayed with the wagon as the others went forward. His left hand held the reins of the lead horse, while his right hand wrapped about his crucifix. His face was still, and closed.
    There were two pillars side by side, larger than the others. One bore a face with an eyepatch, the other the image of a bearded man with a hammer held beneath his chin. Otkel prostrated himself before the first. “Allfather Odin, I come bearing the body of your servant Thorolf, killed by shameful hidden ambush. Tonight there will be a mighty pyre, and many sacrifices; tomorrow, vengeance. We pray you: smile upon the pyre, smile upon the vengeance.”
    The Northmen lay in silence before the pillars, some praying to Odin and others to Thor. A breeze sprang up, rattling in the oak-leaves. A shadow flickered over them, and there was the sound of wings. Otkel looked up.
    One post, apart from the others, had a face with lines stitched across its mouth: Loki, a very treacherous god. A raven had landed on it, and was regarding them. As the Northmen began to move, to look toward it, it cawed loudly and took off, slow wingbeats swirling the air. It flew to the edge of the wood and joined a flock of ravens perched in a tree.
    Otkel did not like the looks of that. Ravens often carried messages. The bird of

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