Free Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? by Ellen Kuhfeld Page B

Odin, landing on the image of Loki? It doesn’t seem likely I’ll be able to rely on the favor of the gods in this matter.
    But he stood, and spoke. “We’ve been given an omen, men, and it seems very clear to me. The bird of Odin, battle-crow, bird of death, landed by us then took off. Death is with us for just a short while, and Odin’s favor will be fleeting also.
    “Then the bird of death joined with a flock—and who among you can tell me which one it was? Soon the killer will leave, join with others of his kind. Then we’ll never be able to pick him out.
    “The raven landed on Loki’s post: Loki, god of craft and slyness. That means we’ll need craftiness.
    “Put them together. The killer is here at the fair, and we have to find him before everybody leaves at the end of the week. If we’re clever, Odin will smile upon our vengeance—but we must act rapidly.”
    They stood, brushing twigs and leaf-fragments from their fine clothing. Otkel strode decisively over to the wagon, followed by the others. Leif quickly crossed himself, and stood alertly with the reins. They continued down the path on foot, Otkel leading, Leif guiding the horses, and the others forming a guard of honor about the wagon.
    The path led past the temple and the sacrificial oak, on to the knoll topped with stones. As they approached the oak, a gray-robed priest carrying a rune-carved spear stepped forth to block their way. He grounded the butt of the spear firmly on the bare earth of the path. “Who walks the ways of the dead?” he asked.
    “Thorolf Pike, and his men,” Otkel replied.
    “Thorolf is dead, that I can see. Where are your wounds, to give you the right to walk here?”
    Otkel stepped forward, and bared his arm. The priest slashed it with his shining spear-head. A thin line of red droplets sprang out on Otkel’s forearm, and a rivulet of blood formed. Otkel held his arm out, let the blood fall on the oak-roots, then stepped past the priest and stood by the side of the path. The next man came to the priest, and gave him his arm.
    Leif was last, and he didn’t present his arm to the priest. “I am a Christian now, and must not shed blood sacrifice to Odin.”
    “Then you cannot pass.” The priest spread his feet and planted the butt of his spear firmly on the ground. “We have spoken of this before, Leif.” They stood confronting one another. The priest was tall and gaunt. His silver beard, shot with a memory of red, gleamed in the sun. Leif was short and stocky. Gray was just beginning to show in his hair.
    “Thorolf was my friend,” Leif said, “and Odin is Lord of poetry and mead as well as of battles and death.” Leif took a mead-skin from his belt and drank, then poured a shining golden stream of honey-wine onto the tree’s roots. “There is a poem in the holy book of Ecclesiastes:
     
    To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven:
    A time to be born, and a time to die;
    A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
    A time to kill, and a time to heal;
    A time to break down, and a time to build up;
    A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
    A time to mourn, and a time to dance.
     
    “Thorolf was my friend,” Leif said once more. “His time to die came. Now it is time to mourn, and perhaps it shall soon be time to kill. Your god and mine can agree on these things.”
    Shaking his head, the priest nevertheless stepped to one side. Leif joined the others. The path led down, then up again. Soon they were at the top of the burning-knoll. Wind blew gently about them, their cloaks of red and brown and blue flowing at their backs, the bear fur of Otkel’s cloak rippling in the breeze. All around they could see treetops, and in the distance the walls and roofs of Northlanding.
    At the foot of the hill were storage sheds of oak and ash and elm, stocked with dried wood for the pyre. It would be their last act as Thorolf’s men to pile that wood for him, place him upon it,