Infinite 01 - Infinite Sacrifice

holds in his left hand. Toke suddenly looks stern and respectful as he has Dalla remove his cloak. He strips off his tunic by reaching down his back and pulling it over his head. I see a long scar running up from his wrist past his elbow and wonder what terrible battle he has seen. He bows his round royal head as Ansgar pours the water over. He comes up dripping and thanks him. Ansgar reaches into a sack he has laying at his feet and pulls out a golden chalice.
    He holds it up and proclaims, “This is a gift from the pope himself! It was made especially for you Chieftain Toke, to carry your church’s holy water.”
    He brings it up to him, and Toke bows his head gracefully in thanks, but when he rises, Toke points to the holy man’s large cross and says, “And that.”
    Ansgar looks taken aback, and his hand goes immediately to his jeweled cross. “This was a gift to me by the pope. I respectfully decline.”
    “I feel I can’t be truly Christian until I have one of those”—he rolls his hand, looking for the word—“things on my heathen chest.”
    Gunhilda tries to hide her laughter with her hand and looks off to the side. Ansgar stares at Toke flatly, blows out slowly, then begrudgingly removes the thick gold chain from his thin neck and hands it gently into Toke’s battle-scarred, padded hands.
    He smiles wide, throws it over his head, and proclaims, “I feel the power of Cross now upon me.”
    “Christ,” Ansgar corrects. “The power of Christ.”
    “Yes, that’s what I said.” Toke smiles and motions his people to come forward.
    Many from the circle line up for Ansgar to bless them, and Toke grows tired of the scene and takes Dalla into the house.
    The feast begins without the chieftain, and the Great Hall looks magical, with its long tables set up with chairs, dishes, and many lit candles. The Great Hall is only for the royal and hauld classes, while the peasant class and the thralls have to eat with their hands around campfires in the street. Hela sees us and coaxes us to her with a wave of her withered hand. She’s sitting with the freemen and tells us it is fine to sit beside her as her guests. As I eat the tender horsemeat, the fatty juices drip down my chin and arms. Turning my head to lick them off, I notice the sword of the fellow to my right. I recognize it immediately as my da’s, the same one my mother brandished the last time I saw her.
    I glance up and see the two dark spots on the jaw of the man who dangled me from his arms almost four years ago. The man looks down at me quickly, and I dart my eyes away. I wish I could’ve pulled that sword from his sheath and stuck it in his greedy, murdering belly. I stop eating and stare into the fire as I think about all the different ways one could kill a man.
    He speaks as I’m imagining his guts spilled out all over the wooden planks beneath us. “I’ll soon have enough to afford my own thrall.”
    Most of the circle couldn’t care less about what this warrior said, so he has to repeat himself louder.
    The man with the ice-blue eyes, who had captured Gunhilda years ago, speaks. “You can’t possibly afford a thrall. I’m still working my plot alone with my lazy brother. You can’t afford it, Ragnar.” He sweeps the hair from his widow’s peak back behind his ear.
    “You calling me a liar, Konr?” He throws down his plate.
    “No, simply wondering if someone found that hoard I’d buried about a month ago near your farm line, is all.” He sucks the juice from his fingers, one by one. “Strange thing is, it’s empty now.”
    Ragnar stares back. “Maybe your dimwitted brother here forgot where he buried it.”
    Orm puts his filthy, greasy hands up. “Calm down, boys. We’re friends here.” Ragnar picks his plate back up as Orm finishes, “Besides, maybe he found one of them elf hoards!”
    He throws his head back and brays like a mule. I can’t tell if everyone erupts in laughter from his joke or the way he laughs.
    Ragnar says, “Well, elf hoard or not, I’ve almost got enough, and I know just the thrall I’m going to offer on.” He looks directly at Una.
    I freeze beside him and watch out of the corner of my eye as he removes a comb from his belt and begins taming his long mustache.
    Orm itches low at his crotch with an irritated look. “You’re in league with the elves and dwarves and such, being the Angel and all?”
    Hela looks up from her plate, and when she sees him referring to her, she nods, like she has