God of Vengeance Read Online Free Page A

holding the ox’s halter, threw an arm around the young man’s face, hauled his head back and sliced open his throat in a crimson spray.
    The women gasped as the thrall fell to his knees clutching the savage, blood-spitting wound and Harald’s warriors beat their shields with spears and swords and the ox roared as the stink of blood filled its flaring nostrils.
    ‘He was a good thrall,’ Sigmund said above the clamour. Men were chanting ‘Óðin’ and the young thrall lay on the rocks, gore-drenched, wide-eyed and spluttering.
    ‘He was,’ Jarl Harald agreed, ‘but the omens were bad. Today I would rather have the Allfather’s favour and one less slave. Leave the beast, Asgot,’ he called, then turned to Sigurd. ‘Have them slaughter it properly, Sigurd. We will eat it at our victory feast.’
    ‘Yes, Father,’ Sigurd said, watching the godi drag the dead thrall towards the sea, his blood smearing the rocks. Then Asgot dropped the body into the plunging surf where it floated, limbs buffeted this way and that, its bloodless face turned up to the sky, the eyes bulged with the surprise of being dead.
    Asgot looked at Harald and Sigurd, pulling the braids of his beard through his gore-slick hands so that those hair ropes wicked the blood and made him look even more feral. ‘It is no bad thing to remember Njörd, too, before a sea fight,’ he said and Harald nodded in agreement and put on his helmet which was a thing that would make even a king envious. Forged of the finest steel, it boasted many decorated panels of polished silver plate, and a high crest of bronze that came down to a raven’s face, the creature’s beak dividing two thick eyebrows of brass. Below these were eye guards and a nasal that made the wearer look like one of the Æsir come down from Asgard, and Sigurd had never seen anything more beautiful.
    ‘He who stands with me this day to feed the wolf and the raven is my brother!’ the jarl bellowed.
    Olaf raised his spear. ‘Harald!’ he roared. ‘Harald!’ Then more than one hundred warriors took up the chant, ‘Harald! Harald!’, the din of it filling the new day, carrying to the gods like the call of the Gjallarhorn announcing the beginning of Ragnarök, the final battle, and Sigurd felt the thrill of it thrum in his blood like wind through a ship’s rigging.
    ‘Good luck, brother,’ Sigurd said to Sigmund who was tying the thong of his own helmet beneath his golden-bearded chin.
    ‘I will tell you all about it tonight, little brother,’ he said with a grin, then turned to join the others boarding
Reinen
,
Sea-Eagle
and
Little-Elk
. Harald and five of his best warriors took up positions at
Reinen
’s bow and the rest seated themselves on their sea chests which served as row benches, as the spruce oars were taken from their trees and handed out. Mooring ropes were untied and at the command of
Reinen
’s helmsman, Thorald, those on the port side used their oars to push the ship out from the berth.
    Wives and daughters came onto the jetty now and called out their farewells, wishing their menfolk good luck and commanding them to be careful, and the men mumbled their replies or simply waved or nodded, reluctant to be singled out amongst their sword-brothers.
    In the time it takes to sharpen a knife all three ships were out in the deep water, heading east into the Skude Fjord towards the sun, their oars dipping and rising neatly for there was not much wind for sails, besides which Harald knew it was no bad thing to keep the men busy before a fight.
    For a while the folk of Skudeneshavn watched them go, many touching Thór’s hammers and other amulets and charms at their necks and muttering to the gods to bring their husbands, fathers and sons safely back from this day’s bloodletting.
    ‘I’m coming with you, Sigurd,’ Sigurd’s sister said, appearing beside him as he stared after
Reinen
as though strength of will alone would carry his body over the sea to land on the deck like a