more and more men drifted to the edges of the half circle of stone by the harbor. The sense of occasion spread, but there were no shouts, no summons—all over Stenvik, men just laid down their tools and moved to the harbor.
Finn watched them. He saw wary eyes, distrust, and worry. They could see what was happening, and there was tension in them; tension that needed to be directed.
The slow clop-clop of metal on stone sounded ponderous, almost unreal in the silence—and then the crowds parted for King Olav Tryggvason.
He walked his horse into the half circle and surveyed the assembled men, standing crammed in between Stenvik’s broken houses, in among shattered walkways and burned frames. Finn watched as a charge went through them—now they stared intently at the king, waiting for him to explain.
“Today I have had to make a choice,” King Olav said. His voice was soft, but it carried far. “Two men I respected and hoped would be our allies, Sigurd Aegisson and Sven Kolfinnsson, today lost their fight with battle fever, caught after injuries sustained fighting Skargrim and his raiders. And I did not wish to give them a . . .” The king swallowed, then continued, “a burial dedicated to the old gods.” The men exchanged glances. “But,” and the king’s voice grew in power, “I sought counsel!” He looked to the skies and made the sign of the cross. Moving hands caught a soldier’s eye, and Finn noted several of the men reflexively signing themselves. “And the Lord told me that we could give back to the old gods what was always theirs.”
Finn didn’t need a signal. He led the wagon toward the funeral ship and motioned for two of his own men to follow. He could hear King Olav continuing behind him: “. . . has rejected them! Because the Lord does not accept just anyone! You have to be chosen to enter Jesus the White Christ’s halls! And the Lord chose you!” A cheer went up from the crowd as Finn’s men clambered aboard, carrying the bodies. “The Lord chose you to fight for his realm on earth!” Another cheer. “Hurry up!” Finn hissed under his breath as one of the bodies was unceremoniously thrown on top of the pyre. The other soon followed, and Finn’s men retreated, grabbing oars as they went. Behind them, King Olav’s voice was rising to a crescendo. Finn reached for his fire-steel.
“The Lord will send you—”
Sparks flew and caught on broken twigs, crisp leaves, dried grass.
“To do his bidding—”
Finn knelt and blew on the embers, gentle as a lover. A tiny flame rose to meet him.
“He will send you across the sea—”
Finn moved away. Rejected, the flame sought food for its hunger.
“With steel”—a cheer—“and faith—”
Crackling and hissing, the yellow-white tendrils gusted through the grass, bit into the wood.
“Push!” Finn hissed. His helpers used the oars to push at the solid hulk of the ship; gradually it started inching along, picking up speed.
“And he will send you to watch Trondheim burn!”
The old ship picked up momentum and floated clear of the harbor just as the first flame breached the barrier of wood, licked the cold, dead bodies and reached for the sky. An animal roar went up from the mass of men; the flame fed on it. Rising like dragon’s teeth, it fed on the air, on the wood, on itself, on the world. Finn and his helpers disappeared into the darkness created by the spectacle of moving flame; the men on the quayside stood transfixed by the gliding fire. Here and there in the crowd Finn saw men he didn’t recognize who stared at the flaming ship as if they were seeing ghosts—tough men, some of them older, one of them shading a single good eye to see better—but the vast majority of the crowd looked energized by the burning, heated by the flame, malleable as a blade in a smithy.
Slipping through the crowds, Finn hurried toward the north road.
The shadows of Stenvik Forest clawed at the north road. Valgard led the horses at a walk, waiting for Finn to catch up. Convincing King Olav to use the deaths of Sigurd and Sven as a rallying display for the soldiers had been easier than he’d expected. Now he just needed to find the right place . . .
The forbidding barrier of trees appeared to open up to him, and a path became visible. Valgard nodded, reached into his sack and withdrew a knife with a curved