The ax met the wood with a dull thwack, the lid flew off Freyja’s mouth, and a big crack opened in the hollow statue. Moving with the swing, King Olav sidestepped and was on to the next one even as the sailor behind the statue tipped it out over the edge of the platform. The crack of the ax mixed with screams of horror from the crowd as rotting fruits, putrid meats, rats and mice, and crawling insects of every kind tumbled out of the broken statue and fell down onto the heads of the six hundred bound men. The statues emptied one by one onto the crowd below as Hakon Jarl’s men tried to dodge the disgusting missiles, but they could do little with their hands bound and ended up pulling against each other as the vermin clawed, bit, and scurried away; some met their end under stamping heels. Several of Hakon’s warriors ran head-first into King Olav’s men, but they’d been told what to expect, and the shield wall held.
Up on the platform, the broken statues had been removed. King Olav stood at the edge, regarding the spectacle. When the turmoil finally subsided, he spread out his hands again, as if pleading for calm. Slowly the crowd fell quiet.
“Did you see that?” he shouted. “Did you?” The silence did not deter him. “Your so-called gods are old, hollow, and full of decay. Should they not have struck me down?” He turned to Hakon. “Did you see them strike me down, Hakon Jarl?”
The old man stood at the back of the platform, immobile. “No,” he said. Then he repeated, louder, “No, I did not.”
“The White Christ protects me!” King Olav shouted, “as he protected you from the wrath of the old gods! The White Christ stands by his people.” On cue, one of the sailors carried a slim girl to the stairs and helped her up onto the platform. Standing behind the crowd, Valgard nodded. Dressing her in white had been a nice touch.
Two of Finn’s men moved toward the stairs with a bound and hooded fighter who was kicking and screaming, though to no avail. They half-pushed, half-dragged him up onto the platform.
“This creature of the Lord,” King Olav intoned, gesturing at the girl, “this creature was attacked tonight. She is one of yours, people of Trondheim. She is someone’s daughter, someone’s granddaughter. And the White Christ believes that the daughters of Norsemen deserve to live safely! He does not believe in the old ways. I told my soldiers that they could not claim their spoils here because the people of Trondheim are brave; they are our kin; they are Norsemen, just like I am. But she was attacked, three times, brutally, and the rule of our Lord is very specific.”
The bound man on the platform was unmasked. It was one of Orlygr’s men. Valgard hadn’t met him before; he’d asked around. Maybe he’d done it, and maybe he hadn’t, but it didn’t matter so much. What mattered was that the people of Trondheim were hanging on King Olav’s every word.
“The rule says,” King Olav continued, “that you should do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” The other sailors moved up onto the platform. The last one held a foot-long belaying pin. “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. And so I say to you, even though the White Christ is new and different, he is no more merciful or forgiving than Odin himself.” Behind him, the bound man was thrown onto the platform, face-first. Two large men pinned down his upper body. “Like me, the White Christ is generous to his friends.” A knife flashed. The bound man’s sliced breeches were thrown off the platform, fluttering in the morning breeze before they landed in the mud. His pale flesh almost shone in the morning light. The audience was very silent. “But to those who disobey, he gives no quarter.” The thrashing man’s legs were spread and pinned down. Grim-faced, the sailor with the belaying pin knelt behind the fighter who was now obscured by bodies.
“So I say to you, people of Trondheim!” King Olav’s voice boomed out, strong and clear. “Follow me! Follow Hakon Jarl! Or—”
The scream was human, but only at first. It changed into something else, something animal and tortured, a wailing wave of pain that faded into crying whimpers. King Olav glanced at the sailor, who clenched his jaw and twisted.