Brandewyne, Rebecca by Swan Road

Grove as Eostre's sacrifice, so that at the end of the festival,
seventy-two corpses, a magic number, would have been offered to the goddess.
    And
still, Wulfgar had not pledged himself as a thegn.
    "The
ducks waddle from the fullness of their bellies, and bask in the sun while
preening their feathers. Now does the wise wolf draw near— but slowly,
stealthily, Wulfgar," Yelkei cautioned, "so the whisper of his coming
is but the wind among the reeds."
    On
the ninth day, the longships were named and consecrated with blood, pushed over
the log rollers on the sand and then, just before being shoved into the sea,
the bodies of slaves were crushed to death beneath the massive hulls to assure
the blessing of Aegir, the sea god, and his wife, Ran. The waves of the sea
were the nine daughters of Aegir and called by such sinister names as Grasper
and Howler. No man wished to lie in their watery arms; and a prudent warrior
always carried a single piece of gold with him on board a longship, to pay
their mother, Ran, should he drown, so he could be certain of gaining entrance
into Valhöll. Even if it meant distributing coins or jewelry from his own
hoard, it was the duty of every good jarl who captained a longship to
ensure that each of his Víkingr could afford this offering. But despite
Yelkei's words of wisdom, Wulfgar despaired of the chance to know that in his
purse, he bore a Vikingr's piece
of gold for Ran. But then Yelkei said:
    "There
is a fat old duck who has foolishly strayed from the rest at the mere and
fallen into a little crevice, easy pluckings now for a hungry wolf. Go you down
to the foot of that small hill yonder and see if I do not speak the
truth."
    And
indeed, she did; for that was how he found Olaf the Sea Bull— lying facedown in
a rill that gurgled through a shallow clove at the foot of the small hill— so
that afterward, he was never certain whether Olaf had toppled in a drunken
stupor from the knoll, or whether Yelkei had given him a shove. Wulfgar always
suspected the latter. Hastily, he dragged Olaf's heavy bulk from the stream,
relieved that as he pressed down hard upon Olaf's back, the grey-beard began to
cough and to sputter, a trickle of water running from his mouth. After a
moment, the Sea Bull lurched to his hands and knees, retching, and Wulfgar
smelled the stench of sour wine and ale and the remnants of the midday's
horsemeat stew. Then, at last, his stomach purged of its contents, Olaf managed
to sit up and, bleary-eyed, peered at Wulfgar beside him.
    "That'd
not be something stronger than water in that flask of yours, would it?" he
asked Wulfgar, indicating the leather flask slung over the younger man's shoulder.
"Ale, perhaps, to wash this foul taste from my mouth."
    "Nabid," Wulfgar
returned shortly, unstoppering the flask and handing it to him, "but you
are more than welcome to it, lord."
    Taking
a generous swig, Olaf swished the beer around vigorously in his mouth for a
moment, then spat it out on the ground before gulping another long draught,
which he swallowed. After recapping the flask and passing it back to Wulfgar,
Olaf rose and staggered to the rill. There, hunkering down and cupping his
hands, he splashed his pasty face several times with cold water, shaking his
head to sling his wet hair from his eyes and, with one hand, wiping his
scraggly, dripping mustache and beard.
    "How
I came to roll down that hill, I do not remember," he said finally,
grimacing as he gingerly probed his brow, which he had struck on a rock in the
stream. "There must have been more of a bite to old Brunhilde's ale than I
thought, or else, more like, she tried to poison me— which I'd not put past
her, the vile-tempered shrew. Ah, well. 'Tis no matter. I reckon 'tis thanks to
you, lad, that I'll not be going to my burial mound this day."
    "Aye,
well, 'twas no more and no less than any other man would have done had he
spied you lying there, lord." Wulfgar carefully kept his eyes lowered, his
tone respectful,