January 867 - Jorvik - By the River Ouse
It was the dead of night and a high-pitched scream ripped through the bitter Winter air before trailing off into the silence of death.
His face cast in flickering shadow under dancing torchlight, Ivar Ragnarsson leaned back from the ancient altar and watched impassively as a pair of thralls dragged a blood-soaked body from the weathered stone, tossing it on the mist-shrouded riverbank where it joined another half dozen sacrificial victims with a wet slap. He nodded sharply at two men standing beside a prison wagon. "One more."
A Saxon was quickly secured and brought forth, struggling wildly. One guard grabbed his legs, the other took him under the armpits. Together they lifted the man onto the cold granite, holding him in place with an iron grip.
Beside Ivar a priest raised an ornamental dagger, its bloody blade inscribed with markings older than memory. Clad in heavy robes concealing an ill-formed body, face hidden by a voluminous cowl, the priest chanted in a hollow, sonorous voice,
"Ph'nglui Mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!" The foreign, guttural words rolled easily from his tongue, while his Norse was heavily accented. "Hear us, Great One. Accept these offerings and grant my lords victory in their upcoming struggle." The dagger flashed down, plunging into the prisoner's chest. Blood spurted in a great arc as the Saxon sagged lifeless.
Halfdan Ragnarsson shivered, uncertain if it was from the cold. Frowning, he spared a quick glance with brothers Bjorn, Sigurd and half-brother Ubbe. Leaning to Bjorn he whispered, "I wonder what Odin thinks of this?"
Bjorn, King of Svipjod and older than Halfdan by four years, merely grunted. Ubbe returned his look, his eyes betraying agreement. Young Sigurd, however, snarled and said harshly, "Odin does not hear our voice. Great Cthulhu does." He thrust his jaw toward Ivar. "Do you not trust our brother, Halfdan?"
Halfdan said nothing. Ivar was the eldest, and well renowned as a great leader. All this despite, or as a result of, his deformity, a condition forever hidden beneath an oversized kjalta. It was said the Great Old Ones had a part in this, a price demanded for his success. Be that as it may, Halfdan had no interest in the rumours, nor any desire to prove them true or false. It was disturbing enough to gaze into Sigurd's yellow, slitted eyes.
Taking silence as acceptance, Sigurd announced, "Watch now."
All eyes returned to the grisly altar and the man and priest behind it. The Saxon's body had been added to the pile, and silence reigned as the priest turned to the river and raised his arms. The robes slipped, revealing thin, pasty appendages with wide hands and long, hooked fingers. His skin under the torchlight appeared waxy and mottled.
Again the priest spoke in a guttural voice, words that Halfdan could never reproduce nor understand. The incantation ended, and the priest lowered his arms. There came a long period of silence, and then the waters churned and bubbled. Halfdan felt a chill deeper than the Winter cold crawl down his spine.
Several figures arose from the dark river, their crooked bodies silhouetted in the swirling mist. Each took a body and dragged it into the Ouse. Soon the riverbank was empty, save for the stain of dark blood.
Ivar and the priest conferred quietly for several moments after, before four thralls rushed over to raise the massive shield that Ivar used for transport, his lower body hidden by the substantial garment. Like some Sultan curled on a divan, they carried him toward his tent, the priest and entourage following.
Without a word Sigurd left to join them, leaving Halfdan, Bjorn and Ubbe to exchange looks, each lost in their own thoughts.
Bjorn broke the silence. "Tomorrow I ride with Ivar and Sigurd north to Northumberland in the hopes of confronting that devil Ælla." He paused. "Would that I was riding with you lot."
Halfdan stroked his red beard, his breath misting in the cold air. "I believe we are of the same mind when it comes to that priest, and the hold he has over our brothers. But we cannot deny Ivar's success in the northern islands and across the sea."
"And what of Sigurd? Those eyes. What do they want with him?" Ubbe said.
"He is young and impressionable. He idolises Ivar." Halfdan shrugged. "I wish I knew what the Great Old Ones plan." There was a pregnant silence before he slapped Bjorn on the back. "Would that you were joining us, too. Perhaps you will convince Ivar to let you go after laying waste to Northumberland. You are a King, after all, and subject to no one."
Bjorn grinned. "Save Ivar. And you? You are still off to Durham with Ubbe and that boy of yours, Ragnar?"
"Aye. Durham lies to my immediate north, and cries for my help."
The men laughed. Bjorn said, "All this sacrifice has given me a thirst. A flagon of mead is in the runes. Join me, if you wish." Without waiting on an answer, he strode toward his tent. Moments later Halfdan and Ubbe followed.