Raven: Blood Eye by Giles Kristian

I was both Englishman and Norseman, and yet somehow neither. So I whispered one prayer to Christ and one to Óðin that we might find food for ourselves and not feed the carrion birds with the flesh of the dead.
     
In front of me strode the brothers Bjarni and Bjorn, their grey helmets dull and menacing in the weak spring morning's light. Their shields were slung across their backs, and their short ringmail coats were visible at their tunics' hems and sleeves. I was gazing at the wicked-looking battleaxes in their hands when Bjarni mumbled something to his brother and handed him his axe. He turned to face me and I stopped dead. The others began to climb a steep hillock, using great tufts of grass to pull themselves up, whilst I stood swaying on legs that still thought they were at sea. Suddenly I wished I were back on Serpent with Ealhstan.
     
'I have something for you, Osric,' Bjarni said. It was Bjarni's shoulder into which I had sunk an arrow during the raid on Abbotsend. His jaw was clenched and his hands made great fists. I thought he would kill me and I took a step back, but he grabbed the cloak at my neck and yanked me towards him. 'You'll need both hands to climb, unless you plan to command Óðin to send his flying horse to carry your arse up there,' he said, gesturing with his chin to the hilltop. Then he thrust something through the edges of my cloak and shoved me so hard that I fell on my arse. I looked down to see an arrowhead with some of the shaft still attached sticking through the cloak, fastening it as securely as any brooch. The remaining wood was stained dark with Bjarni's blood. 'It's your arrow, boy. You keep it,' he said. Without a smile or further word he turned, grabbed fistfuls of grass and began to climb.
     
At the crest of the hill, we saw that the land spreading into the distance was not flat, but undulating and heavily wooded. The stream I had seen from the ship was wider here, but not by much. It was rugged and coursing and clear enough for me to see its brown stony bed.
     
'This stream will take us to our dinner,' Sigurd said as we knelt to drink the fresh water from gourds or cupped hands. And we knew he was right, for men will always make their homes near such streams. They are like the veins in our flesh and we cannot live without them.
     
'I want you to offer a sacrifice, Sigurd,' Asgot the godi said, wide-eyed. He looked agitated. 'I told you I saw blood.'
     
'You always see blood, Asgot,' Sigurd said, waving the words away, 'you were born with a ship's rivet in each eye.' He stooped to fill his leather water bottle. 'We are far from our gods, you old sea urchin. What would you have me sacrifice?'
     
The godi turned to fix me with his stare. 'Are you blind, Sigurd?' he asked, clutching his sword grip. 'You drink from the stream but you do not see the stream.'
     
'Be careful, godi,' Sigurd warned, standing and slapping down the wooden stopper. 'Your tongue writhes like a worm.'
     
'Speak plain, Asgot,' Olaf said. 'We don't have time for your riddles.'
     
Asgot sneered and turned back to Sigurd. 'The stream is alive,' he hissed. 'It sleeps now, but it lives.' The men stopped drinking and backed away from the water's edge, stepping lightly. 'The dragon sleeps, Sigurd. If you intend to follow his course, you must make an offering. If he wakes to find that you have not . . .' He broke off and began praying to Óðin in hushed tones whilst the others looked to their jarl with grim faces.
     
Sigurd stared into the stream for a long time and then raised his head, his eyes marking the water's course into the distance. The pebbly shallows twisted through the landscape and I thought I saw the bony spine of a serpent or dragon lying asleep and hidden, waiting for unsuspecting men to cause offence.
     
'Well?' Sigurd asked, looking at each of his men in turn. 'Any of you volunteer to put himself beneath Asgot's knife? Come now. One of you must have woken this morning hoping the godi would