Frowning, I cast a backward glance at the woman, but she’d already disappeared into the trees, so I turned my eyes to where torches glowed, illuminating a gathering of hundreds of people standing before a large flat rock. Drummers pounded the same rhythm they had before, low and ominous, and through the tree foliage a full moon glowed overhead.
As though they’d been waiting for our arrival, the drums increased their intensity, and the gothar appeared carrying bowls of liquid, offering mouthfuls to every individual they passed. One approached our group, but the warriors all shook their heads, declining the offering.
“You will drink,” Ylva said to me under her breath as both Snorri and Bjorn declined. “The tea will bring you closer to the gods.”
The last thing I wanted to do was drink the contents of the bowl. Even from here, I could smell the earthy musk of mushrooms, and I’d not lived such a sheltered life as to be unaware of what would happen if I drank.
The gothi smiled and lifted the bowl to my lips. I pretended to drink, but Ylva wasn’t fooled. “You think they can’t see?” she hissed. “You think they don’t know?”
I highly doubted the gods gave a shit whether I consumed mushroom tea or not, but I wouldn’t put it past Ylva to hold me down and force the entire bowl down my throat, so I took a tiny mouthful. Ylva declined to drink, and Bjorn gave a soft laugh at my scowl. “May the tea show you sweet visions, Born-in-Fire.”
Fuck.
I had no interest in seeing things, but short of sticking my fingers down my throat and vomiting in front of everyone, there wasn’t much to be done.
Peering between the heads of those taller than me, I watched a man lift a goat onto the altar, the creature showing little awareness, and therefore little concern, about its impending death. The drums grew louder, the man’s words to the gods drowned out by the noise. A blade made of white bone caught the moonlight and blood sprayed, the animal slumping as its lifeblood flowed into carved channels and dripped into waiting basins. A gothi dipped his hand in it, using it to mark the faces of those who’d offered the sacrifice. Blood dripped down foreheads and cheeks, and I swore I heard the droplets hit the ground despite distance making that impossible.
A shiver ran over me, the air charged in a way I’d never felt before. As if deeds done and words spoken in this place meant more than they did anywhere else. As though we truly were closer to the gods.
Discomfited, I stopped watching, focusing instead on the bald head of a man a few paces before me.
But the sensation didn’t lessen.
The air grew thick, smelling of thunder and rain. My skin crawled as the feeling intensified, and I broke my gaze from the bald head to glance at my companions. All were watching the altar, but as my eyes skipped over Bjorn, he rubbed his bare forearms, the dusting of dark hair on them lifting as though he were cold.
Bjorn never got cold.
What was going on?
Those around us who’d consumed the tea gaped at the sacrifice on the altar with strange, unblinking stares. I focused inward to see if my tiny mouthful of tea had taken effect.
Would I know? Would I be able to tell if what I was seeing was real or hallucination?
Glancing back to the ritual revealed that several more sacrifices had been made during my distraction. All around me, men and women bore streaks of blood the gothar had smeared across their faces. The coppery smell filled my nose.
Bump, bump.
My heart rate escalated, matching the rhythm of the drums, the world around me pulsing.
Bump, bump.
“It is time,” Ylva whispered into my ear. “Do not fail.”
One of Snorri’s warriors walked up to the altar. Except it wasn’t a chicken he held in his hand, but rather a rope attached to a bull, and I swallowed hard, feeling a hand press against my back. The crowd ahead of me parted, the people swaying in rhythm to the drums as I approached.
Or were they standing still?
Each time I looked at the crowd, I saw something different. Wasn’t sure whether what I saw was real or whether the tea was making me see things.
Each step grew harder, my breath coming in rapid pants as it had when I was racing up the mountain, but I drew no closer to the altar. I broke into a run, then stumbled, suddenly on top of the rock, reaching a hand out to the bull to touch its warm hide.
It shivered, turning its large head to stare at me, eyes like black pits.
A gothi pressed the knife into my hand.
I stared at the bone blade, the blood covering it swirling and moving like the tides of the sea, the smell choking me.
“I’ll hold him steady.”