PLEASE READ

Hi everyone!

Apologies for the long, long delay in getting this chapter out. I had terrible writer's block and really struggled putting the vivid picture in my mind down on paper – as a result, I am not particularly proud of this chapter, it is definitely not my best work so please don't judge it too harshly.

ATTENTION – I know that when authors recommend music to accompany chapters, most people (including myself) just skip past and pay no attention. However, if you really want to get a good vision of what an Ullac celebration would be like please listen to "Berserkir" by Danheim. Their music is amazing and it's all on Spotify + Youtube. I found their music a while ago when I first started re-writing this story and it is incredible. There is another song which I used as inspiration for a later chapter and it really captures the scene perfectly.

As always, any feedback/thoughts/ideas are appreciated.

Thanks for reading!

-E


Chapter VI

Meraki – "To do something with passion, with absolute devotion, with undivided attention. No matter how difficult the task; it is done with all your heart."

Origin: Greek


When Ivar watched the marvels of the Ullac camp, it was as if he were lost in another world. For how long he remained still, spine braced against the wooden wine bucket, he was unsure. He had lost all track of time. The youngest son of Ragnar leant his skull against the bucket; watching, waiting. He drank in the sight of it all. The intoxicating savageness of it. Shirtless Ullacs tiptoed over beds of burning coals, laughing and hollering as the flaming embers licked at their bare feet. Half-naked women twirled and danced, the wild flowers in their loose hair gulping in glances of bonfire light. Glowing and colourful. Little children ducked in between the legs of the crowd and chased the Ullac pack dogs, as free as a far-northern breeze. For the longest time, Ivar's gaze had remained solely on Eydis. She had had that little boy balanced on her hip, bouncing him gently to the beat of the drumming. He was giggling away, tugging on the front of her yellow dress and blowing spit bubbles but Eydis didn't seem to mind. If the son of Ragnar squinted, he could see the ring on Eydis' left hand glinting in the firelight. Wedding ring. Every now and then the metal would flash, and Ivar's mind would churn with questions as to who had put it there. He wondered intently what the man might look like. He was probably tall and muscular and dark haired, tattooed and fierce and the kind of Viking that women dreamed of. Ivar had only glanced away for a moment, but when he searched for her once more, Eydis was gone. The little boy had been scooped up by another mountainous Ullac man and was being tossed into the air playfully until he squealed with laughter. Eydis had simply melted into the tangled, dancing crowd and Ivar immediately felt inexplicable disappointment at her disappearance. He pushed away the feeling bitterly and his gaze roved back towards the enormous crackling bonfire. Ivar's eyes narrowed. He noticed two Ullac men walking around the edge of the flames carrying buckets, scattering handfuls of something onto the fire. His head tilted, watching. With each handful, a pungent scent of dried herbs rose from the bonfire and suddenly the pieces slotted together in Ivar's mind.

"Ivar?"

"Huh?" His gaze snapped up to Gudrik's face. He hadn't heard a word the twin had been saying.

Gudrik smiled crookedly, a look brimming with amusement, and he slouched down into the grass beside the youngest son of Ragnar. "I asked if you wanted another drink." A cup was extended in Ivar's direction and he accepted it gratefully. "What do you think then?" Gudrik lifted a finger in the direction of the crowd. "Wild, no?"

"I like it."

"It seems your brother does not agree." Ivar's glanced in Sigurd's direction. The blonde boy was sitting atop a tree stump, brooding. He was whittling at a wooden stick with his dagger. Everything about him screamed resentfulness. Over the course of the evening, the Ullacs had tried to bring him into the fold; offering him cups of herbal wine, platters of food and teasing jokes, but Sigurd had remained stoic and unresponsive. It was clear he disapproved of this way of life. Dissatisfaction was rolling off him in waves and his eyes were narrowed moodily. Eventually the clan had given up and returned to their festivities; if Sigurd did not want to participate, they could not force him to. Gudrik chuckled good naturedly. "He's a stick in the mud, huh."

Ivar just shrugged, and his gaze moved slowly back to the little boy. He was balanced precariously on the man's shoulders, chewing sloppily on one of his hands and giggling. The Dagny boy followed the line of Ivar's eyes and he smiled gently.

"You want to meet him?"

Ivar shrugged again. Frankly he had no interest in meeting a child which he suspected to be Eydis', but he liked the twins well enough and didn't want to be openly rude when they had been so welcoming. Gudrik took the shrug as a yes and called over to the man juggling the boy that was more monkey than human. "Little Oleg!"

The mountain turned, waved and dumped the child down on his unsteady legs. The boy stumble-ran over to Gudrik as quickly as he was able, and the Dagny boy wrapped his muscular arms around him in a bear hug.

"Leif, this is Ivar. Say hello." Ivar's eyes raked carefully over the boy's face, identifying Dagny angles and Dagny green eyes. Eydis' son. Despite the unexpected anger beginning to surge through his bloodstream, Ivar extended a hand in the child's direction and Leif shook it with his tiny, chubby fingers.

"Hello Leif." There was a garbled response and a goofy, barely toothed smile in return, and Ivar suddenly felt a sort of sadness pulling at him. It was the sort of melancholy that he felt when he thought of Aslaug. Melancholy born of loss. He would never have sons of his own, he would never see them grow and thrive. He would never see them gain teeth and muscles and fire in their bellies. If blessed with a girl, he would have named her after his mother, and she would have grown up beautiful and fierce and touched by the Gods. Just like her namesake. His heart ached for those imaginary children.

"Off you go, little man." Gudrik pushed Leif in the direction of the bonfire gently and he was immediately swept up by a collection of Ullac girls. The blonde woman Ivar had seen with Gudrik before, the one with the facial tattoos and the silvery braids, gathered him up in her arms. She looked in their direction and smiled. Ivar's heartbeat faltered. The way she looked at Gudrik, the way she looked at Leif, it was an expression Ivar had only ever seen from Aslaug. It was a look of pure love. The twin leaned back on his elbows, seeming pleased. "He will be a heartbreaker that one."

"Seems like a good boy." Was Ivar's only answer.

"Yes, he is." Gudrik crossed his arms behind his head. "Are you good at keeping secrets, Ivar?"

The son of Ragnar's face snapped in Gudrik's direction. The question had been so unexpected that it took him a moment to answer. His response was the truth, because as all of Kattegat suspected, Ivar was very good at hiding things.

"Yes."

"Leif is a Dagny."

Ivar's jaw clenched but he covered it with an absent shrug. "He looks like a Dagny."

"You mean he looks like Eydis."

"I suppose." Yes. "But you all look alike to me."

Gudrik chuckled throatily. "Yes we do, more so than the Ragnarssons at least." He took a deep gulp of his wine and sighed, gesturing lazily to his black mop. "The dark hair cuts through anything else. I suppose we can thank our mother for that."

"We heard that your mother died." The twin nodded, and Ivar continued to probe. Perhaps if he asked enough questions, the bitter thoughts he had of Aslaug would dissolve. "And Brodir has remarried twice, no?"

"Yes, three unfortunate women agreed to marry him. So?"

"So," Ivar continued. "He has no other children."

"My mother gave him four sons."

"But, no others?"

"Brodir has always been somewhat obsessed with progeny. Five children weren't enough for him." Gudrik chuckled, wiping a stray drip of wine from his mouth. "After my mother died in childbirth, Brodir waited an appropriate amount of time before remarrying."

"How long?"

"Two months." The Dagny boy grinned insincerely once again. "After that Brodir married my step-mother, Mahon. She was a decent enough woman, sort of skittish but kind enough. She tried for years to give my father a child."

Ivar glanced at him cautiously. He wasn't particularly keen on getting involved in familial politics, despite his curiosity being what brought it up. It made him uncomfortable. Eventually he decided to pose another question. "She failed then?"

Gudrik nodded. "Eydis believes that Brodir offended the Gods by re-marrying so early. She believes our mother was gifted and that the Gods cursed him because of it. Poor Mahon managed a few stillbirths, but no healthy children came." The twin shrugged. "That's why Brodir divorced her and married Sibbe, I suppose he thought a younger woman would give him more children, but none have come so far."

The Dagny boy lifted his cup to his lips, watching Leif and the blonde vixen bouncing him on her hip. "I can't say I blame Brodir necessarily." There was a strange expression on his face; one which spoke of love and longing. "Children are what make life worthwhile. Don't you think?"

"I would not know."

"Maybe not yet."

Ivar's head bowed angrily. It isn't fair. "I do not want children."

Gudrik laughed out loud, his shoulders trembling with the exertion. "Oh Ivar, you and I both know that you're lying. Every man dreams of having a son."

Ivar changed the subject. He didn't want to answer that, he didn't want to admit anything. I want a son. "If Brodir is so desperate for more sons, why hasn't he taken a mistress? Plenty of influential families have bastards among them."

"Not Dagny." Gudrik was watching the little boy intently. "Bastards are thought to weaken our family name."

"Why?"

"My father views them as weeds and if he finds one, he rips them out root and stem." The twin snorted back a laugh loaded with derision and swirled the dregs of wine in his cup. "In recent years, my father has become a very avid gardener." There was a long stretch of uncomfortable silence between them before the twin continued. "My father would have Leif drowned if he knew. That's why he lives with his mother and the Ullacs."

Ivar opened his mouth to protest but Gudrik's raised eyebrow stopped the words from emerging. Truthfully, the sons of Ragnar weren't sure exactly what Brodir was capable of. That was what made him so dangerous. Ivar's brow crinkled in disgust. "Brodir would have his own grandchild killed?"

Gudrik pressed a finger to his crooked lips and refilled their cups. He had almost forgotten how shocking House Dagny's familial politics could seem to outsiders, it had been so long since he was able to discuss it with anyone. The twin sipped his drink and inhaled the herbal scent of it deeply, the smell smoothing out the pangs of anxiety growing in his chest. "You have to understand, Ivar. The more time that you spend in this camp, the more secrets you will learn. Nothing is hidden here." Ivar's eyes flickered instinctively over Gudrik's naked torso and up the length of his left arm. But there was no brand. He is not an Ullac. Gudrik's eyes were unusually serious as he gazed at Ivar then and it suddenly dawned on the son of Ragnar, how different Eydis' eyes were to the rest of her family. That queer yellow ring around the edge of the iris. Surely that was something which would have been passed on to Leif. "But you must never breathe a word of what you learn to outsiders."

"I wouldn't." I wouldn't have anyone to tell. Ivar's fingers curled around his cup tightly. As much as he inexplicably hated the fact that Eydis had a son, he wouldn't contribute to the slaughter of an innocent child. Except the child he had murdered himself of course. He should have let me play with the ball. Ivar shook away the thought. His vinegar soul was wriggling uncomfortably under his skin. "I wouldn't want to put Eydis' child in danger."

Gudrik's face twisted in surprise. "Leif isn't my sister's child, Ivar." There was a beat of silence. "He's mine."


"Come meet our friends."

Signe glanced over her shoulder at the brothers and grinned. Ubbe's gaze was immediately caught by the crooked line of her teeth. They should have been unattractive, as misshapen as they were, but for some reason (perhaps the herbal wine or the bouncing firelight) they glowed. Her smile was so warm and inviting, it made the eldest son of Ragnar ache. Ubbe had the sudden urge to fit his mouth over hers, to match crooked teeth with crooked teeth, to pair wine-soaked tongues. Signe tossed her long wild curls with a flick of her hand and then lifted an arm to wave at the group ahead.

The collection of young Ullacs were stretched out in the grass; laughing and smearing each other with streaks of grey-white paint. Alma ran the last couple of feet towards them and leapt into the lap of one of the shirtless men. The man's hands squeezed Alma's hips roughly and he rolled her into the grass, nuzzling his face against the crook of her neck. Hvitserk paused haltingly, for the first time since they entered the Ullac camp the brothers almost felt uncomfortable. The longer they looked at the intimacy shared by those young clansmen, the more that they felt they were intruding. Signe turned fully in their direction and caught their hands in hers.

"You are nervous," Her head tilted as she looked at them. One of her eyebrows raised playfully "I can smell it." She tugged them in direction of the group with a chuckle. "Come and play with us."

A flurry of greetings sounded from the group in a language that the brothers could not understand. Signe seemed to be introducing them, and as the brothers slumped down onto the ground they were met with bright, friendly smiles and claps on the shoulder. It struck the sons of Ragnar how welcoming the Ullacs were, that they were such an open and accepting people, and it suddenly seemed strange that outsiders were so wary of them. Signe passed out more cups of herbal wine and the brothers accepted immediately. The intense feeling of intoxication was beginning to wear off and they craved its return desperately. Of course, they had not known when they had taken the first cup in Eydis' tent that it was extremely addictive. As the wine slipped down their throats, the brothers shivered. Their heart rates increased, a slight burning sensation spread out in their stomachs.

The man beside Alma laughed again, his crooked mouth tucked up into a big smile. He was talking to the girls in their native tongue again, glassy eyes sparkling impishly as he smudged his paint-stained hand over Alma's cheek.

"What's he saying?" Ubbe asked.

"Sorry, sorry." The blonde man held up his hands, chuckling. "I forget that outsiders do not speak the Old Tongue." He offered a hand in their direction. "I am Galon, Signe's older brother. Good to meet you."

"Good to meet you." Hvitserk replied. His eyes dragged over the exposed flesh of Galon's enormous, muscular torso. How do the Ullacs breed men so big? There were streaks of paint smoothed over his ribs, over the sloping lines of his shoulders, over the hilt of his chin. "So," He began slowly; cautiously, curiously. "Did you and Signe join the Ullacs together?"

"Mmhm," Galon shrugged.

"How long ago?"

"A while." Signe confirmed abstractly.

"How?"

Galon laughed that booming laugh of his. "You ask a lot of questions, son of Ragnar."

"I am curious."

"Thinking of signing up are you, Hvitserk?" Signe grinned crookedly.

"Ignore my little sister." Galon raised his hands in appeasement. "If you have questions, you should go to Eydis. She has all the answers."

"So," They're attention snapped rapidly to the red-head. "Are you going to share?" Alma nudged Galon with her elbow roughly and, after another warm laugh, Galon handed over a large wooden bowl. She stirred the claggy paint with a spoon and glanced in Signe's direction. "Sig?"

The other girl shifted closer, and the sons of Ragnar watched curiously as Alma dipped her hands into the bowl, rubbing paint between the pads of her fingers. Then she dragged her touch, sensuously soft, over the tilt of Signe's lips and down the length of her pale throat. The girl shivered noticeably and when her heavily-lidded eyes opened they were dark with excitement and desire. Signe licked her over-sized scarlet lips, those bent teeth glinting in another smile. The girls giggled, faces close together, breathless mouths just an inch apart. Signe's paint-soaked fingers slipped the straps of Alma's dress down, raking over her collarbones and down the swell of her cleavage. Their breathless mouths touched for half a second, as soft as a whisper, before they pulled away from each other. For the brothers, it was too much. It was all too much. They had never seen women that were so free, so at peace with their sexuality and their wildness. But the Ullac men didn't seem to even notice, perhaps they were so used to it that it no longer mattered to them. Galon had reclined on the ground and was watching the stars rather than the girls.

"What is that stuff?" Hvisterk's eyebrow raised.

"Stain." Signe's voice slurred, and she slouched back on the grass, cleavage swelling with each deep inhale of clear night air. "For the festival."

"What does it do?"

Alma leaned up on one elbow and pushed away a curtain of blood-coloured curls lazily. Her eyes were glazed as she looked at the brothers. "Try it and find out."

Frankly, the brothers were curious. They could not understand how streaks of crumbling white paint could affect them at all. But they watched the way that Signe's body trembled, and Alma's pupils grew and grew, gorging on firelight. The peculiarity of their situation and the pounding of herbal wine in their veins forced the sons of Ragnar to reconsider their options. Hvitserk chewed on his lip, eying the bowl of paint cautiously. Then the brothers glanced at each other and finally shrugged in agreement. Signe rolled over, sat up and dipped her hands into the paint bowl once more.

"Come here." She murmured.

Ubbe held out his arm and the girl smoothed a line of paint up the crook of his wrist, along the lines of his veins. She lifted her other hand and smeared a grey-white streak over his temple and into his braids. Hvitserk watched as his older brother's head lolled backwards and a deep huff of breath expelled itself from his lungs. Ubbe's shoulders slackened and his body crumpled down onto the soggy grass like a bucket of spilled apples.

"What did you do to him?" Hvitserk demanded. Unexpected fear was clutching at the strings of his voice, the words came out all scratchy. Signe pulled herself upright, as if it took all the effort in the world and then rolled her glassy eyes at him.

"Do you think I'm hurting him, huh? Did we invite you here to kill you, Hvitserk?" The girl snorted derisively as she smoothed paint between the pads of her fingers. "At least your brother isn't frightened."

"I am not frightened." The son of Ragnar rebuffed her, more roughly than he meant to and Signe's teeth pulled back into another teasing grin. They are only playing, Hvitserk reminded himself.

"Yes, you are." Signe lifted her hands and smeared the paint over the crown of her head slowly. The girl chuckled throatily as she leaned back down onto the ground. "All you outsiders think that we're the strange ones, but you are the ones too afraid to see the truth."

"What do you mean truth?"

"What do you think I mean? I mean truth. The things that we can see, and you cannot."

"I can see the truth."

"You may think so, but you are wrong."

Hvitserk sat up straighter. His pride had been bruised. "Then show me the truth you speak of."

"Ahh," Alma purred from where she lay near Hvitserk's elbow. "I don't think you could handle this, son of Ragnar."

"He said he wanted to try something stronger." Signe's teeth flashed in the glow of the bonfire. "Let the boy try." Her laugh caught in her throat. "Maybe he will become a man."

"Maybe he will die." Galon murmured teasingly.

"Maybe he won't. The older one looks alright."

"Fine." Alma shifted up, crossing her legs and gazing deeply into Hvitserk's eyes. "Let us see what you're made of, my love."


As the moon crested and the clearing became bathed in melting silver rays, droopy eyed children were being carried off bed. Small, nearly-sleeping, girls were gathered up in the tree-like arms of their fathers and taken to communal nests of blankets and furs at the edge of the crowd. There were numerous children curled up together, snuggled down in piles of woollen blankets; some struggling to keep awake to watch the festival, others knocked out entirely. It wasn't surprising really. Time seemed to move differently there in the Ullac camp; minutes melded into hours, hours into days. But eventually all children meet their limit and can no longer keep up with their parents. Ivar was watching Leif again; his tiny, chubby hand was held securely by the blonde woman (his mother, Ivar reminded himself) as he toddled towards the other children. The woman tousled his dark curls playfully and then left him to drift off to sleep with the other Ullac offspring.

There was so much to see, to watch. Ivar's wine-soaked gazed scorched over it all. The brew they had been drinking made his heart beat as quickly and intensely as the drums, and his already keen eyesight had sharpened considerably. The drink had a strange quality to it. Unlike traditional wine, which made the drinker slower and sloppier over time, brew expanded the mind. Colours were more vivid. Food taster better. Even the wind sounded more musical. The crowd, which had once seemed like a blurred frenzy, so many quaking bodies melding together, was now completely clear. Ivar could suddenly see each trembling limb, each trickle of sweat, each protruding vein. He could see it all. It was as if Ivar were looking at the world with fresh eyes. Everything was so magnified, so enhanced. It took his breath away. Every so often, Ivar's eyes would move to his brothers. They were now shirtless and crusted with white-grey paint, dancing and twisting wildly with some half-naked Ullac women. Hvitserk's head lolled backwards and he howled at the moon, as free as a wolf. They are already part of the tribe. Ivar rolled his eyes bitterly and he downed another cup of wine. That should be me. He wished suddenly that he was the one up there; shirtless and painted, dancing with Eydis, running his fingers through her blue curls.

Ivar's train of thought was cut off abruptly by the echoing, booming sound of a ceremonial horn. It was so loud that shivers rose on every inch of his skin. The dancing crowd shuddered, like a cornfield in a breeze, and then came to a stop. A sense of reverence seemed to overcome the gathered Ullacs. Even Hvitserk and Ubbe, whose pupils were unnaturally swollen and whose bodies where shivering with the need to dance, sensed that something was happening and fell still. Every face turned in one direction and Ivar shadowed them immediately. What are they waiting for? The drumming faltered, and a quivering silence followed, steeped in anticipation.

The clearing fell unnervingly still. Everything was silent. Until the sound of cawing ravens began to echo, they landed in the branches of nearby trees and stared down at the gathered assembly with wet, intelligent eyes. Ivar felt the brush of Aslaug's ghostly fingers over the back of his neck and he had the sudden and unmistakable feeling that the Gods were watching. Far in the distance an owl hooted. The trees encircling the clearing swayed in a sudden breeze, ancient bows creaking and rattling. Then, a steady stream of resonating drum beats fractured the quiet. This music was different. It was reverent, echoing, full of mystery. It lacked the savageness of music played earlier in the evening, but it had the sense of deeper meaning. The air in the clearing ached with age-old connection. The Ullacs began to stamp their feet, the tiny bells braided to their anklets clinking loudly with each movement. Ivar swallowed. It is beginning. The crowd began to chant; a deep and soulful sound which reverberated around the forest.

Ivar watched as three figures crossed the dirt ground towards the bonfire. The first was a man, the enormous titan that had been juggling Leif. Little Oleg, Ivar recalled suddenly. Why do they call him Little? His shirtless torso gleamed in the glow of the fire, pearl white and covered in a sheen of sweat. The way that his shaggy, dark hair fell into his eyes was such a strong contrast against his pale skin. Another man followed behind, older and more worn but still corded with muscle, and a woman brought up the rear of the line. There was darkness to her which seemed to ebb and flow from her skin like curling smoke. She was taller than the average woman but not so much to stand out; it was her face which had caught Ivar's attention. The long, curving, ragged scar which dragged along the left side of her face. Ivar watched as the flickering light caught it. As if she could feel an outsider's eyes on her, the strange dark woman turned her face and looked directly at him. There were so many emotions trapped in those eyes. So much pent-up hatred and pain, so much love and affection. It was a confusing mix and yet one that Ivar understood all too well. He soaked in her liquid grey eyes and almost shivered. They were the colour of day-old ice and just as cold.

The three figures lined up in front of the jumping flames and fell still. They waited; but for what they waited, Ivar was unsure. The clearing was consumed with the drumming and the humming and the tinkling of tiny bells. Then Ivar's eyes fell on her, the one he had been so desperate to see. Eydis approached. The trails of her yellow dress billowing in the breeze. She was flanked by four Ullacs; two men and two women. Ivar recognised the elegant older woman as the one who had led his brothers to Eydis' tent. Ranvieg. But his survey of the others was brief and callous, Ivar's attention was solely absorbed by Eydis. That blue-haired, black-and-gold painted creature. It was the first time that Ivar realised she wasn't wearing shoes; her bare feet stained black from the dirty ground. He was not alone in his staring of course, every eye turned on her. She was their leader after all. The High Priestess of the Ullacs. There was a liquid, rippling quality to the way that she moved that enchanted him. All who were gathered in that clearing knew that she was different, that she had been touched with magic, that she wasn't entirely human.

The five (The Original Five, as Ivar would later discover) came to a stop and linked their arms together; grasping each other by the forearm so that they formed the five points of a star. The chanting swelled, in a language that Ivar couldn't understand (no matter how he tried to) and enveloped everything and everyone. It was so loud. The trees shook with the strength of it. The Ullac council bowed their heads as if in intense concentration and then parted. Ranvieg lifted a wooden bowl and allowed each of the three a long, deep sip. Ivar wondered if it was just more brew in that bowl, but eventually he decided that it must be something different, something stronger.

One of the men; a brow-wrinkled bear lifted a metal rod from the edge of the bonfire. The branding iron. The end burned vivid orange and ember red, tinged with white. It was placed into Eydis' hands and slowly, ever so slowly, she laid it onto Little Oleg's skin. No sound of pain emitted his lips. Instead his head lolled backward, and a huff of exquisite pleasure escaped him. Ivar was reminded suddenly of the noise a man made when he finished inside a woman. He had heard that sound many times when he had followed his brothers and Margrethe. All the muscles in Little Oleg's gigantic torso strained and then relaxed, and his body crumpled backwards into the slightly damp grass. The other man and the woman followed. They were kissed by the branding iron and then collapsed onto the ground. A mighty, all encompassing cheer went up from the crowd. Even from Ubbe and Hvitserk who, like children, did not fully comprehend the situation but went along with the mood of the adults. No words were spoken. Eydis lifted the branding iron into the air with one naked, swan-white arm and the Ullacs erupted into in celebration.

Ivar watched in wonder as the drumming took up a different, more fervent tempo. The half-naked Ullacs stamped their feet and pounded their chests furiously. A guttural, groaning chant went up from the crowd and the entire clearing became a blurring mess of moving bodies once more; leaning forward and backwards like a shuddering wave. Eydis was still. Her bleached skin, illuminated by the bonfire light, seemed to Ivar like a piece of marble. Like a statue he had seen in King Ecbert's royal villa. Every loose tendril of ink blue hair glowed against the flames. The crowd pulsed and vibrated and twisted around her. The imprint of their shadows against the bonfire seemed almost magical.

Then, as if instinctively, the drumming ceased and only the echoing sound of ancient singing remained. The unconscious trio on the ground shivered, opened their eyes and slowly (like a baby animal on fresh legs) climbed to their feet. The Ullacs moved towards them, placing hand after hand on them. As if those three were the sun and all the other clansmen were its swirling rays. The atmosphere of community and acceptance swelled to stifling levels.

In a flash, the music exploded once more and Ivar watched Little Oleg embrace his new brothers, a grin of sheer joy plastered all over his young face. The fire dancers lifted their flaming batons to their lips and spat a stream of curling fire up into the air. The clearing was consumed in the fierce, animalistic eruption of dancing and cheers. Even the Ullac Council joined the fray. Ivar's eyes raked over Eydis' dancing form. The way that she spun, her slashed yellow skirt spilling out around her like the petals of a budding flower. And in that moment, the youngest son of Ragnar wished more than anything that he could walk. Little Oleg staggered through the tangle towards the High Priestess and placed his forehead onto hers. The way that he looks at her. Ivar's stomach twisted in poisonous, green envy. Was it him who put the ring on her finger? They swayed together, and Ivar kept losing track of them between the twining figures of the crowd. The dancing altered and the Ullacs began to throb. They churned in a circle around the trio and the Council. It seemed to Ivar like a storm, like a hurricane. Little Oleg thrust his unnecessarily muscular arms into the air and roared with pride. They are Ullac now. Ivar just watched Eydis, and her yellow dress and the way that the firelight gleamed on her skin, with an unexpected longing.

Eydis turned her face to him and the yellow ring around her iris glowed fiercely. Animal Eyes. And, as he looked around the camp, Ivar suddenly felt as if he were caught in a snare. The Ullacs had lured them in with women and wine and intrigue, and the sons of Ragnar had rushed into the trap willingly. Ivar couldn't be sure what the Dagny children were planning, but his senses were tingling. Something is coming. Something that required allies. Something beyond their raid to England. Ivar's eyes flashed back to Eydis and, as if she could hear his thoughts, she offered an almost imperceptible nod.

Something is coming.