"Juliet Marillier - Wolfskin 1 - Wolfskin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Marillier Juliet)

fice, and for a moment he had thoughtтАФbut no, this was only a boy, a lad of his own age or maybe
younger, who stood among the richly dressed entourage of the nobleman, Ulf. But how he stared. He
looked at Eyvind as a starving wolf gazes at a man across the wayside fire, wary, fascinated, dangerous.
The boy was pale and thin, his brown hair straggling unplaited, his mouth a line. His features were
unremarkable save for those feral eyes. Eyvind blinked and looked away.

The girls bore the brimming bowls down the temple, white fingers dipping the blood twigs in, splashing
bright crimson on floor and wall, anointing pillar and hearth and door frame, marking each man and
woman with the sacrifice. When the bowls were empty, Karl laid them on the altar beside the knives, and
the goat was dragged outside to be gutted and prepared for cooking.

"Warfather, we toast you this day of Yule!" Karl raised his great drinking horn. Ingi had passed between
the men, pouring the ale with care: one would not wish to offend Thor by spilling any before the toasts
were complete. "All hail, great battle leader!" Karl called. They drank.

"All hail mighty Thor, smiter of serpents!" Ulf cried, rising to his feet and lifting his own horn, a fine piece
banded in silver. The men echoed his ringing tones and drank again.

"We salute you, crusher of giants!" Eirik's voice was as fierce as his weathered countenance. So the
toasts continued, and as they did the patch of sky darkened above the roof aperture, and the inside of the
temple glowed strangely in the fire's light. The boy was still staring; now the flames made twin points of
brightness in his night-dark eyes. Thunder cracked in the sky above; sudden lightning speared the sky.
The storm was on its way.

"Thor is well satisfied," said Eirik. "He calls his greeting to our small assembly; it is a hearty war song.
Come, let us move close to the fire, and pass the day with good drink and feasting and tales. A long
season we spent on the whale's way, with the wind biting cold through our tunics and never a drop of ale
nor a woman's soft form in our sight. We thank the god for guiding us home safely once more. We thank
him for our glorious victories, and for the rich spoils we carry. In the growing season, we shall sail forth
again to honor him in deeds of courage, but for now, it is good to be home. Let him look kindly on our
celebration."

There were many tales told that day, and the more the ale flowed, the more eloquent the telling. There
were tales of Thor's valor and Odin's cunning, tales of dragons and heroes. Eyvind sat close to his
brother, Eirik, savoring every moment. Of such stuff are dreams made. He wanted Eirik to tell them
about the autumn viking: where they had been, what battles they had fought and what plunder they had
brought home. But he did not ask. It was enough, for now, that Eirik was here.

That boy was still watching him. Perhaps he was simple in the head. Eyvind tried staring back; the boy
met his gaze without blinking. His expression did not change. Eyvind tried smiling politely, though in fact
he found the constant scrutiny unsettling. The boy gave a little nod, no more than a tight jerk of the head.
He did not smile.

At length, the fire burned lower. The smell of roasted goat flesh lingered. Bellies were comfortably full of
the rich meat, and of Ingi's finest oatcakes. The temple was warm with good fellowship. Thor, it seemed,
had overlooked the imperfect manner of the ritual, and chosen to smile on them.

Hakon spoke. "I have a tale," he said, "a tale both sorrowful and inspiring, and well suited for Thor's
ears, since it tells of a loyalty which transcended all. It concerns a man named Niall, who fell among