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[h2]Segrim the Black[/h2]
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The last words of the dead priest still rang in Segrim’s mind: [i]Alýs ús of efele.[/i] ‘Deliver us from evil’ in the English tongue.

The old man had desperately prayed to White Christ as the Danes hacked the church doors apart, crying out first in the strange Latin tongue and then that of the English in turn, fearfully yearning for an answer to his prayers even when the tongue of the Romans had failed him. Again and again, he had chanted, his tears flowing freely all the while. He had chanted even when the doors were splintered and the Danes burst through, even when the blade of a seax rent a long wound in his belly and his guts came spilling out in a bloody mess. And though his cheeks had beem wet with tears and the splatter of blood, the priest had begun to smile and breathlessly laugh before he died.

Even in death, the priest’s corpse still lay there smiling on the dirt floor, his mouth gaping open and his eyes cast up to the dark ceiling of the church as though his lord were truly there. His church ruined, his corpse reeking in a pool of his own bloody filth, his god nowhere to be seen, the priest had still won the last laugh. Segrim swiftly averted his gaze from the unnerving sight.

The Danes began looking for gilded relics and fine treasures to sell, raiders’ bodies filling the nave as they first tore down the Jesus figure in search of gold and then hunted for relics in the church tower and around the altar. Segrim took up the priest’s Bible first, lifting it free from the altar and looking to see if it was illuminated like the finer Bibles they had looted. Those had been rich with splendid colors and gold leaf that gleamed in firelight, giving the Christians’ hallowed book an unearthly glow. This one was not one of those, bearing only the text itself in black ink with red notes in the margins, but still it was a strange object laden with a foreign power Segrim could not understand—though he reminded himself that it had done little to protect the fallen priest. The raider ran his fingers over the smooth vellum pages of the book, tracing the circular Frankish letters with his fingertips. Like the other Danes, he knew neither the secrets of Rome’s alphabet—much less its language—nor the hidden knowledge of reading runes, but still he regarded line after line of the ink-stained words with a strange sort of awe, searching the inscrutable penstrokes for the cause of the priest’s unnerving behavior. [i]What makes the priest of an unmanful god so much braver than many a pagan man,[/i] Segrim thought, [i]so that he meets his death as gladly as a true warrior?[/i]

Segrim had heard of White Christ back home in Denmark, and heard of him too many times for his liking. His brother Semund had converted in secret nearly a decade ago, taking a new name in the Latin tongue, and welcoming the coming of secret worshippers to his home. Despite Semund’s efforts at proselytization, Segrim himself had trusted the old gods better, though now in his exile, he was less sure of the friendship of even the old gods. Still, he had listened closely to Semund’s preaching out of love for his brother, heeding the strange and wondrous tales of White Christ.

Semund had oft spoken of Christ as the Lord of Glory, as a powerful king who—though he was of less warlike nature than Red Thor—delivered unending life to his followers. Too Semund had spoken of the twelve mighty thanes that followed Christ’s teachings and of the later betrayal of the nithing Judas. But most of all, Semund had asserted to Segrim the truth of White Christ’s powers of healing and resurrection, of his descent into the underworld, and of his rising from the dead three days later like Odin hanged upon Yggdrasil. Frey was a fine friend for a farmer to have, and Njord for a raider upon the sea, but Christ, Semund had asserted, was a friend for all seasons, both more powerful than the All-father himself and less treacherous. And while Christ’s retainers were shamed for not following their lord as best they could, too Christ would forgive those who had turned from him, free them from their sins if they atoned. Segrim had paid little mind to that when Semund spoke of it, but now the thought of atonement was heavy in Segrim’s mind.

[i]Only a foolish lord would knowingly admit such dross into his ranks,[/i] Segrim thought. [i]Foolish or desperate. But at least among desperate fools, I would be among my own people.[/i] Still, he craved to have his guilt and shame absolved, to have his soul stained with murder be forgiven. But Christ’s love could not be endless, for no man’s was. A wretched creature like Segrim was more alike to the nithing Judas than to one of Christ’s companions, and there had been no doubt in Semund’s mind that Judas was swallowed up in Hell’s maw. He wished Semund were in England with him now.

The pangs of Segrim’s guilt ate at him regardless and he eyed the book once more, desperate for the assuredness the dead priest had shown in death. But still the priest lay dead for all of White Christ’s might. White Christ had not saved Harald King either, and now his pagan son ruled in his stead. What good would Christ offer a murderer if he could not spare the lives of his king and his holy man? But still the corpse of the priest smiled in his death, and it was not any less unnerving than when the man had died.

Segrim had been looking at the book a short while, but still it was long enough that he worried he might seem a secret Christian. He knew well the worth of such a book to a Christian, of the hours labored over copying the text from one codex to the next, but it would fare poorly in the possession of a seafaring people and was harder to sell than silver or gold. Besides, if there was atonement to be found in White Christ’s teachings, it was not in this strange book, indecipherable and artificial and arcane.

“There is no gold here!” Segrim said aloud, offering up the book for kindling. The more devout pagans among the Danes liked that, laughing at the desecration of their enemy’s holy book.

When the priest’s body was removed and the Danes built a fire inside the church, the Bible was laid atop the Jesus figure and both were quick to burn. Flames licked the leather cover of the Bible before it suddenly caught alight, the book soon shrivelling until it was a black lump barely recognizable among the burning wood. Whatever power the book may have conferred the priest was surely dead now, and Segrim would rest easier knowing that. Ale had started to flow and Segrim drank up greedily, eager to douse his guilty thoughts in alcohol.

He lingered outside in the ruined town after he was done, squinting in the bright light of the sun but eager to breathe fresh air. He began honing the blade of his seax, eager to have something to do to keep from ruminating overly much. [i]If there was one thing I am good at,[/i] he wryly thought, [i]it is killing.[/i]

But still Segrim remained unnerved, his thoughts becoming clearer to him with each pass of his seax over his whetstone. The dead priest and his smiling face and the way his fear has fled from him. The corpse of the man he had murdered in Denmark. And too a strange vision he had dreamt the night before, where Odin had abandoned him on the field of battle, casting Segrim down into the monstrous mouth of Hell where he was chewed to a fine slush and swallowed up.

The scent of a roast pig stirred him from his thoughts. Segrim eagerly sheathed his seax and made his way to the cookfires, still disturbed by the hollow feeling of their victory over the Danes and by his dream of treacherous Odin and of eternal Hell.

“Careful,” Segrim warned as he rolled the sleeves of his sark up and sat himself down besides a younger man dressing another slaughtered pig. “If you pierce the intestine, you’ll foul the flesh with all the shit inside.”