Crimson Fire by Holly Taylor

just his sword and his shield as he beat Wulf to the ground, laid his foot on Wulf’s gasping chest, and plunged his sword through this man who now knew him for what he was.
    Suddenly, his warband surrounded him. Cheering him, they lifted him onto their shoulders and carried him from the fi eld, through the city streets, and to Eahl Aecesdun, the temple of the city. The crowd followed shouting, singing, and tossing fl owers to Havgan as he was carried by.
    The inside of the temple was dark to eyes accustomed to the sun. Whitred, the Byshop of Cantware, stood next to the altar as Havgan was carried to the front bench and deposited, none too gently, upon it. Sigerric, Talorcan, Baldred, Penda, and Catha all sat down next to him, as they continued to clap him on the back and congratulate him on his victory.
    The crowds fi led in, quieting down now, for the atmosphere
    of the God’s temple dampened their enthusiasm. Wiglaf himself stamped in, followed by his three alders and his nephew, Sledda. The ceiling of the huge temple, held up by eight pillars, hung dark and shadowy overhead; its rich carvings a dizzying array of light and dark wood lost in the twisting shadows and fi tful light. The pillars and walls were carved with the shapes of dragons, boars, eagles, and bulls, and some animals that there were no names for. So real were these carved fi gures that they seemed frozen into the walls themselves, trapped there for eter-
    nity at the whim of Lytir, the One God.
    The stone altar by which Byshop Whitred stood was draped with a fi ne, white cloth, on which the golden runes for Lytir gleamed in the light of four white candles set at each corner of the altar. The altar was set with a drinking horn on the left, and the blot bowl, the bowl used to catch the bull’s blood, sat mutely on the right. The hwitel, the ritual knife, glowed wickedly. The pit in front of the altar was uncovered, and nothing could be clearly seen in its shadowy depths, though it seemed that deep inside a darker shadow shifted. Two men stood by the pit, both holding burning torches. One man held his torch up; the other held his torch pointing down to the fl oor.
    At last the aisle cleared as the crowd took their seats on the wooden benches. Byshop Whitred had tonsured blond hair and large blue eyes. His robe was green, and his sleeves fell away from his heavily muscled arms as he raised his hands to begin the ritual. “Praise now to the Guardian of Heofen, the power of Lytir and his mind-plans who fashioned the beginning of every wonder.”
    And the crowd responded, “Eternal Lord.”
    “He made fi rst heaven as a roof,” Whitred intoned.
    “Holy Creator,” was the response, rushing from hundreds of throats.
    “Then made Middle-Earth as a dwelling place for men.” “Master Almighty,” the reverent crowd chanted.
    Then the Byshop shed his robe, picked up the knife and bowl from the altar, and, clad only in a white loincloth, jumped silently into the pit.
    From the pit came a bull’s angry bellow, rebounding throughout the temple as the bull and man fought for life. The
    two torchbearers stood impassively as the battle went on. The crowd was hushed and still. Then the bull gave a fi nal bellow, and all was silent. A preost shuf fl ed to the edge of the pit, low- ering a small ladder into that pool of darkness. Triumphantly Whitred emerged, clutching the knife and the bowl, which was full of blood.
    Cheers rang out as the Byshop calmly handed the knife and bowl to the preost and put back on his robe. The preost poured the blood into the drinking horn and passed the horn fi rst to Havgan as he sat on the front bench. As Havgan took a sip and passed the cup to Sigerric, he began to think again.
    He was still stunned by his good fortune, for his waking mind had already made him forget that the dark thing had brought him escape earlier in the battle. He thought only that he had won. That today he would be Gewinnan Daeg King, and wear the golden helm of