I cast the runes into the basin. They clicked, rolling from the stone sides. It took me a second to unscrew the canteen. Ale splashed on the runes, drenching the bone in liquid amber. The scent of malted barley and juniper wafted up. The bluish mist snapped at it like a striking snake.
“Patience, Håkon. Patience.”
I poured in the rest of the ale, emptied the honey into the basin, and stirred it with a branch. Magic spread from the runes into the honey and ale. I reached in and pulled the runes out, all except two: the rune of enemy binding and Þjófastafur, the rune that prevented theft.
The mist hovered by me.
I took a deep breath, grabbed the deer by the head, and heaved it onto the basin. Moist brown eyes looked at me.
“I’m so sorry.”
I pulled a throwing knife out and slit the animal’s throat in a single quick swipe. Blood gushed into the basin, hot and red. The deer thrashed, but I held its head until the blood flow stopped. The basin was a third of the way full. I stepped back and hefted the coins in my hand. They jingled together, sparking with magic.
“I call you out, Håkon. Come from your grave. Come taste the blood ale.”
Magic pulsed through the glade, ice cold and shockingly powerful. It pierced my skin, ripping its way all the way into my bones. I recoiled. Panic crested inside me like a huge black wave. Every instinct I had screamed, “Run! Run as fast as you can.”
I clenched my teeth.
The air reeked of fetid, decaying flesh. It left a sickeningly sweet patina on my tongue.
The mist congealed with an eerie moan and a creature stepped forth to the basin. A thick cloak of half-rotten fur hung off his shoulders, shielding the chain mail that covered him from elbow to the knee. The fur had thinned to long feathery strands, smeared with dirt. Long colorless hair spilled from his head in a tangled mess. His skin was blue, as if he had an intense case of argyria.
The draugr dropped by the basin, dipped his head, and lapped the blood like a dog. Death had sucked all softness from his flesh. His face was a leathery mask of wrinkles, his nose was a misshapen nub, and his lips had dried to nothing, baring a mouth full of long vampiric teeth. His eyes were awful: pale green, and completely solid, as if made of frosted glass. No iris, no pupil, nothing. Just two dead eyes behind an opaque green membrane.
I gave him a couple of seconds with the blood and squeezed the runes. They warmed my skin, forging a link to the two left in the blood ale. “That’s plenty.”
The undead raised his head. Blood dripped from his chin. A voice came, hoarse, like the creaking of trees in the wood. “Who are you, meat?”
Not good. “I’ve come to trade. Fair trade: fresh meat for an answer.”
The draugr dipped its head toward the blood. Magic pulsed from the runes. The creature let out a long sound halfway between a sigh and a growl.
Ghastek’s vampire moved to stand next to me.
The undead swiveled to the bloodsucker. “You bring me dead meat?”
“No. Dead meat guards me. Dead meat has no power over the ale. If you want to talk to dead meat, that’s between you and it.”
The draugr rose above the basin, shoulders hunched over. “Dead meat speaks?”
Ghastek shifted the vampire another step.
“I wouldn’t,” I told him.
The vamp halted. “Who are you?”
Would it kill him not to screw with my thing?
The draugr leaned on the stone. “I’m Håkon, son of Eivind. My father was a jarl and his father before him was one. The blood ale calls to me. Who are you, meat, that you interrupt my feeding?”
“I’m Ghastek Sedlak, Master of the Dead.”
The draugr’s mouth gaped wider. The creature rocked back and forth. “Dróttinn of the dead. I am dead. Do you style yourself my master too, little dead meat?”
Full stop. “Don’t answer that. Your ale is getting cold, Håkon. Have a taste.”
The runes in my hand cooled. The undead took a step toward me, then turned, as if drawn by a magnet, dropped on his knees and drank deeply, sucking up the blood in long greedy swallows.
“How did you come to be here?” Ghastek asked.
Damn it all to hell.
The draugr turned its unblinking eyes to the vampire and raised his head from the blood for a moment. “We came for gold.”
“All the way from Norseland?”
The draugr shook its head and drank.
“Kate,” Ghastek said. “Make him talk. Please.”
How do I get myself into these things? I gripped the runes. The draugr ducked down, trying to lick the blood, got within two inches of the red surface and stopped.
“From Vinland. The north skrælingar brought us gold to trade for weapons. They told us they bartered with the southern tribes for it. They said the southern skrælingar were soft. They were farmers, they said. Our seers had scryed the source of the gold, in the hills, not far from the coast. We took two ships and went looking for it.”