Hakon smelled it long before he reached the clearing—the same sickeningly sweet stench that had permeated the air on the road near York. He tensed and glanced at Sigurd, whose own eyes darted left and right, trying to locate the source of the invasive odor.
Thorgil, Ivar"s son, rode at the front of the column beside Hakon and Sigurd. He divined their thoughts. “Do not be alarmed. It is only the holy fields.”
A moment later, Hakon understood. The path they followed led them from the trees and into a large clearing. In the middle stood two ancient maple trees ornamented with the fly-encrusted bodies of men, women, horses, sheep, and swine, all in various stages of decay.
“My God,” Hakon whispered as he crossed himself quickly against the evil that might still lurk in the area.
“The gods
