I see it now. The rude temple, the glaring statue of the god, the gathered crowd, open mouthed and eyed, the spring sunshine shining quietly over all, and, running past the place, a ewe calling to the lamb that it had lost; I see the dying Steinar turn his white face, and smile a farewell to me with his fading eyes; I see Leif getting to his horrible rites that he might learn the omen, and lastly I see the red sword of the Wanderer appear suddenly between me and him, and in my hand. I think that my purpose was to cut him down. Only a thought arose within me.
This priest was not to blame. He did no more than he had been taught. Who taught him? The god he served, through whom he gained honour and livelihood. So the god was to blame, the god that drank the blood of men, as a thrall drinks ale, to satisfy his filthy appetite. Could such a monster be a god? Nay, he must be a devil, and why should free men serve devils? At least, I would not. I would cast him off, and let him avenge himself upon me if he could. I, Olaf, would match myself against this god—or devil.
I strode past Leif and the altar to where the statue of Odin sat within the temple.
“Hearken!” I said in such a voice that all lifted their eyes from the scene of butchery to me. “You believe in Odin, do you not?”
They answered “Aye.”
“Then you believe that he can revenge himself upon one who rejects and affronts him?”
“Aye,” they answered again.
“If this be so,” I went on, “will you swear to leave the matter between Odin and me, Olaf, to be settled according to the law of single combat, and give peace to the victor, with promise from all harm save at the hands of his foe?”
“Aye,” they answered, yet scarcely understanding what they said.
“Good!” I cried. “Now, God Odin, I, Olaf, a man, challenge you to single combat. Strike you first, you, Odin, whom I name Devil and Wolf of the skies, but no god. Strike you first, bloody murderer, and kill me, if you can, who await your stroke!”