One

Thyra

Firelight fills the room. I hear murmuring echoes that seem to come from great distances, voices I almost recognize. One voice is velvet soft: “Thyra, you must let them go. You’ll hurt them.”

I don’t know where I am. England maybe. But I think I’m two or three. Mother’s beautiful face swims out of the night, smiling down at me. She appears annoyed, as though I’ve failed some test of humanity. Behind her, firelight dances over the log walls, and I remember that all morning I’ve been crawling around, gathering the fluttering orange wings on the floor and trying to scoop them up. They’ve been talking to me, scolding me for trying to catch them. I don’t understand why I can’t grasp the half-transparent butterflies in my hands.

“Here.” Mother reaches up to clutch her silver pendant. “Hold my hand and help me release them.”

I place my small hand in hers. As a flood of warmth fills me, the orange wings flutter upward and disperse in a hypnotic dance across the ceiling. I watch them with my mouth ajar. They are so beautiful.

Mother’s necklace dangles in front of my eyes. She sees me looking at it. “Someday you will be a great seeress and this will be yours. You will be able to walk in and out of our Helgafell as though no door existed at all.”

Helgafell. I don’t know what that is.

Mother bends, picks me up, and carries me to the fire-warmed wisent hide spread before the stone hearth. Hanging on the wall beside the hearth is a metal staff and a glittering sword etched with runes. The sword’s name is Hel. Over and over Mother has told me the story written upon her shining blade. The runes tell of the giant goddess of the underworld, after whom the sword is named. The goddess, Hel, is half-black and half-white and lives in the hall of Eliudnir, the hall “sprayed with snowstorms,” in Helheim. Her bed has a name, Sick Bed, and her bed curtains are Gleaming Disaster. Her dish is Hunger, her knife Famine.

My empty stomach squeals when I look at the sword. Hel sings me to sleep at night, her voice sweet and high, like wind through standing stones.

An iron cooking kettle hangs just above the hearth flames, but I smell only the mineral scent of steam rising. Mother is bundled like a dying skeleton, in a ragged blue cloak with a gray wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The angles of her cheeks are sharp as lance blades.

Even now, when I think of her, I am filled with a tremendous sadness for which I can find no reason. I remember that she could change into a deer. I saw her do it. I remember her long ivory hair and the gentleness of her hands. And I remember screams that day. Her screams? I’ve been trying to remember all my life.

A knock comes at the door.

Mother turns. Brightness crosses her face like summer sunlight striking the glaciers, breathtaking and fragile. “Oh, thank the gods, your father is home. I’m sure he caught a bird or fish to throw in the stew pot.”

A man enters—not Father—whispers something to Mother, and a panicked expression creases her face. She grabs the man’s arm. “Are you certain of this? But why? Why would he do this?”

“When Pallig defected to join the raiders ravaging the south coast, the king heard rumors that the Danes were about to kill him and his councilors, then take his kingdom. He decided to act first.”

“Is Pallig—”

“No one know for certain, but Sweyn fears for your life and your daughter’s.”

Shouts outside. Three men run past the open door. The man talking with Mother whirls to look, then licks his lips. “The traitor wants Eyr badly. We can’t let him get his filthy hands on her.”

Mother hesitates for an instant before she grabs an iron rod from the pegs above the door and shoves it into his extended hands. Then she strips her necklace from her throat and gives it to him. “Give these to Avaldamon. He will need them. And, Baldur, I know you’re an accomplished Seidur practitioner, but don’t use Eyr unless you must. And never use the pendant and Eyr together! It’s too dangerous. I can barely control them. You—”

“I’m so sorry, Veth—”

“No time for regrets. Go! I’ll be behind you.”

I seem to have gone blind, or perhaps I’ve fallen asleep, as children do in the midst of the most dire things. I see nothing now … but I hear Mother’s footsteps hurry toward the rear of the room, then she gasps as another door squeaks open on rusty hinges. The room is drowned in darkness, though the firelight continues to shine at the edges; the roof and walls appear to be a mosaic of amber shards.

From out of the dark, Mother’s eyes appear—just her eyes—filled with tears, staring at me with enough love to last me a lifetime.

A man orders, “Quickly! She’s a myrkrida, a darkness-rider. Don’t let her touch her sword or staff. Grab them from the wall. And make no mistake, I want her alive.”

… then the screams. Voices tangle. I’ve never heard Mother scream before. Is it Mother?

Hard hands grab me and swing me up into muscular arms. I see no faces, but I smell smoke, hear people running and children sobbing.

Outside, my vision returns. Ashes, white as snow, bathe the air with brilliance. The man carrying me mounts a horse.

As we gallop away, the town is a dream born of moonlight, sculpted in icicles, dying in fire.

… That’s the last thing I remember. Ice and flames.

My next memory is of a new family, a new home, a place where ghosts haunt the hidden crevices in the floor. I live in Denmark now. I have a baby brother. I’m happy. I am loved.

Are my dreams of that other mother, that other home, just the fanciful creations of a child’s mind?

Possibly.

I don’t know why it matters any longer.

Except that sometimes at night I hear that other mother calling me as though she’s still trying to find me.

And I desperately long to go to her.

 

Two

Thirteen years later …

Ealdorman Uhtred of Northumbria paced the small candlelit room with his hands clasped behind his back. His black woolen cloak fell to the tops of his goathide boots, and was fastened over his right shoulder with two oval brooches, exquisitely crafted into the golden shapes of roaring dragons. Shoulder-length auburn hair swayed around his tanned face as he moved. Despite the peat fire burning in the hearth, the air was icy and dank.

Another man, taller, stood before the single window with his back to Uhtred. He stared fixedly out at the foggy coast of northern England where dusk settled over the rolling hills like veils of smoke-colored silk. Even silent and still, he projected authority. He’d pulled his brown hood up to shield his pale, patrician face. A silly precaution, in Uhtred’s mind, because the short chieftain from Greenland, Gunnar the Skoggangur, who stood near the door, undoubtedly knew his royal identity.

Uhtred shifted to study Gunnar. Blond and skinny, the Skoggangur always chose to stand near the door in case he had to make a hasty exit. As he folded his arms across his chest, his burly arm muscles bulged beneath his faded green cape. His skills as a ship’s captain were the stuff of legend.

Uhtred said, “The civil war does not go well, Gunnar. We stand upon a precipice that, I assure you, falls away into oblivion for the Danelaw. We cannot lose. Do you understand the grave nature of the task we’ve placed before you?”

“Dozens of my relatives still live in the Danelaw, and dozens died during the slaughter thirteen years ago. Of course I understand.”

The Danelaw, the portion of northern England inhabited by Danes, lived in terror that King Aethelred planned to repeat the St. Brice Day Massacre—the slaughter of thirteen years ago. Gunnar’s relatives must have impressed that fear upon him. His wrinkled face had set into hard lines.

“Very well. The gold is there at the end of the table.” Uhtred extended his hand to the bronze box.

Gunnar reached down to pick it up. “And what if I don’t find the Prophetess?”

“Then the contents belong to you. Given what we’ve already paid you, it should be more than sufficient to account for your efforts.”

The Skoggangur hefted the box, judging the weight of the gold within, and the act caused the tall man at the window to heave a disgruntled breath, as though annoyed at the pusillanimous chieftain’s avarice.

Gunnar gave him a brief glance. He had little respect for those who had lived pampered lives, particularly royalty, and probably especially King Aethelred’s own son. Gunnar had spent much of his forty-seven years in flight from the law, which, if truth be told, is precisely why Uhtred had chosen him. Quick-witted, the wiry little man had seen it all and feared nothing. Plus, the Skoggangur was uncommonly loyal to his family in the Danelaw. During the worst of times, Gunnar had braved enemy fleets to bring them food and needed supplies. No matter the risks, the Skoggangur would do his best to protect his relatives.

“Are you satisfied?” Uhtred inquired.

“You’re certain you want me to include Thorlak the Lawspeaker and his strange apprentice, Thyra, in the colonizing effort? Seems very ill-advised to me. Given Thorlak’s past, especially his former rivalry with the Prophetess, if he discovers what I’m up to—”

Uhtred interrupted, “We know from reliable sources that he’s eager to find Hvitramannaland and, apparently, some great treasure there. Let’s oblige him by providing the funds. I’m sure neither Cnut nor Aethelred would seek out his talents, but we want to remove that temptation from their minds. We need him out of the way. How much more out-of-the-way can he be than if he’s in Vinland with a group of colonists seeking religious freedom?”

Gunnar’s gaze sharpened. “What is this great treasure he seeks in Hvitramannaland?”

“That’s just the sort of thing I’d expect you to ask, you old thief. How would I know? You’ve spent far more time around him in Greenland than I. Have you heard anything?”

Grinding teeth moved beneath Gunnar’s bearded jaw. “Not even a whiff, which means he’s been keeping it to himself well. How do you know about it?”

The glint in the little man’s brown eyes annoyed Uhtred. Gunnar, naturally, would want the treasure for himself.

“My friend, I have many sources you do not.”

“Well, that’s an unpleasant surprise.” Finally, Gunnar added, “And you’ll bear all costs of my transporting the Prophetess safely back to England?”

“Certainly.”

The Skoggangur nodded but still seemed to be contemplating the difficulties ahead. He clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing. “Before I go, let’s discuss the bald facts, shall we? I assume we are all aware that neither King Aethelred, nor King Cnut, will be happy if I find her. If she’s alive, and either king suspects for an instant that she may be coming home to support the aethling Edmund”—he glanced pointedly at the man before the window—“each will want her dead, and will do everything in his power to stop me, including the murder of everyone in the colonizing expedition.”

“Why do you think the Danelaw hired the likes of you, Gunnar? We expect discretion and complete secrecy.”

“Not to mention courage. She was the most feared Prophetess on earth.” A cynical humor touched Gunnar’s voice. “What if she doesn’t wish to return with me?”

“Convince her, Skoggangur.”

Gunnar’s blond brows plunged down in an evil manner. “Well … I’ll do my best. Personally, I think she’s dead, but—”

“Just do your job,” the hooded man replied in heavily accented Danish.

Gunnar squinted at the man’s broad back. “I was only making sure we understand each other.”

“We do,” the man said.

“Well enough, then.” Gunnar tucked the bronze box inside his green cape. The hooded man couldn’t see it, but Gunnar gave him an elegant bow. As he straightened, he said, “I’ll send word if I find her, and apprise you of her approximate arrival time.”

“The sooner the better, Gunnar. We are in dire straits here.”

The Skoggangur turned on his heel and left, gently closing the door behind him.

Uhtred ran a hand through his auburn hair and shook his head. “Well, he’s off. May Thor help him.”

The hooded man turned. He looked very much like his father, with an oval face, long nose, and eyes perpetually narrowed as if nothing ever pleased him.

“His name, Skoggangur, means ‘forest-walking,’ doesn’t it? Meaning that at some point in his life he was ejected from civilized society and forced to live in the wild, little better than an animal himself. He’s a criminal.”

“Oh, indeed he is. For many years, Gunnar’s troop of scoundrels cut a wide swath across Iceland. But wealth can transform society’s opinion of even the lowliest men. After he managed to kill enough men and steal enough brocades, precious stones, wines, cattle, and thralls, he could afford to pay one thousand marks of gold for a cargo vessel named Thor’s Dragon.”

“One thousand marks? A foolish sum for a mere cargo vessel.”

“Perhaps, but overpaying brought him to the attention of the finest families, and allowed him to join the highest ranks of the realm, the godar, the men responsible for maintaining Greenland’s religious and judicial organizations.” Uhtred paused. “That was a long time ago. He is now renowned for his charity and justice. Gunnar maintains a religious hall on his farm that is open to all members of the Seidur faith.”

“Hardly the sort of man I would have expected you to hire to carry out so critical a mission.”

“He is also a master of navigation, Highness. He’s sailed Thor’s Dragon to the Hebrides, Rome, the great city of Mikligardur, and all the way to Alexandria in the Black Land, and many places in between. This trip, however, will be his first to the Land of the One-Legged Skraeling barbarians.”

The hooded man’s jaw clenched. “You’re telling me that we just hired an outright murderer because he’s a good sailor?”

Uhtred gave him a grim smile. “Partly. Gunnar’s greatest asset, however, is that he can be bought. Most men in similar circumstances would eventually yield to their conscience or patriotism, or any other justification that allowed them to weasel out of the agreement. I assure you, Gunnar the Skoggangur has no conscience or sense of loyalty, except to his family, or that which he sells to the highest bidder.”

“Can we rely upon the fact that he will not sell us out to someone who offers him more?”

Uhtred spread his arms in a placating gesture. “Once he sells his services, he scrupulously honors the agreement. That’s how he and his forest-walkers survived. A man could count on them.”

Edmund walked over to stare down into Uhtred’s tight eyes. “We desperately need that woman. My father and Eadric, the despicable ealdorman of Mercia, are massing their forces as we speak, and King Cnut is just waiting for his opportunity to attack England and take everything we hope for.” His nostrils flared with a breath.

“I’m well aware of that, Your Grace.”

“Are you, Uhtred? Well, let’s be certain we understand the same things. When Sweyn the Forkbeard last attacked England, he attributed all of his triumphs to his Prophetess. He said it was her Seidur witchery that allowed him to ravage and burn anywhere he pleased, until no naval or land force dared to stand against him. He became so powerful that wherever his army marched, people threw down their weapons and fell to their knees to pledge allegiance to him. If we have King Sweyn Fork-beard’s renowned Prophetess on our side, it will terrify Cnut and my father. Perhaps even into submission.”

Edmund—the man who would be king—softly added, “I must have her.”

He strode for the door and exited with his plain brown cape swaying about his long legs.

Uhtred exhaled the breath he’d been holding. Great Odin, he knew far better than Edmund what was at stake. If the Prophetess had been here thirteen years ago, King Aethelred’s slaughter of the Danelaw would have failed and many members of Uhtred’s family—and Gunnar’s family—would be alive today.

Uhtred stared at the empty doorway for a few moments, remembering loved ones long gone, then grabbed his hat from the peg on the wall and followed Edmund into the luminous twilight.

 

Three

Hafvilla

Darkness veiled the misty sea.

Gunnar the Skoggangur hung on to the prow scroll of Thor’s Dragon with one hand while he extended the whale-oil lamp with his other hand, trying to see the icebergs that floated like white mountains through the glistening arctic fog.

Gunnar would not tell his crew or passengers, but he had no idea where they were, or even what direction they were headed. For all he knew, they could be sailing out into the midst of the vast southern ocean where there was no land, just water that went on forever to the edges of the earth. And doom.

He shook wet blond hair out of his eyes and expelled a shaky breath. How could he, the great navigator, have gotten so lost? Each day he took readings with his sunstone and shadow compass and aimed the vessel accordingly. West. Due west.

Gunnar squinted into the lamp-lit fog, trying to fathom what he’d done wrong.

Sunstones, crystals of feldspar, could be held up even on foggy days and would tell a man the location of the sun, for the stone flared brighter when moved over the face of Sol. Or Gunnar could usually orient himself with his shadow compass. The compass was a disk of wood with notches cut around the edge, and a hole in the middle for the sighting pin. To keep it level, the compass floated in a bowl of water. The arc of shadow cast by the pin would be measured against the notches. On a westerly course, a shadow that was too long would indicate the ship had veered too far north, or a shadow arc too short meant he was too far south.

Gunnar had done everything he could to keep them on course. What had happened?

The ship rocked beneath him, riding the black swells. They should have made landfall in Vinland eight days ago. Instead, he’d been wallowing in this unnatural fog for twelve days. Had the other seven ships of colonists made it? Or were they also suffering hafvilla, the curse of being lost at sea?

Lightning flickered through the mist, then the low roll of thunder echoed. Gunnar noted that the swells had started coming closer together. Somewhere out there, a storm raged. They must be right on the edge of it.

His fourteen oarsmen knew it, too. They mumbled darkly to one another and tugged to tighten the ropes around their waists. The ropes tied them to the mast to keep them from being swept overboard if the seas grew rough. The scent of their fear sweat almost overpowered the sea’s salty fragrance.

Gunnar turned and called to his tiller, “Bjarni, what do you see out there?”

From the aft steerbord side, Bjarni called back, “Not one thing, Godi!”

“We barely missed that last iceberg. Best keep your eyes wide open.”

“Yes, Godi.”

Through the misty halo of lamplight, he could just barely see Bjarni. The twenty-six-year-old redhead appeared as only a vaguely darker splotch on the right side of the ship toward the rear. As the tiller, Bjarni was in charge of the rudder, the big oar fixed to the hull and moved by rotating the attached arm. It required a quick-witted man who was willing to pit his strength against the storm and defy it. Bjarni the Deep-minded was the only man Gunnar trusted there.

The groans of struggling oarsmen filled the air. They were all tired beyond any—

“Ice!” someone yelled.

Gunnar saw the massive white mountain slide out of the mist right in front of them. “Laddebord, Bjarni! Laddebord!”

The ship veered sharply left, and the iceberg slipped away into the foggy darkness like a glistening phantom.

Gunnar wiped his eyes on his sheepskin sleeve. Spray ran from his protruding forehead, and filled the deep wrinkles of his face. Gods, he’d been a fool to agree to this secret mission for Edmund. The man was no more competent to rule England than his father, King Aethelred. Worse, King Cnut was just biding his time, waiting for the civil war in England to weaken both sides, before he sailed in with his army and reconquered England once and for all…. But Edmund was the best chance Gunnar’s relatives had. Maybe their only chance.

Gunnar sucked in a deep breath and held it for a moment. Horrifying images flickered behind his eyes. The leaders of the Danelaw had already begun preparing for the inevitable moment when armies would come marching in, hence their alliance with Edmund. In exchange for food, weapons, and soldiers, Edmund vowed to use his army to protect the Danelaw from all attackers—be they from Aethelred or Cnut, or some currently unknown opportunist.

Gunnar wasn’t sure Edmund could even protect his own hide, let alone the hides of others. Edmund must feel the same way.

And so … the Prophetess. Vethild the Darkness-Rider.

Gunnar expelled a shaky breath. This business of hunting legends gave him a stomachache. No one really knew what had happened to her after the St. Brice Day Massacre. Some said she’d been murdered by her enemy, and chief rival, Thorlak. Others claimed she’d been kidnapped and hauled off in chains to a mythical place called Hvitramannaland, the Land of the White Men. The Angles called it Albania-Land. Vethild’s husband, Avaldamon, spent years trying to find her. In the process, he himself had vanished, never to be heard from again.

Were Gunnar a superstitious man, he’d suspect Vethild was responsible for their current situation. She’d reputedly been a master of the weather, creating massive storms with the wave of hand, or whirlpools that swallowed entire fleets. Was she trying to stop him from finding her? Or was she driving Thor’s Dragon toward her like a whipped stallion? Gunnar liked neither possibility.

He shook off the premonition. Gods, a man couldn’t afford to think like that. It was unnerving.

Gunnar tightened his hold on the prow scroll when waves suddenly slapped the bow. Thor’s Dragon rode up on a big swell, then plunged down the other side.

Gunnar shouted, “Steer into that wave, Bjarni! It seems the storm is upon us.”

One of the young oarsmen, Kiran the Kristni, roared, “Rolf, you oaf, stop chopping at the water and pull!”

“Shout your mouth, blasphemer, or I’ll use my oar to gut you! If we sink, it’s because you’re aboard, you anchorite bastard!”

A massive wave tossed Thor’s Dragon skyward. Gunnar grinned in senseless euphoria. Rolf the Cod-biter was pretty worthless, but Kiran had proven himself a true asset, despite the fact that Rolf was right. Kiran, a big black-haired sixteen-year-old, was a devotee of the Monk’s Tester, Lord of the Peak’s Pane, whom he called the Christ. If Gunnar had any wits, he’d publicly condemn Kiran as a blasphemer, and thereby ease the worries of both his crew and the colonists, most of whom did not take kindly to having an Anchorite aboard. They were afraid of Anchorites, and for good reason.

Just a few short years ago, the entire country of Iceland had been ordered to be baptized. Those who’d refused to convert had packed up and sailed for Greenland. But then Eirikr the Red’s own wife and son had become Anchorite missionaries. Those who held fast to their Seidur faith were afraid the same thing was about to happen in Greenland. They’d had no choice but to flee.

Every time something had gone wrong on this voyage, it had been blamed it on Kiran. The colonists, in fact, had urged Gunnar to throw him overboard.

The fools.

They needed Kiran. Gunnar had purchased Kiran and a Skraeling boy, Elrik, along with a girl named Kapusa, from a Hebrides merchant who claimed the Skraeling children had come from Vinland. Kiran was fluent in the Skraeling tongue, and he—

“Dear God, pull!” Kiran roared.

A sudden gust of wind ripped the lamp from Gunnar’s hand and slammed him back against the prow, filling his lungs with so much air that he could not exhale. Strangling on wind, he watched helplessly as Thor’s Dragon wallowed broadside and a huge wave swelled far above Gunnar’s head. Great Thor …

Too late Gunnar managed to turn his head sideways, gulp air, and yell, “Bjarni! Steerbord!”

The wave overcurled the ship. Gunnar stared straight up into it, watching thunderbolts flicker through the roof of foaming water. As the ship drove deeper, the weight of the wave crushed the air from his lungs. Gunnar’s evil deeds, every one of them, flashed before his eyes.

When he emerged from the water, Gunnar gulped air and yelled, “Keep her to the steerbord, boys, or we’re going down!”

Bjarni steered the ship left into a massive wave that tossed them high into the air. As Thor’s Dragon ascended the wall of water, Gunnar wrapped both arms around the prow and hugged it to his breast. The ship crested the wave and hurtled down the other side into a boiling trough of foam. For a terrifying instant, Gunnar thought he was a lost soul. The bow plunged into the water. Gunnar held his breath until the ship lunged up again; then he shook soaked blond hair away from his face and shouted, “Steerbord, Bjarni!”

Gunnar rode the ship down as it dove into the next black trough. The descent felt weightless. When they hit bottom, the mast let out an agonized groan. Gunnar spun to look at the oaken timber. They’d lowered the sodden sail hours ago. It lay rolled and tied to the base of the mast, but it had shifted, and was now pointing toward the hold, funneling all the water on the deck…4.

Gods, help me; how much water has flooded into the hold?

The Dragon had a second deck and enough trusses that it could withstand heavy seas, plus the extra deck provided shelter for their cattle, goats, cargo, and thralls, not to mention the twenty colonists who must be green and heaving by now.

He shouted, “Sokkolf? Grab hold of your tether rope and pull yourself back to the mast, then untie and get below! See how much water had flooded into the hold. Organize bailers if need be!”

“Yes, Godi!”

Sokkolf, a muscular twenty-year-old, pulled his oar into the ship, secured it, and tugged himself along the rope on his belly.

Gunnar watched him disappear into the hold.

A few moments later, Thor’s Dragon shot straight upward, rising so high that Gunnar could see above the fog and out across the rain-lashed ocean where lightning danced. As the ship crested the wave, the Dragon’s bow upended and stood almost over her stern. She seemed to hang in midair before plummeting into the yawning valley below.

Gunnar blinked at the darkness. Without the lamp, he seemed to see more clearly. At least he could distinguish the black water from the foaming crests of the waves.

A few instants later, a halo of lamplight swelled from the hold, and the fog glistened like gold dust when Thyra emerged. Tall for her fifteen years, long ivory hair whipped around her narrow shoulders. The girl was Thorlak’s apprentice, studying Seidur magic at his feet, and for that reason alone Gunnar did not trust her.

As she lifted her lamp to study the violent sea, Gunnar could see the freckles that sprinkled her fair-skinned face. She wore a long white tunic sewn with the black image of Sleipnir, the eight-legged horse that Odin rode on his spirit travels to other worlds. A Seidur sword hung upon Thyrac’s hip. He’d heard tales that she could change herself into different kinds of dogs, wolves, or foxes and use her new form to spy upon others, or to tear them to pieces with fangs and claws. He didn’t believe it, but it didn’t pay to be too skeptical about such things.

“Thyra!” Gunnar shouted against the wind. “Get below. It’s too dangerous on deck!”

She held her lamp higher, saw Gunnar lashed to the prow, and smiled. Her teeth were etched with black runes. “I’ve come to do battle with Thor, Godi.”

Thor was the god of storms, and the fates of sailors.

“We don’t need your help. Get below!”

Gunnar’s stomach lurched as Thor’s Dragon plowed into the next wave, the prow cutting so deep that Gunnar found himself submerged in the black water for a full three seconds. Just before the bow swung upward, he heard a sudden thunderous crack and, through the wall of water, glimpsed the mast tilt. It wobbled for an instant, as though fighting to stand straight again, then the timber let out an earsplitting shriek and toppled to the steerbord, flinging the rolled sail up like child’s toy, then unfurling it across the deck.

Three oarsmen dove overboard before they were crushed. He could see them dangling by the ropes around their waists. Two men had vanished. Were they trapped beneath the timber or heap of woolen sail?

When the torrent of water receded from the deck, Thyra laughed.

Gunner couldn’t see her behind the tangled pile of rigging and sail. Frightened, he waited until Thor’s Dragon surged upward again, then he tore loose from his lashings and careened across the slippery deck toward the broken mast. He had to cut the ropes and shove the cracked timber overboard before the weight capsized them. Just as the ship crested the monstrous wave, Gunnar grabbed hold of the sail and held on as the steep descent began.

Ten feet away, Thyra stood up with a strip of sail tied around her waist and her Seidur sword clutched in both hands. Reeling, she cried out and lifted her sword to the heavens. As Gunnar staggered, fighting to stay upright, he stared in astonishment. Did she truly plan to do battle with Thor himself? Not a healthy idea.

A brilliant flash lit the air around Gunnar. At the same time, thunder almost knocked him from his feet. His eyes widened when the air started to sparkle.

Thyra shouted, “Godi, watch!”

Gunnar tore his gaze from the sea.

The tip of her upraised sword burst into blue-violet flame, then a conflagration encased her entire body. The phosphorescent halo turned her pale skin and white tunic an unearthly shade of purple. Ecstasy twisted her beautiful face.

Thor’s fire …

Gasps and shouts erupted across the deck.

Thyra let out a deep-throated roar. As she thrust her sword higher into the storm, violet fire streamed down her arms, then spilled across the ship in glowing rivulets, flickering, dancing, sheathing every object and person with shimmering splendor. The tangled sail seemed to burst into blue flame. Just as the ship dove down another wave, a distinct hissing sound filled the fog, and the tips of every pointed object in sight blazed so brilliantly Gunnar let out an incoherent cry. An immense number of minute sparks darted though the air around him.

Bjarni’s attention must have wavered, for a wave broadsided Thor’s Dragon. The wall of water flooded over the top of Gunnar. He clutched the torn sail with all his might as the wave lifted him high above the deck. Holding his breath, he continued to see glowing points of blue-violet flame.

Where’s Thyra? What of my crew? Are we sinking?

An odd, long-buried memory flashed … he and his troop of forest-walkers, reeling drunk, beating a merchant to death for not bringing their mead with enough haste. Gods, what sort of men would do something like that?

He felt empty, his bones as hollow as a sparrow’s. Had he done enough good in his later years to make up for his youth? Not likely. Some things, like killing the merchant, were not redeemable. If he had one more chance, he …

High above him a miracle spun to life. A fluorescent rainbow arched across the sky. The magnificent colors seemed too beautiful to be of this world. Was it the Rainbow Bridge that went from Asgard, the City of the Gods, to Midgard, the World of Men?

He tried to shift to see if the bridge also extended from Asgard to the roots of Yggdrassil, the sacred tree. Yggdrassil connected the worlds below to the worlds above. That bridge was reputed to be even more magnificent, and rarely seen by men, except at death.

When his ship swooped out of the sea, Gunnar’s body slammed to the deck like a hurled rock. He gasped a breath into his starving lungs and rolled to his back. The ship heaved and pitched beneath him, but patches of gray predawn sky shone through the clouds. As though being swept away by a huge hand, the arctic fog started to shred and thin.

Groans filled the air.

Gunnar blinked in disbelief and sat up.

The waves, still formidable, were no longer monstrous. As the terror drained from his muscles, amazement set in. He felt light-headed.

“Somebody help me?” Bjarni shouted. “Help me pull Kiran aboard!”

Gunnar scrambled to his knees, saw Bjarni leaning over the steerbord side gripping a rope in his fists, and straining until his bulging muscles seemed about to fray.

Gunnar slipped and slid his way across the wet deck, grabbed hold of the rope and, hand over hand, helped Bjarni pull Kiran aboard. The big youth was half-drowned, spitting up water and gasping. His shoulder-length black curls straggled around his bearded face. His green eyes had gone huge.

Gunnar slapped him on the back, and as he did, he lost his footing. He felt himself falling, tilting, and he let out a yell just as he toppled over the side.

A granite hand grabbed his arm as he fell, and Gunnar’s body pounded the hull so hard it knocked the wind out of him.

“Kiran, help me!” Bjarni shouted.

Kiran scrambled to the edge, gripped a handful of Gunnar’s shirt, and helped Bjarni drag him aboard.

Gunnar gasped, “Gods, that was a close one, boys. Thank you!”

Kiran turned to vomit up a flood. When he could finally breathe, he rasped, “Godi, I’ve never seen Thor’s fire like that.”

“Nor have I. Now get yourself together. I need every man. Start looking for others who might have been swept overboard.”

Kiran coughed. “Yes, Godi.”

Gunnar, Bjarni, and Kiran dragged men aboard. Two were gone, swallowed by the sea. The empty loops that had been tied around their waists dangled from ropes over the side.

When he had eleven oarsmen and Bjarni back at their posts, rowing to keep the ship steady, Gunnar stumbled to the broken stump that remained of the mast and slipped his arm around it to look for Thyra, or others, who might be flailing out among the waves. He’d no idea how he’d rescue them, but he’d find a way.

“Thyra?” he shouted. “Rolf? Sokkolf? Where are you?”

Fog drifted around Gunnar in tufts, but a narrow band of ocean had opened up beneath the fog, revealing water for quite a distance. Where the waves reflected the sky, they had a pink sheen. Sol’s appearance on the eastern horizon couldn’t be far away.

The change in the weather had been so sudden Gunnar still couldn’t believe it. Had Thyra’s bold willingness to do battle with Thor softened the Old Redbeard’s heart?

The toppled mast, ropes, and torn sail created a tangled mass that streteched across the deck, and floated upon the sea to the steerbord. There he saw a strange lump. Thyra had wrapped the sail over her head and shoulders, wearing it like a burial shroud as she floated in the icy water. Only her pale face showed in the midst of the white fabric. Her crystalline blue eyes seemed to peer through Gunnar to his bones. If he hadn’t known better, he’d think that gaze still flamed with Thor’s phosphorescent fire.

“Thyra! Are you alive?”

She threw her head back and laughed with what sounded like wild exultation. “I’m more alive that I have ever been!”

Weak with disbelief, Gunnar shouted, “Kiran, pull Thyra aboard! Bjarni, once she’s aboard, you need to help me cut the broken mast loose. We’re not safe yet.”

Kiran scrambled to extend a hand to help Thyra as she crawled across the extended mast, and when the young woman at last stood on the deck she walked straight to Gunnar. The storm had soaked her thin white tunic so that it clung to her young body like a second skin, outlining her small breasts. He smelled the perfume of her body. Mingled scents of sea and young womanhood, and something pungent, perhaps leftover by the blue flames that had swallowed her whole. Drenched ivory locks sleeked down her sides and back. The dark runes on her teeth flashed with her smile as she extended an arm and pointed to something over his shoulder. “Behold the reward, Godi Gunnar.”

Gunnar spun around.

A silver line etched the shape of the foaming water where it dashed itself against towering black cliffs. Smoke rose from what might be a village, but whether those fires belonged to their fellow colonists or the Unipeds he could not say.

Every crew member cheered.

Gunnar ran a hand over his face. “Stop gaping and get back to work! Kiran, keep searching the sea for Rolf and Sokkolf. They may still be alive out there.”