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  His father met Asgrim’s eye, and then he squeezed his shoulder. “Someday, she’ll be yours, my son, and no man will remember your first raid. She’ll carry more warriors than any other ship in Denmark, travel faster and farther with more oars. When men see her sail coming over the horizon, they’ll shit themselves in terror and run for their miserable, gods-forsaken lives.” His father barked out a single harsh laugh. “And they’ll be right to do so, by Odin’s fiery asshole.”

  “What will you name her, father?” Bjorn asked.

  “Sea Eel,” whispered the older man. “And she’ll earn her name. Deadly and fast, a predator.”

  Once the mast was in place, artisans arrived to carve decorative patterns on the planks. Every exposed surface was worked and trimmed with intricate marks to please the gods. A particularly gifted young man was hired to carve the dragonhead prow. It was fierce and howling, its jaws wide, its teeth long. He built it to be removable, so it could be stored below deck when the longship was at home so that it would not frighten the land spirits and foul their luck.

  Asgrim and his brother stood back and watched the young artisan finish the dragonhead and present it to Guthorm and their father. The elderly shipwright, with just a trace of approval on his weathered face, turned to his father, who nodded solemnly.

  Once all the carvings were finished, the workers painted the hull with a mixture of pine resin and seal blubber that stunk almost as badly as the waterproofing had, but left the wood stained a deep, dark green when it dried. At the same time, other workers built the oar ports and rigging. She was long enough to accommodate thirty rowers on each side. Fully loaded, she could carry more than a hundred warriors, which was an unprecedented number.

  She could only be finished in the water, and it was time to launch her. To accomplish this, the men laid a trail of parallel logs, over which they could slowly roll her down to the shoreline. Her sail, homespun wool in a green-and-yellow striped pattern, was already soaking in animal fats and oil. The cost of the wool had been enormous, even for his father, and it had taken their servant women more than a year under his mother’s direction to weave it together into a single piece. The tiller and side rudder would be attached last, once she was afloat.

  The worst of the winter cold had passed, and within another month, spring would be upon the land. Once the spring planting was completed, the time would come for raiding. Excitement grew among the men. Soon, the right day to launch the ship came. On a day with favorable weather and few crosswinds, they attached long lines of walrus-hide ropes to her, and Sea Eel’s wooden planks squeaked as the men hauled her down to the shoreline. Women and children from town left their tasks undone to come watch. Even the earl came. Removing his coat, he stood next to Asgrim’s father to help haul on the ropes. Every man knew the honor the earl was paying to his father by his presence, especially since he had left his newborn son, Frodi, to come and help. Under Guthorm’s steady command, they rolled her to the water. Her dark-green hull scraped along the wet sand as she hit the shoreline and stuck fast. Men pushed and pulled, but the massive longship stubbornly held her place. Asgrim and Bjorn stood beside one another, up to their thighs in the frigid water, pushing and straining against the hull.

  “Get in there! Get in there!” Asgrim screamed as he shoved.

  Then, with a rush of foam and splash so fast it took most of them by surprise, the mighty longship slid into the waters of the Schlei. Bjorn pitched forward headfirst into the water. Asgrim reached into the waters, caught his brother by the shoulders, and yanked him free. Bjorn was wild-eyed and spitting water, but grinning like a berserker. And Sea Eel, perfectly ballasted in advance by Guthorm, rocked gently in the calm waters of the inlet. As one, they all cheered—men in the water, the women and children along the shoreline, his father, and the earl. And this time, finally forgetting his wounds, Asgrim cheered as well, hugging his younger brother.

  That night, along the shoreline, Asgrim accompanied his father and the other men to a ritual. There, by the light of a massive bonfire, his father sacrificed a bull to Odin, killing the beast with one blow of an ax. He helped his father and his father’s warriors anoint the hull of Sea Eel with the ox’s blood. The earl was there, as well, having remained for this most sacred of tasks. All the men agreed the gods were pleased. Luck would be with his father and this magnificent longship.

  With the ritual completed, the earl approached his father. In his hands, he held a long fur-wrapped bundle, which he handed to the other man. His father took the bundle reverently, inclining his head in thanks. Then the earl bade farewell, and he and his bodyguards mounted their horses and rode off for his own estates. Asgrim’s father’s bondsmen also bade farewell then, wishing to return to the warmth of their own farms, promising to return early in the morning to help prepare Sea Eel for raiding.

  Asgrim stood in front of the bonfire with his father. Both men were soaked to their waists, but bundled in thick fur cloaks. His father wrapped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him against him.

  “The rigging will be done in days,” his father said. “In another week, she’ll be ready to sail. Then, I’ll teach you all you need to know about being a man.”

  “I am a man.”

  His father snorted and hugged him just a bit tighter. “Aye, maybe you are at that.”

  They stood in silence for a time, staring at the flames as the wood crackled and spit. The frigid wind howled, fanning the flames higher.

  His father released him and stepped back. “I’m getting old, son, too old for raiding. This will be my last voyage across the sea. We will sail for Wessex, raid along the coast. And when we return home, I will go forth no more. I will sit in my lodge, drink ale, get fat, and be a farmer.”

  “Why are you saying this?”

  “I didn’t build Sea Eel for me… well, not only for me. I built her for you, for you and your brother.”

  His father became silent, staring at the fire. He felt his father’s discomfort.

  “I won’t pretend I understand why you did it,” his father started again. “But it’s done. You fought with honor and courage, and you’ve borne your loss like a man should. I’ll have no bad blood between you and Hrolf. You’ll promise me this.”

  Just for a moment, he saw again the sight of Hrolf’s shield rushing toward his face, the iron boss growing in size. He shuddered once and inclined his head in agreement. “Aye.”

  “Good,” said his father. “You and his youngest boy, Gorm, were friends before this happened. I want you to be friends again.”

  He nodded again. He and Gorm had not spoken since that day, although he had been certain Gorm had tended his wounds during the voyage home on the longship.

  “We’re Danes, boy. We take what we need. There’s not enough good land left in Denmark for all of us, but this is not a mistake. It’s part of our destiny. The gods made us strong so we could take what we need from lesser men, and then they put us here, in this harsh, cold land where there was no choice but raiding. If Denmark were a land of plenty, where each man owned his own farm, how many men do you think would choose to leave their hearths, travel across the sea, and face the horror of a shield wall? Damned few, I can tell you. No. This is how it’s supposed to be. Why else do you think the gods taught us how to build longships, how to travel for days at a time beyond sight of land? The gods made us what we are, and they’re always watching us. They are pleased with battle, even slaughter. Always remember this. Those who are not Danes are not your people. They are not worthy of your pity, your sacrifice. Their lives are miserable and shitty because they have abandoned the old ways. Now they are nothing but prey, barely human. But you, you are a sword Dane, a pillager, a man who honors the gods. You have a warrior’s destiny. I know it. Those cattle in other lands who think themselves men will shiver in terror at the very mention of your name. And the gods will watch you and smile.”

  “I’ll make you proud, father. I won’t fail… not again.”

  “I know you won�
�t, boy. But…” His father paused, staring at his face. “If you’re going to make a habit of fighting duels with killers like Hrolf, you’ll need a better weapon.” His father turned away and retrieved the fur-wrapped bundle from where he had placed it on the ground. He began unwrapping it as he approached, and the young man saw a sword hilt extend from the end.

  His father pulled the weapon free of the fur covering and held it in front of the fire for him to see. His breath caught in his throat. Never had he seen such a masterpiece. The metal was polished so brightly that the metal gleamed red in the firelight. And it was longer by at least a hand’s length than any other sword he had ever seen. The hilt and pommel glistened with intricate silver etchings; it was a treasure.

  “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

  “It’s a gift from the earl,” his father answered. “Payment for a debt the old rascal owed me. He carried such a blade himself into battle when he wasn’t too fat to fit into his armor. It never failed him. Now, my own son will carry one just as fine. It’s yours.”

  He handed the weapon to his son, hilt first. The young man hesitated, his hand inches from it.

  “Go on, boy. Take it.”

  The young man wrapped his fingers around the detailed leather handle and raised the weapon in front of his eyes. The blade was unlike anything he had ever seen before, with a bizarre frost-like pattern smelted into the steel. He made a cut with it, and the blade whistled through the air. Its balance was perfect, like an extension of his arm. He stared in wonder at his father, who beamed back at him.

  “It’s perfect. Lighter than I would have thought, wider than most swords.” He gripped the pointed tip with his fingers and slightly bent the blade. “But lighter somehow, and more flexible—so flexible.” He stared in wonder at the blade. A single groove, called a fuller, ran most of the length of the weapon. The indentation carved in the sword made it lighter and more flexible, allowing it to retain its strength the entire length of the blade. Staring intently at it, he saw writing in the hollow of the fuller. Starting near the hilt, a single word read: +ULFBERH+T. “It can’t be Damascus steel, not with those crosses. Is it… Frankish?”

  His father snorted. “Franks make good swords, boy, but those aren’t crosses. They’re hammers. Thor hammers. You’re holding crucible steel, lad, crucible steel, made in the secret ways brought back from the Volga. That is an Ulfberht blade. One of only a damned few ever made. The metal is special. I won’t pretend to understand how, but because it’s lighter, it can be made longer, more flexible and thus won’t get caught in an opponent’s shield as easily as others might. You see the point? It’s tapered so it can stab through chain mail.”

  “Chain mail? Really?”

  “Really. Once, I saw the earl skewer a Frankish prince with his Ulfberht. A single thrust, right through the metal links, like they were nothing more than wool. Ripped the man’s heart in two.”

  “Heart-Ripper,” he said in wonder.

  “As good a name as any.” His father smiled, his eyes gleaming. “I wish I had such a weapon when I was your age.”

  He stared at his father. “I can’t take this. I don’t deserve it. You’ll need it this spring.”

  His father seemed to rise in height, and when he spoke, his voice boomed with his authority. “It is a gift, boy. A gift.”

  The young man lowered his eyes. “Yes, father. I’m sorry. Thank you. I… don’t know what to say.”

  His father snorted. “Then say nothing. But take it, and get yourself home. Your mother will worry that I keep you out too late when you’re still injured.”

  “I’m better now.”

  His father grinned and shoved him. “I know it, boy, but your mother doesn’t.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  His father tilted his large head toward Sea-Eel, which bobbed softly in the waters of the inlet. “I’m going to go sit on my ship for a time. It’ll probably be the only chance I’ll get for a spell of solitude until after this spring’s raiding.” With a slightly pained expression on his face, he rubbed his bicep, swinging his arm in a circle. “Too damned old for this shit. Go on, then, Asgrim. Off with you.”

  Asgrim turned and loped away, his new sword beneath his arm. Bjorn would be green with envy. As he approached the lights of their manor and farmlands, his feet seemed to float over the ground. Somehow, life had become good again. That hadn’t seemed possible. Soon, very, very soon, they would finish Sea Eel’s rigging. In another week, she would be provisioned and ready for sailing. This time, under his father’s command, he would wash away the memory of his first raid. His scars would remain forever, but his future was bright again.

  The next morning, Guthorm, always first to work, found Asgrim's father’s corpse, still sitting at the prow of his longship, an arm around the tiller, a surprised look on his dead face, which stared up at the early morning sky.

  “Destiny,” whispered the workers.

  Fate.

  One

  The coast of the Kingdom of Frankia,

  August 2, 799,

  Dawn

  Sea Eel’s dragonhead prow rose high above the waves and then smashed down again, throwing cold spray into the air. Asgrim Wood-Nose locked his gaze on the dark tree-lined shore of the approaching island. Sea Eel’s sail was furled, so each of the eighty-six Danish warriors pulled at a dripping oar, their excited eyes shining in the moonlight. The night was silent, expectant; the only sound came from the waves crashing against the pebbled beach ahead of them.

  It was already hot; a promise of the scorcher to come, and Asgrim wedged a finger beneath the eye guard of his helm to wipe stinging sweat away from his eyes. Peering past the wooden prow of his ship, he watched the dark forest beyond the beach, but saw no sign of life. He glanced up, his eyes drawn once more to the flaming tail of the red dragon burning in the night sky.

  The dragon had first appeared two days ago, when they were still following the coastline south. Bjorn had told the men it was an omen, a sign that Odin was pleased with their raid and that he would watch over them. Asgrim sighed, and that moment, Hopp, his vallhund, rose from where he had been resting between the seated rows of men and came to him, rubbing his thick body against his legs. He reached down and scratched behind the dog’s ears.

  Bjorn was wrong. Odin didn’t favor cowards and murderers. The flaming dragon was an omen, but not a favorable one. It was a promise of doom, of red death; his fate. And what could a man do to change his fate?

  Nothing.

  Fate was inexorable, like the tides.

  The longship’s deck creaked as Bjorn moved to stand beside him. Asgrim was a tall man, a large man, but Bjorn towered over him. In his bearlike hands, his little brother held a great two-handed Dane ax, its edge sharpened keenly, its wooden length studded with iron rivets. Both men wore their finely crafted chain mail coats and full iron helms, with the fur-lined cheek flaps tied in place beneath their beards. Only the two brothers, however, possessed chain mail armor. Most of the men wore only padded leather or reindeer-hide coats, even though each Dane carried a serviceable wooden round shield with a sturdy iron boss.

  Sea Eel’s prow scraped against the sandy shoreline, coming to a jarring stop, and Asgrim roused himself, forcing his attention back to where it needed to be. He didn’t know what destiny his crimes had bought him, but whatever it was, he would face it like a man. If murder and misery were all the Nornar would give him, he would play out his part and drown the world in blood.

  Hopp pushed against his leg, anxious to go, and Asgrim slapped the coarse flank of the hunting dog. In a moment, Hopp leapt over the prow of the longship and was loping across the sandy shoreline before disappearing into the trees. Had anyone been waiting in ambush, Hopp would have barked.

  But the vallhund made no sound.

  “Go!” snarled Asgrim.

  Without a word, eighty-six Danish raiders launched themselves over the side of the longship, splashing through the water to the shore. Asgrim felt the exc
itement of coming battle surge within him. He gripped the handle of the iron boss on his shield and drew Heart-Ripper from its sheath before dropping over the side of his ship and landing in the wet sand. His men had already fanned out, forming a half ring to defend the ship, but there was no need, they were alone on this beach.

  The Franks called this island Noirmoutier, the Black Monastery. It sat just off the coast of the Kingdom of Frankia, at the mouth of a great river. The island and its monastery were named for the Christian holy men who dressed all in black and resided here in their great stone home, worshipping their ridiculous One God. Asgrim and his men had sailed for weeks to get here, past the Kingdom of Wessex to the north before turning south to follow the coast. And it had been an unpleasant voyage, plagued by violent summer storms, blistering hot sun, and short tempers—especially Asgrim’s. But there had been no choice: the earl had leveled a monstrous wergild on Asgrim. In order to pay it, Asgrim needed profit—else his war band would fall apart as each man felt the pull of home, a home now denied Asgrim. And here on Noirmoutier there was silver, a hoard of silver, enough to pay his wergild.

  Days ago, at a trading camp along the coast, they had met a group of dark-skinned Saracens, black-eyed easterners. Their leader had whispered of the vast secret hoard of silver the holy men had hidden away on this island. No fool, Asgrim hadn’t trusted the Saracen, but he also felt certain the heavy hand of fate was at play. He needed treasure; the holy men possessed treasure.

  “Scouts,” he hissed, jabbing his sword point inland.

  Five of his stealthiest men, led by Steiner Ghost-Foot, the best hunter Asgrim had ever known, darted into the trees, leading the way. Five other men remained behind to guard the longship, and Asgrim led the remainder of his war band into the forest.

  Thankfully, the foliage was open, easy to traverse, and they moved quickly. The Saracen trader, generous to a fault, had also provided Asgrim with the details of the island, including the monastery’s location, about two miles inland. By the time they came out of the woods and hit the monastery, the sun would be rising. If everything went according to plan, which almost never happened, most of the monks would still be asleep.