Wind battered the dirt-touched sales of Ivar’s longship as he and Bjorn wrestled with the soaked ropes, desperately trying to gain a semblance of control over the unruly vessel.

  Waves crashed into the creaking hull from all sides as drengir huddled beneath the dripping tarp, some rowing with great struggle, others rocking in the base of the hull, clinging to the rails for dear life as the ship rocked and threatened to upend itself.

  “This was a galinn-touched plan,” Ivar yelled, wind carrying his voice out towards the angry sea. “Everyone knows sailing in winter is a sure-fire way to end up in Njord’s embrace.”

  “I never said it would be easy,” Bjorn shouted back, teeth gritted as red-raw, battered hands pulled at the rope, back and arm muscles burning, skin numbed by the frost-bitten sea water.

  “Nothing is ever easy with you,” Ivar laughed, also fighting with the rope. “I still remember your first voyage with father and I. What was supposed to be a simple fishing trip ended up with you wrapped in the tail of J?rmungandr’s kin, screaming like a stuck pig.”

  “And what did you do,” Bjorn bit back, “but cry for father as you huddled in the hull like a whipped thrall.”

  “I had barely seen ten winters. I had never even seen a sea snake before!”

  “I was barely seven winters and I, at least, tried to fight the beast.”

  “If you two put half the effort you spend flapping your gums into steering the boat we’d be there by now,” Hrafn squawked, soaring easily through the storm, wings moving imperceptivity as he glided through the air, navigating the wind like it was nothing.

  “Your pigeon is very vocal,” Ivar said as the two finally managed to raise the sail, bleeding hands dying the wet rope a watery pink colour as the tarp rolled, no longer catching the swirling winds which threatened to capsize them.

  “He is a raven, and he thinks you are an arseling,” Bjorn replied as he tied off his rope and fell backwards onto the deck with a wet slap, panting and red faced. “Which makes two of us.”

  Ivar laughed, dropping under the tarp as well and laying on his back, sloshing ice-water gliding over his stomach as he stretched his back. “We are not far now,” he said. “But we will have to wait out this storm before we approach. Jomsborg is hidden between jagged rocks which Njord’s fury will crush us against if we are not careful.”

  Bjorn nodded, looked around at the tired drengir manning the oars. They would be glad for a break, but they would not get one. Keeping the ship steady in a storm as bad as this one was dog’s work.

  We are doing this for father, he told himself, allowing a brief moment to re-read his newest quest. The thought of Skuld’s wisdom calmed him.

  New Quest:

  A Debt Paid In Blood

  Recruit the Jomsvikings to your cause. They will be invaluable allies in the invasion to come. Though their aid will not come cheap.

  Objectives:

  Find Jomsborg 0/1

  Recruit Jomsvikings 0/1

  Reward:

  Multiple Rewards Will be Discovered Whilst Completing This Quest

  ***

  Winter’s sun beamed down as Bjorn stood at the prow, hand shading his tender eyes from the glaring rays of light which penetrated his cornea from every angle, even bouncing off the sea’s surface. Large, jagged rocks threatened to consume them on either side, a galkn’s teeth, jaws ready to snap shut in an instant.

  “We are nearly there,” Ivar said, hand on the rudder as Bjorn banged a drum rhythmically, drengir pulling on their oars in time to the war-beat, a slow and steady journey through the treacherously calm sea.

  Usually he preferred to sit the oar bench. There was a catharsis in losing yourself to the bend and pull, becoming one with the crew as you bent your back to the rhythm of the ocean beat. However, he needed to command the respect of the Jomsvikings if he wanted them to join his cause and ones position on the longship was an easy indicator of their status.

  As their longship crested a corner, manoeuvred expertly through the savage landscape by his brodir, Bjorn caught his first glimpse of Jomsborg fortress. Large wooden sea gates blocked off the entrance to the little, hidden fjord, a tower on either side, each manned by a brynja clad drengr armed with a bow, arrows, and in close proximity to fire.

  “Heja,” Ivar called up to them as their ship closed in. “It has been an age. I am Ivar Ragnarsson, here to treat with Horick.”

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  The guards exchanged a confused look, then one of them spoke in a harsh, throaty voice. “Horick does not treat with nobodies. Turn your ship around and we will allow you to leave in one piece, bacraut.”

  “Nobodies?” Bjorn scoffed, fists clenching as he looked up at the two arselings. “We are sons of the great Ragnar Lodbrok, king of Denmark, bane of foemen the world over. I am Bjorn Ragnarsson, king of Sweeden and your jarl would have your heads on pikes if he could hear the insults you so casually spew my way.”

  “Calm yourself, brodir,” Ivar said, the hint of amusement tugging at his lips. “This is Jomsborg, they tend to shoot first and ask questions later in these parts.”

  “Let them try,” Bjorn growled.

  The two drengr guards exchanged another look, then the silent one shrugged and the speaker was once again turning back to Ivar’s ship.

  “Fine then,” he said flippantly. “But don’t blame me when your blood eagled corpses are hanging from these gates.” With an exaggerated sigh he turned behind him and called to someone who Bjorn could not see. “Open the gates!”

  With a metallic grind and the gentle gushing of water, the sea gates creaked open and Ivar nodded to Bjorn who began slowly beating the drum once more, drengir pulling on their oars as the longship slithered through the fjord.

  On the other side of the gates were wooden spikes which had somehow been hammered into the bed of the fjord, creating a strict path towards dry land and, more specifically, a wooden dock bordered by flaming skulls on stakes. A contingent of heavily armed drengir, wearing wolves’ heads as helms, lined the shore, shields shrugged into their fists as they slowly, rhythmically, pounded their weapons against them.

  “They are a friendly lot,” Bjorn said quietly to Ivar.

  “Their business is death,” Ivar shrugged, “they have a reputation to uphold.”

  As the longship moved towards the dock Bjorn’s eyes were drawn to the dark-wood steadings beyond the shore. Though there were not many of them, they were well built, dark and painted with sharp red runes which lined their frames, interlocking triangles adorning their doors. The same rune which was etched into every shield in every drengr’s fist: the valknut, a rune Bjorn knew well as it was associated with Odin and his hall of souls.

  “You did not tell me the Jomsvikings were Ulfhedinn,” he said to Ivar.

  “Is it not common knowledge?” He replied.

  “Be careful,” Hrafn squawked, landing on Bjorn’s shoulder and ruffling his feathers. “Ulfhedinn are dangerous.”

  Bjorn nodded, glaring at the drengir on the shore, dead wolves’ eyes glaring back from the fearsome headdress they all wore. Then Midgard stopped for a moment and runes appeared in front of Bjorn.

  Ulfhedinn

  Fearsome warriors of Odin’s cult. Fanatical in their frenzied fighting, these drengir are known throughout the Norse world as agile warriors, not to be trifled with.

  It is said that in order to become a Ulfhedinn, fledglings must overcome difficult trials and prove themselves in battle.

  One such trial is to find and slay a wolf with their bare hands, this offering is then made to Odin in the ritualistic style of the old ways and the wolf’s head is made into a helm which the drengr must wear, even in death.

  To remove it is to dishonour the gods.

  Bjorn knew much of that already, but to see it before him in Skuld’s own handwriting meant that it must be more than mere rumour. As Hrafn had warned, he would need to be careful when dealing with these fanatics.

  I wonder if they also see the floating runes of Nornir’s Weave. If so, they could be dangerous enemies. If I can get them on my side though… he thought, a vicious smile tugging at his thin lips.

  “Oars!” Ivar shouted and the drengir were threading their oars through the holes, swapping them for spears in the rack and shrugging on brynja, pulling helms from their sea-chests and removing their shields from the top rail of the ship. Then Ivar was leaping from the prow to the dock, rope in hand, bending down and tying the longship to a wooden post as Bjorn warily joined him, fingers stroking the haft of his hand axe, shoulders tight, ready to shrug his shield into his fist.

  “Do they see the Norir’s Weave?” He whispered to Hrafn as he stood on the dock.

  “Who could say?” The bird squawked. “Some might, you are not the only Dane with the sight. I doubt any would tell your truthfully though, most guard the secrets of the Weave with their lives.”

  Bjorn nodded and his legs wavered as he took his first steps over the creaking, wooden dock. Sea-shake gripped him, but he fought on, calming his mind as he approached the solid line of Jomsvikings in their shield wall.

  Standing before them, Bjorn looked up and down the line as Ivar arrived at his side, his drengir following closely behind and forming a shield wall of their own. They waited and waited, staring at the Jomsvikings who stared back, one spat on the floor in front of Bjorn but he ignored the insult and waited some more. Then, with a crack as interlocked shields disentangled, the wall parted leaving just enough space for a single man to walk through. Once he had cleared the front rank, the shields snapped back into place and Bjorn and Ivar were alone with the man, trapped between two impenetrable walls of drengir.

  “Well, well,” the wolf helmed man said, his scarred lips sneering as his black eyes slowly looked Bjorn up and down. “The famous Bjorn Ironside has graced us with his royal presence. To what do I owe the honour?”

  “Horick?” Bjorn asked, eyes taking in the large longsword slung over the man’s back in lieu of a shield.

  “The one and only,” he said opening his arms as his drengir laughed behind him.

  “We come seeking an alliance,” Bjorn said carefully, weighing his words as he spoke. “In the summer my drengir and I will invade England, far to the west. I have come in search of worthy warriors who would join me in this saga-song adventure.”

  Horick spat on the floor in front of Bjorn, narrowing his eyes as he stepped forward, close enough that Bjorn could smell the sour stench of skyr on his breath. “We don’t make alliances, Dane. If you want our help you will have to prove that you are worth helping, and our services do not come cheap.”

  “We have gold, Horick,” Ivar said, lips pulled in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You know this.”

  “Yes Ivar, I am aware of your father’s riches, and I know you well enough,” Horick replied, taking a step back, fingers pulsating, one leg stretched out behind the other in a readied stance. “But him, I do not know.”

  “Then would you fight for me?” Ivar asked. “Bjorn’s is the deep-cunning thought-cage behind this raid, but I am now king of Denmark. Surely that means something to you?”

  “Ragnar is dead?” He asked, eyes widening, but only for a second as he watched Ivar nod grimly. “Then you have my condolences, he was a battle-famed drengr. But we only fight for the one in charge of a raid, and as you said, that is your brodir, and I like to learn a man’s heart before I commit my men to his cause, before I take his gold.”

  “He is about to strike, watch yourself,” Hrafn squawked.

  “I can see that,” Bjorn muttered, eyes locked onto his target, muscles tensed and ready.

  “That raven seems to like you,” Horick said absently.

  “I would not go that far, but he is loyal,” Bjorn replied.

  “Do you know who we are, Bjorn Ironside?”

  “Jomsvikings,” he said, “and from the rune on your shields, Ulfhedinn.”

  “Then you know that we are Odin’s chosen drengir, those who will protect him from Fenrir at the coming of the great Ragnar?k. We are slayers of wolves and men alike, and then, you must know, we despise bacrauts who dare to take the All-Father’s chosen creatures as their own, for all ravens belong only to him.”

  “Hrafn is not my thrall, he chose me,” Bjorn said, fingers brushing the haft of his axe.

  “Then prove it!” Horick yelled, charging forwards, hands darting for the longsword at his back as he cleaved it over the top of his head towards Bjorn.

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