The Jomsviking’s hall was vast, even larger than Bjorn’s father’s back at Lejre. A large throne of gold sat at the head of the long table, large fires were lit all along the walls, furs and shields hung from beams and posts. Warriors were crammed close to the door at the opposite edge of the table, a few drengir stood on guard at the twelve columns which lined the sides of the interior, and plates, goblets, and tankards of silver were spread out along the intricately carved table.

  All were quiet as Horick took his seat.

  Bjorn and Ivar followed him, their own drengir forced to wait by their longship. With a stern expression, Horick gestured to the seats at his right and left and Ivar hesitantly sat down. Bjorn stayed standing.

  “You think I’ve placed ivy on the chair, Ironside?” Horick asked and a few of his drengir smirked. “Sit down, you came for an audience with me, no? Let us have it.”

  “I think I want a golden chair of my own,” Bjorn replied as he moved towards his plain seat, eyes flicking between Horick and the uneasy drengr stood directly behind Bjorn’s chair.

  “Offer a good price and maybe you will have one,” Horick shrugged. “But I can see that my drengir make you uneasy. It seems that your sides might be the only thing about you that is made of iron,” he smiled. Then with a sigh, his face turned stern once more as he looked out over the heads of his men. “Leave us,” he said with a casual flicker of his wrist and the drengir complied, marching out of the hall as they murmured to each other. “Better?”

  Bjorn nodded, “aye.”

  “So, Ironside. You have bested me in a holmganga and that is no easy thing. Now, tell me what you came here for.”

  “We are here seeking aid,” Ivar began, speaking before Bjorn had the chance to. He was the deep-cunning thinker of the two of them and he already knew this Horick, so Bjorn was happy to sit back and let him do the talking. He just needed more drengir to bolster his ranks, he didn’t care which of them negotiated the alliance. “Our father was killed by the troll, King Aella, and we are going to raid his country and take revenge. We’re looking for allies to help us in this. There will be more plunder than you can carry. England is a rich land, or so I’ve heard.”

  “As have I,” Horick replied, resting his hands on his sword which sat between his opened legs. “But I asked Ironside, not you, Ivar.” He turned his head to look at Bjorn, who sat there, a little too big for the chair he had been offered, with Hrafn perched soundly on his head.

  “It is as Ivar said,” Bjorn replied. “Our father was murdered. We are going to avenge him, as is our right.”

  Bjorn finished speaking and Horick looked at him for a long moment as if he expected him to continue. He did not.

  “Not much of a talker this one, is he?” Horick smiled. “Alright, let us speak of gold. This will be a long raid. I have a lot of drengir, battle-famed warriors, all, but that kind of strength does not come cheap.”

  Ivar leaned back in his chair which creaked, the front legs raising off the ground slightly as he stretched out his hands, interlocking his fingers and cracking them.

  “As I said-” He began but was abruptly cut off.

  “I heard what you said,” Horick interrupted. “I know England is rich. I know we can bring home many spoils of battle – we always do – but what will you give us now. Most of the drengir here have families. It would not be right for them to run off to fight another clan’s blood feud, risking a trip down the soul road, without leaving their own families something to live on.”

  Silence hung thick in the air as Ivar’s annoyed expression was directed at Bjorn, whose impassive stare was entirely unhelpful. Bjorn knew how much gold they had stockpiled in Lejre, not to mention the treasures Old Svik would be bringing from Sweeden once he’d gathered Bjorn’s own troops. He did not want to spend all of it though, he had boats to build, and from the sight of this grand hall, Horick was an expensive mercenary.

  “He doesn’t look like he needs anymore gold,” Hrafn squawked and Bjorn hid the flicker of a smile which twitched at his lips.

  “We will give you ten chests-” Bjorn began to speak. Ivar looked relieved, but Bjorn was cut off by the sounds of screaming, then with an almighty creak, wooden splinters began raining down around them.

  An almighty roar filled Bjorn’s ears, an ear-splitting, high-pitched scream of rage and anguish, the likes of which he had not heard before.

  “Fukka!” Horick swore, jumping to his feet and hefting his long sword onto his shoulder. “Outside now. We will finish this later. He is back.”

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  “Who is back?” Ivar asked, drawing the twin seaxes in his weapons belt and looking around nervously as more splinters fell from the ceiling.

  CRACK.

  Bjorn looked up just as a rafter fell away from the roof. Without thinking, he dived across the table knocking Ivar into a column and the two of them rolled and then another crack, and another. Turning behind himself, Bjorn saw more falling rafters, the first smashing the table, smashing the place where Ivar had been standing.

  “Brodir,” Ivar said slowly, eyes widening, pupils dilated. “You saved me.”

  “Get up, you arseling,” Bjorn grunted. “The sky is falling.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Hrafn squawked. “But it is worse outside.”

  Ignoring his familiar, Bjorn scrambled to his feet and, grabbing Ivar’s arm, hefted him upright. The weight of his brynja, shield, and weapons making Bjorn’s bicep burn as he did so. Then they were running, scrambling, jumping, vaulting as the hall collapsed behind them. Fire was burning, catching on the fallen wooden beams, the smoke was suffocating and as thick as tar and soon Bjorn was coughing and spluttering.

  Bursting through the double doors on Horick’s heels, the two brodur dropped to their knees in the high winter sun, gasping for breath as the hall continued to collapse behind them, blazing like a Helheim inferno.

  “To arms!” Horick shouted, but it was no use. Half the town was ablaze, drengir and freedmen and woman alike running, screaming, and trying to take shelter from the monster in the sky.

  It was so huge that it blotted out half the sky. Its red, tattered wings flapping above as it dived down, snatching a warrior who screamed as it chomped down on his midriff, splitting brynja and his torso in two. Blood rained down. Snapped, riveted rings hailed, and Bjorn drew his spear.

  “One of your kin?” He asked Hrafn.

  “Oh, so now you develop a sense of humour?” The raven replied.

  Then Bjorn was leaping forward, one step, two steps, and on the third he launched his spear. Arcing into the sky like a large arrow fired from a bow, the spear curved, striking the underbelly of the flying monster and embedding itself. Small rivulets of blood dripped, but not many.

  “Nice shot!” Horick shouted, grabbing a spear from the hand of a dead drengir and throwing it.

  “Are you galinn-touched?” Ivar said, and then the beast was turning towards them, glowering yellow eyes locked onto Bjorn. It’s scaled head glinting in the winter sun, fangs barred.

  The world froze.

  You have discovered a djoful:

  Fafnir:

  Once a dwarf and son of Hreithmar, the dwarven king, Fafnir’s story begins when his brodir was slain by Loki. Hreithmar and his sons demanded compensation from Odin, who happily obliged, gifting them a horde of gold.

  Overcome with greed, Fafnir murdered his father and took the gold for himself but little did he know that Odin had placed a curse on this treasure. As soon as Fafnir claimed the gold, he turned into a dragon.

  Sigurd Volsunga, father of Aslaug, once fought a great battle with Fafnir and won… or so the story goes.

  However, the dragon is not dead yet.

  It is said that great knowledge can be gained by the one who eats the dragon’s heart. Perhaps this will add to your battle-fame.

  Bjorn had never known his grandfather, or any of the Volsunga, but he had heard the stories. Everyone had heard the stories of his grandparents. The great hero Sigurd and Brynhildr the shield maiden, famous across all of Norway and Denmark, and parents to his mother Aslaug. Bjorn had heard whispers that this fame was the reason his father had married her, though he’d never dared to ask.

  “We might be in trouble,” Hrafn said as time resumed.

  Fafnir was staring straight at Bjorn and Bjorn stared back with icy, blue eyes.

  I want that dragon’s heart. It being alive shames my entire clan, he thought, a flicker of anger beginning to well up.

  Then he was activating his new skill and barrelling towards the beast, sword in one hand, seax in the other. Jumping through the air with the leg strength of ten men, he slashed viciously at the dragon’s maw and it let out a high-pitched roar, blood gushing onto Bjorn’s hand. As he thrusted forwards with his seax, Fafnir flapped his furious wings, batting Bjorn to the ground as he flew higher into the sky.

  With an almighty, deeper roar, fire sprayed from his mouth splashing the rooves of nearby steadings. Then it was flying away, globs of blood raining down in its wake.

  Bjorn was gasping, gripping his winded stomach. The fire was everywhere. People were screaming, running, but mostly, they were grabbing buckets, dunking them into the ice-cold sea and throwing them onto the fire-touched parts of Jomsborg.

  “Twenty chests,” Horick said, standing over Bjorn and offering out a hand.

  “Five,” he said, gripping the man’s hand and allowing him to yank him to his feet.

  “Five? You must be a fifl to think I’d accept so little. Fifteen chests, and that is my final offer.”

  “Ten chests, and I will help slay your dragon,” Bjorn grinned, offering out his hand.

  Horick looked at him through a furrowed brow, then turned to see the destruction that had been wrought upon his town. He rubbed the back of his head, braid bobbing up and down, sighed and then took Bjorn’s hand.

  “Deal.”

  “You really are a fifl,” Ivar complained.

  New Quest:

  To Slay A Dragon:

  Thought to have been slain by the great hero Sigurd, Fafnir has returned.

  Reclaim the honour of your clan and slay him.

  Objectives:

  Slay Fafnir 0/1

  Eat Fafnir’s heart (optional) 0/1

  Reward:

  It is said that there is knowledge inside a dragon’s heart