Bjorn watched through squinted eyes as Ullr – one of the Jomsvikings - followed the blood trail on her hands and knees. He had not expected Ulfhedinn to track this way, though it made some kind of sense. The shieldmaiden moved like a bloodhound through the undergrowth. Roots, branches, thorns and leaves glancing off her well-oiled brynja as she scurried deftly along the ground.

  “It seems you get the full service when you hire the Jomsvikings,” Hrafn squawked from atop Bjorn’s head. “Trackers are useful in war.”

  “And what would a raven know of war?” Bjorn asked, being careful to keep his voice low so that the others would not hear him talking to a bird and think him galinn-touched.

  “More than you, I’d wager,” the raven replied. “I have seen empires fall, Bjorn. I was there when Thor led his famous raid on Jotunheim. I was there when the Romans conquered half of Midgard and the Greeks before them and the Egyptians before them and the Mesopotamians before them. Need I continue? I have seen war. It is not pretty,” he lowered his head and Bjorn stayed quiet a moment as Ullr shuffled further into the bushes. “Good for a feast though,” Hrafn squawked.

  “Well, sagely bird,” Bjorn said. “I don’t know who any of those people are, other than Thor, but you have never seen a war like the one I am preparing to wage. You will be so fat from gorging on the corpses of my foemen that I will no longer be able to support your weight on my head.”

  “We will see.”

  “What are you muttering to yourself, brodir?” Ivar asked, quickening his pace from behind to join Bjorn at his side and casting a discerning, narrow-eyed glance at him.

  Bjorn’s eyes were focused on Ullr. The Ulfhedinn was moving at pace now, nimble and precise in her movements. Her long, braided, blonde hair stood out from the dark greens and browns of the forest undergrowth. The shield on her back held the same valknut as the other Jomsvikings he had seen in the town, but hers was different. It had, what looked like, a dried blood splatter on it.

  A show of strength? Bjorn wondered, or loyalty?

  “Brodir?” Ivar asked again, nudging Bjorn’s shoulder with his own.

  “Nothing,” Bjorn replied. “I was thinking on the battle to come.”

  “It looks to me like you were staring at the tracker’s behind,” he smirked, nudging Bjorn’s shoulder once more. “I am sure she will hump you once you become a famed dragon slayer.”

  “Humping may be all you think about, brodir,” Bjorn replied with a grin. “But it is the last thing on my mind right now… maybe later if the mood strikes.”

  “Aye,” he replied. “Just look around, all these Ulfhedinn shieldmaidens are sending the blood away from my muscles. How am I to fight like this?”

  “What muscles?” Bjorn replied with a coy smile. “Your arms are built like the fallen twigs beneath our feet. I doubt much blood is needed to power them.”

  “You mock me brodir, but the place the blood is going is no mere twig. In fact, I am beginning to feel a little lightheaded.”

  Bjorn and Ivar both laughed and Horick turned, shooting them a dangerous look as he narrowed his eyes and raised his fist, signalling the procession to halt. Everyone dropped down to one knee, drengir looking around cautiously and lifting weapons from holsters, checking that they would not snag if they were attacked. Bjorn checked his axe and seax, lifting them halfway out of their holsters and then dropping them back down. He then double checked the winnigas bindings around his ankles and boots and retightened them. It would not do well for a warrior to trip on his own breeches mid battle.

  “What is it?” Horick said in a hushed tone, Ullr turning her head towards him, beckoning him forwards. He, in turn, nodded for Bjorn and Ivar to follow as well and soon the three of them were crawling on hands and knees through the undergrowth.

  “I feel like a thrall,” Ivar complained. “Crawling around in the dirt like a common tik.”

  “If you would rather stand tall and have your head bitten off by a dragon then be my guest,” Horick replied. “What do you see?” He asked Ullr once more as they reached her back.

  “A clearing. Carcasses,” she replied and Bjorn scuttled up next to her to gain a better view.

  Peering through the bushes over the edge of a mound of built-up dirt, he saw why Ullr had halted the march. The clearing below was a boneyard. Wolves, cows, sheep, goats, and humans, a lot of human skeletons, laid scattered around the muddy clearing. In the very centre there was a nest of sorts. Gold, silver, trinkets of all kinds, laid in a pile surrounded by branches that had been folded and bent to form a nest of treasures.

  “It seems Fafnir’s greed followed him,” Ivar stated.

  “That was part of Odin’s curse,” Horick added.

  “Now we just need to wait until the nest’s owner returns,” Bjorn said. “Spread your drengir out around the clearing. Hide them in bushes, keep them low to the ground under the cover of foliage and branches and when he returns, we strike.”

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  ***

  Bjorn’s fingers grew numb. They had been laid still in the dirt for hours. The sun had dropped in the sky casting an eerie orange glow which broke through the forest canopy in stark beams of blinding light. Everything else was dim. The vibrant greenery of the forest had faded to a dark, soggy grey. Demure tones of brown splashing as rain fell from the angry clouds in the sky, dripping from leaves and wetting Bjorn’s hair almost as thoroughly as it churned the mud in the clearing.

  This fight will not be a pretty one, Bjorn thought, surveying the clearing with eagle-eyed precision. I will have to be careful not to fall during the charge. Timing the use of my new skill will also be important. Too early and I risk losing extra strength before I can strike. Too late and Fafnir will surely eat me before I reach him.

  “You have a face to match the clouds, Ironside,” Ullr said in a teasing tone, looking across at him with doe eyes.

  They had all been paired off and given a bush to wait in. Over a dozen Ulfhedinn, Ivar and half of his drengir, and Bjorn, were all lying in wait for their prey. Ivar had stuck with Horick, which worked well for Bjorn as he found that the Jomsviking leader talked too much.

  “I am thinking on the battle to come,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the clearing.

  “You needn’t bother,” Ullr replied with a shrug. “You will still be laying in the mud when I take that bacraut dragon’s heart.”

  Her lips pulled back slightly revealing sharp fangs, eyes flashed yellow just for a second as she growled the last few words. Bjorn felt her shaking, their shoulders touching as they huddled close to stay underneath the bush.

  “Who did you lose?” Bjorn asked quietly, still watching the clearing, face looking straight ahead.

  “It does not matter now,” she replied. “Today I will have my revenge, as is my right. That is all that matters. That is everything.”

  Bjorn nodded, thinking of his father and the man who had murdered him.

  Then the trees shuddered and a high-pitched roar filled Bjorn’s ears as flapping wings blocked out the orange glow of the sun. Fafnir descended into the clearing, wings blasting wind all around him, blowing Bjorn’s hair and threatening to uproot the bush they were laid in.

  Ullr twitched, muscles tensing, arms bracing in the mud ready to push off into a charge. Carefully, Bjorn placed his calloused palm on her shoulder and she looked at him, eyes yellow, bloodthirsty, teeth dripping with saliva from fangs that made her face appear more wolf than human.

  “Not yet,” he said in a calm baritone.

  She growled a low, vibrating hum that shook Bjorn’s hand gently as her eyes narrowed. “I need this,” she said. “I will die for it.”

  “We all do,” he replied, still looking stalwart towards the descending dragon. “And if we die then tomorrow we will feast in the great hall. No need to hurry there though, the meat will still be warm if we are a little late.”

  “You do not understand,” she replied, each syllable a seax’s slash. “I have to strike the killing blow. I have to kill him.”

  Not as much as I do, Bjorn thought, thought-cage flashing images of the quest. Of the dragon’s heart and its power.

  “You will,” he lied. “Just hold.”

  A rustling sound pricked his ears and his eyes were darting to shaking, quivering bushes opposite the clearing. Snapping, the sound of callous footsteps on twigs.

  Then Ivar was screaming, charging out of the bushes towards Fafnir, axes raised high, froth flying from chapped lips. Fafnir looked towards him and roared. Trees shook, Bjorn’s eardrums ached and Hrafn flapped his wings, taking off from his perch on Bjorn’s head.

  “Brodir you fifl,” he spat, then he was rising from the mud, charging down the hill and calling for drengir to join him. Ullr was right on his heels, galloping after him, twin seax’s raised, howling rage as her eyes locked onto her pray.

  Fafnir turned towards them and if Bjorn was not mistaken, the dragon’s lips parted in a smile. “Brave drengir,” he said, his voice a hoarse growl. “Come to die.”

  Ivar reached the dragon first, leaping, axes raised above his head and then Fafnir was turning lazily, reaching out with a claw and swatting him from the sky like a bug.

  “Ivar!” Bjorn cried, legs pumping, burning, brynja bouncing, rubbing against his skin, jingling as riveted rings clapped.

  Fafnir lifted his claw and Ivar was laid in a crater, blood leaking from his lower half, body twitching. He was alive, but for how long was anybody’s guess.

  Bjorn charged, reaching the side of the dragon and activating Berserkr’s Wrath. Then he was jumping, muscles growing as his increased strength threw him towards the dragon. He slashed with his axe, catching in Fafnir’s scales and then he was stabbing his seax in too, using the weapons as climbing tools to ascend the dragon’s side. Blood leaked in rivulets as Bjorn stabbed and hacked as he climbed further up the scaled wall, carrying all of his weight in his arms which had doubled in size. It would not last long.

  Fafnir shook, Bjorn’s seax loosened and he was hanging on by one arm. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw, then heard, the drengir charging at the dragon from all sides. An army of warriors pounding the ground with heavy steps, screaming their war cries, weapons raised. In the bushes archers stood, a wall of men.

  “Draw!” Horick yelled.

  That bacraut is going to kill me, Bjorn thought as the sight of many arrows skewering his body flashed through his thought-cage. Not until I kill this tik-dragon.

  “Loose!” Horick roared and arrows rained down from all sides peppering Fafnir’s skin. Bjorn huddled, pulling his legs up, abs burning, making himself as small as possible. He scrunched his eyes up, breathing heavily, then opened them. He had not been skewered, but it was close. The volleyed arrows were embedded all over the dragon’s scaled side, blood leaking out, dripping and running over scaled skin like rain.

  Swinging with his legs and core, he stabbed his seax back into the side of the dragon and continued climbing. Inch, by inch he made his way up the scales and Fafnir was too busy batting claws at the oncoming drengir to stop him. His skill would end soon; he needed to reach the neck before that happened.

  “Glory is mine!” He heard Ullr shout as she finally caught up, then she was hacking at the dragon’s belly and it was roaring, screeching, shaking as Bjorn fought to continue his climb.

  Fafnir tipped his head back and inhaled, then he was throwing his head forwards, fire spraying from his maw like a wave as drengir screamed, fire scorching their skin, turning their brynja rings red as they cooked alive inside their armour. Warriors dropped to the ground, rolling, screaming, skin sticking to the mud, peeling off with every movement and the smell of charred flesh stung the air, burning Bjorn’s nostrils.

  He continued to climb and then he was rising, standing on the dragon’s back. His strength was fading, skill about to end and then he was jumping into the air, switching hand axe and seax for his two-handed long axe and slashing down at the nape with all of his strength.