Maybe he could find a way to use the change to his advantage.

A raven flapped down to perch on the peak of the sod roof as the old man crossed the yard. A second raven followed him through the door. In the shadows inside, the few idlers who were always the first to discover this sort of establishment drank their way through the afternoon. The sweet, sour, too-familiar smell of ale cloaked him as heavily as his own garment.

He recognized the proprietor. Word of the man’s fate had preceded him, even here, where little was known of the world beyond ice and blood, and even less of the past.

The question was, would the proprietor recognize him?

He brought his staff down heavily on the plank table at the back of the hall. The raven settled in the rafters.

“It’ll never work,” he declared.

The proprietor ignored him, continuing to wipe the table. Like most of his type, he was stoic, but not bright.

“What will never work?” the proprietor asked.

The old man swept his staff at the longhouse behind him. “You can’t run a public ale house in Daneland.”

The proprietor shrugged. “I have worked rougher towns.”

“I doubt it.”

“We shall find out soon enough.” Hanging his dishrag over his shoulder, the proprietor began setting out a fortune in small glass cups on his wooden bar. “To tell the truth, I have been looking forward to coming here for some time. You Norsemen have quite a reputation.”

He laced his fingers and stretched ostentatiously. The muscles in his arms and shoulders rolled like whales on the surface of the sea. “I look forward to finding out if the reputation is true.”

Despite himself, the old man was impressed. Even Thor would have his hands full with this one. Still, he liked that the man was so sure of himself. It would make him that much easier to use.

“You like causing trouble?” the old man asked.

“To tell the truth, I am starting to prefer the quieter towns. My name is not as famous as it once was. In Cordoba, only a few scholars recognized me. The last thing they wanted was to fight me. An interesting town, Cordoba.”

A sow stuck its snout through the door. One of the men at the front of the hall heaved an empty bowl at it. The sow squealed, and disappeared.

“Hedeby isn’t Cordoba,” the old man said.

“I knew that before I got here.”

The old man leaned forward with his hands on his staff, bringing his face closer to the proprietor’s.

“You don’t recognize me, do you,” he said.

He caused what little glamour he was using to fall away. The proprietor stared back at him stupidly. The old man threw back his tangled gray hair to reveal his empty eye socket, and summoned the raven.

The proprietor shrugged. “I have met gods before.” He began piling his glass cups into a small ziggurat. “Your Norsemen will be no different from any other drunkards.”

“That depends how drunk they get.” The old man held out a hand. The raven hopped from his shoulder to the end of a knobby finger.

The proprietor shook his head. “It is always the same. In every place and every century, whether I serve beer, wine, or mead. Or ambrosia.”

The old man pointed his staff at the small casks on the shelf behind the table. “What about those? You think it’ll be the same when you serve them?”

The proprietor gave him a curious look. “You know about those?”

“I do. We’re not all ignorant in Daneland.”

“Care to try a glass? Your good opinion would make my establishment an instant success.”

“No, thanks. I only drink wine.”

“Will Andalusian do? It is the only vintage I carry.”

The old man did not resist. He sipped the offered glass unwatered, enjoying its fullness. His thoughts drifted to the warriors he had left carousing in his own hall. They would like this place.

“I could help you settle in, you know.”

The proprietor looked at him suspiciously. He had some experience with gods, after all.

“Why would you help me?”

The old man shrugged. As usual, the lie came easily. “Hedeby could use a little sophistication. It might be good for my people to learn there’s more to life than blood and beer. But even you’ll find it hard to control them without my help.”

“You wish to join me behind the bar?”

The old man snorted, and drained his cup. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, picked his nose, and offered what he found to the raven.

“The last thing you need is me hanging around, stirring up trouble. A pretty woman or two would be much better. And good for business. A proper Dane or Gotlander likes to have a pretty woman pour his ale for him. Or whatever else he’s drinking.”

“I like a pretty woman.” The proprietor winked.

Yes, the old man thought, this one was still true to the type. A few more centuries might pound some sense into him. In the meantime, his predictability might provide some amusement.

And some reward.

Abjorn looked down at his sister-son. Almost seven, the boy was old enough to learn the truth rather than the hearth-tales he heard from his mother and the skalds.

“Calling the Sons of Odin bears is a kenning, Tyrvi. When the mood comes upon them, they fight more like bears than men. But they never actually turn into bears.”

“Snurri says his father can turn into a bear any time he wants.”

“Snurri is mistaken. Perhaps Snurri is not old enough yet for his father or mother-brother to tell him the truth the way I tell you.”

Tyrvi poked the fire with his wooden sword. Thin gray smoke curled up toward the roof, where a patch of sky showed through a small square hole. Clearly the boy prefered being able to turn into a bear to the truth.

“Snurri is two months older than I am,” he said. “He says his father told him he could turn into a bear. He says the Sons of Odin go into the woods at night and sing songs and eat mushrooms and then Odin One-Eye turns them into bears. And no swords can cut their skin, or anything.”

Abjorn thought before replying. He did not want to say that Snurri’s father was a liar. At best, that meant Tyrvi would end up in a fight with Snurri. At worst, it meant that he or Tyrvi’s father would end up in a fight with Snurri’s father. Joffur was the largest man in Hedeby, the largest and strongest man Abjorn had ever seen. He was also one of the slowest-witted, and quickest to take offense at any perceived slight. The last thing Abjorn wanted was to spend a week avoiding Joffur until he and Leiknarr had a chance to ambush him. The notoriety would not be worth the trouble.

Besides, Joffur was just ignorant enough to think he could turn into a bear.

“Perhaps Snurri and his father know something your father and I do not,” Abjorn said. “But if they do, it is a secret, which means it might be better not to talk about it with them any more at all. If Snurri brings the matter up again, you should talk about something else. You could ask him how old he thinks each of you will be when you make your first voyage, or fight your first battle.”

Abjorn hoped the boy was listening as Tyrvi swung his sword back and forth across the room. His imaginary cuts were so ferocious, the thin plume of smoke wavered before him like a coward.

“When I grow up,” Tyrvi said, “I will be a Son of Odin. I will win a score of battles, and die fighting over a heap of gold.”

Abjorn laughed. “Yes, and the Valkyries will carry you off to Valhalla, where you and I, and your father and grandfathers, and all our grandfathers before us, will fight and die again together like true men.”

Tyrvi gripped his sword more firmly and attacked the fire pit even more vigorously. Abjorn watched him proudly. From the room next door he heard the sounds of his sister singing to his sister-daughter as they baked and churned. It was a good life they had here in Daneland. Farms and fields for wives and cattle, the sea close by for voyaging, and fresh lands to raid and settle everywhere. He was only just back from his own first voyage, silver pennies jingling in his pocket from the treasure he had sold to the smith and slaver, but it was good to be home again all the same. Next spring Hastein would call for ships to sail to Mercia, so that they could conquer that country the way they had conquered Northumbria, but in the meantime Abjorn could spend the winter at home. Tomorrow he would set off for his father’s farmstead, where his mother would make much of him, and his father would put him to work with his brothers and thralls in the fields.

The door to the street opened. A blast of cold frightened the flames more thoroughly than Tyrvi’s sword.

“I have heard some interesting news,” he said. “A Frisian told me there is an ale-house south of town.”

Abjorn fetched a bowl of ale of his own. “What is so special about an ale-house? The Saxons have scores of them.”

“This is no Saxon ale-house. The owner is a Saracen.”

“A Saracen?” Abjorn spat in the fire. “I do not accept drinks from thralls.”

“The Frisian says this Saracen is no thrall, but a free man doing business like any merchant. Only his trade is not furs or slaves, but hospitality.”

“Hospitality is no trade.”

“If a man can buy a bed slave, why not a cup of ale?”

“Why should I buy a cup of ale when I have good drink brewed by my sister right here?”

Leiknarr looked at Abjorn over the top of his bowl. “Ale is not the only thing the Saracen offers.”

“I have no need to pay for mead, either.”

“It is not mead. The Saracen serves a special brew. The Frisian says he brought it all the way from Baghdad.”

Abjorn’s eyes widened. Leiknarr had sailed with Bjorn Ironside when that brave jarl had sacked Algeciras and Rome, and had brought home many tales. As a boy, Abjorn had always enjoyed the stories of djinnis’ caves and magic rings.

“Even you have never been to Baghdad,” he said.

“It is called al-kuhl.”

“Al-kuhl? It sounds like the name of one of their djinnis.”

“Al-kuhl is not a djinni. Though from the way this Frisian describes it, like as not it was a djinni who first brewed it. He says it is a drink fit for Odin himself.”

Abjorn waved a dismissive hand. “It is probably just some sort of wine.”

“Whatever it is, I would like to try it. And if we do not hurry over to the Saracen’s establishment right now, we are unlikely to get our chance. Everyone was talking about it on the dock—they say the Saracen has brought a limited supply. You can stay here if you want, but I do not intend to miss the opportunity. Even when I sailed the Middle Sea, I never heard of al-kuhl.”

Leiknarr wagged a finger, then placed it on the side of his nose. “They say it tastes like fire.”

The guards at the gate laughed when they saw them. “Better hurry up,” one said. “Half a dozen Franks just passed through ahead of you.”

The other hiccupped and rubbed his head. “It was worth every silver penny I had, but you will feel like you spent the night inside of a drum tomorrow.”

Abjorn and Leiknarr left the two guards arguing about who had drunk more and followed the road into the countryside. A pair of ravens pecked at the dirt in front of them, flying ahead whenever the two men approached too close.

They heard the ale-house before they saw it. A crowd stood drinking and quarreling outside. Abjorn recognized most as the sort of men who rarely saw the inside of a jarl’s hall, let alone a king’s. Landless men not so good with their arms that they had won places for themselves in Normandy or Northumbria, but not so bad that they had been outlawed either. Though they were drunk, they knew better than to challenge Leiknarr, who had done great things in his day, or Abjorn, whom everyone knew would do great things in his. Instead they eyed the two men as they approached, and fiddled with their drinking horns and ear spoons.

A maiden greeted the new arrivals at the door. Abjorn was surprised, as much by the fact that she was both beautiful and richly dressed as by her presence. So beautiful, in fact, that he almost lost his tongue. Her hair, pale as the whitest gold, was pulled back behind her head in long braids knotted like a crown. Her blue robe was richly embroidered, and the silver brooches that clasped her apron were intricately worked. Beneath her white throat hung a necklace of perfectly matched beads and stones.

“Welcome, brave heroes,” she said. She offered them a smile and a golden bowl. “May my gift of ale grace you with strength, wealth, and manly vigor.”

“Well said, maid.” Leiknarr took the bowl.

Abjorn sniffed its contents after his sister’s husband was done. “It is only ale,” he said.

The maiden laughed. “In Gisl’s establishment the ale is freely given. The Saracen al-kuhl, however, you must purchase from Gisl himself.”

Extending a graceful arm, she led Abjorn and Leiknarr inside.

There was hardly room for them. A mass of Danes and Franks, Norse and Rus, Wends and Gotlanders, packed the hall as tightly as a hull full of Sami furs. Every one of them glared belligerently at the newcomers, cups and horns in their fists, daring them to pass.

They parted for the maiden. Abjorn and Leiknarr followed in her wake. Past the fire pit, at the back of the hall, they found a large Saracen standing behind a wooden table ladling what looked like pure water from a small cask into tiny glass cups. He bore himself like a jarl, or a hero out of some tale more used to battling giants and draugr than serving beer. Nearly as tall and broad as Joffur, his neatly groomed dark hair and beard clung to his head in tight curls. Clearly this man was no thrall.

“Welcome, heroes,” he said. He refilled the maiden’s bowl from a larger cask on the floor. “Have you come for the fine ale, or do you seek rarer tastes?”

“We hear you have brought something new to the north.” Leiknarr eyed the smaller barrel.

The Saracen tapped the cask with a thick finger. “One of the wonders of the modern world,” he said. “I have brought it all the way from Baghdad, the center of wisdom and learning. Frankish priests call it aqua vitae. The Arabians who invented it, al-kuhl. Would you care to try it?”

“It is why we came,” Leiknarr said.

“It is expensive. One silver penny will only get you enough to fill one of these small cups.”

The Saracen held up one of the tiny glasses set out beside the cask. In his large hand it looked no larger than a thimble.

Abjorn had seen glass cups at King Helge’s hall, but had never actually held one, let alone drunk from one. His mouth watered. The Saracen must be a wealthy man to display such treasure so freely, let alone share it. A silver penny, however, was a lot to spend for less than a mouthful of anything.

“Leiknarr,” he said, “perhaps we should content ourselves with our host’s good ale. He is right. The price is too high.”

The Saracen smiled. “I do not barter.” Turning to the maiden, he said, “All the good things in life are expensive, is that not right, Sigrun?”

“Loyalty to one’s comrades cannot be bought,” the maiden answered. “And that is the best thing in life of all.”

The Saracen’s dark eyebrows pinched. “Clearly you have not seen much of the world. Loyalty can be bought and sold like anything else. And it does not require a dragon’s hoard, either.”

“That is not true in Daneland,” Abjorn declared.

The maiden lifted her chin. For a moment it seemed she was taller than the Saracen. “The sort of loyalty you describe has not the worth of that which is given freely, from foster-son to foster-father, or wife to husband.”

Leiknarr pounded the table in approval. Abjorn’s blood stirred. He wondered who the maiden’s father was, and how much silver and cattle it would take to purchase his favor.

“Well said, fair maid,” Leiknarr declared. “For that, I ask that you pour the first round. Abjorn, give her a pair of silver pennies. It is a custom I learned in the wine shops of Rome after we sacked the place. The youngest always buys the first round.”

Abjorn fished two silver pennies from his purse and handed them to the Saracen. The Saracen nodded to the maiden. With her own hands she poured out two small glasses of al-kuhl, and two large cups of ale.

“It is also the custom,” the Saracen explained, “to follow a measure of al-kuhl with one of ale.”

Leiknarr raised one of the tiny glasses in a toast. “To Odin,” he cried. “May he bring all of us to Valhalla.”

Sigrun smiled.

Abjorn’s heart beat faster.

Leiknarr gulped the contents of his glass. He blinked, his eyes watered, and he shook his head like a dog killing a squirrel. Without taking a breath, he grabbed his mug of ale and downed that, too.

Wondering how bad the al-kuhl could be, Abjorn sniffed his glass. The smell of the drink tickled the back of his nose, sharp and almost sweet. Whatever al-kuhl was, it was not water. But a mouthful could hardly kill him, so he followed Leiknarr’s example and swallowed it all at once.

It was like drinking fire. For a moment he thought he was going to spray the entire mouthful like a seal coming up for air at a hole in the ice. Even after managing to force it down his throat instead of out his nose, he let loose a gigantic sneeze.

“Here! Get your filth off me!” A large Rus with a mustache like a pair of oars wiped his tunic and reached for his knife.

Leiknarr pounded Abjorn on the back and offered the Rus an apology. “Our pardon. My friend here is not used to al-kuhl. He meant you no disrespect.”

Eyes tearing, Abjorn wiped his nose and reached for his ale. But, even after draining his cup, his mouth still tingled. He felt strangely alive, and expectant. He was ready for anything, from battle to another glass of al-kuhl.

The Rus slapped a silver penny on the table. The Saracen served him a measure of fire. With a sneer for Abjorn, the Rus placed the glass at his mouth and, throwing his head back, tossed its contents down his throat.

“It takes a little getting used to,” Gisl offered as the Rus wiped his mouth with his sleeve and pushed his way back into the packed hall. “It is not distilled for the taste, but for how it makes you feel. Can I pour you another?”

Abjorn’s chest heaved. The feeling of alertness and invincibility was increasing with every breath. He reached for his purse.

Leiknarr pushed him back. “My turn.”

Abjorn was glad to see that his sister’s husband was also still blinking back tears.

“I feel as if I could row all the way to Wessex on my own after one taste,” Leiknarr said as he placed two more silver pennies on the table. Then he winked. “While bedding three Saxon maids at the same time.”

Three rounds later, they pushed their way back down the hall. The Saracen would not allow them to take the tiny glasses with them, explaining they were too valuable to let out of his sight. Instead they each carried a large horn of ale, most of which they lost in the jostling as they crossed the hall. Abjorn nearly got into a fight with a Gotlander who made him spill the most, but there was no room to throw a punch so he just glared at the man instead. The Gotlander glared back, and their chins came closer and closer until finally Leiknarr pulled Abjorn on past the fire.

“This is no place to start a blood feud,” he said. “If you cannot hold your drink, go home.”

“Speak for yourself, brother. I never felt better in my life.”

It was true. What Leiknarr had said before about rowing and Saxon maids was exactly how Abjorn felt. He wondered if Sigrun, or one of the other two beautiful maidens helping her, would be interested in taking the imaginary Saxons’ place.

He was not the only one wondering that. A Frank slapped the backside of one of the women as she passed. In response, the maiden slammed the Frank’s head into a post so hard he slumped to the floor.

The crowd roared.

The door opened. More men pushed their way inside. The heat and noise grew. Even the maidens had trouble pushing their way through the press. A Danelander and a Frisian began arguing about who was buying the next round. The Danelander pulled his knife. Before he could strike, the Saracen jumped between them. The crowd fell away on either side of him like birch trees bent back by an angry bear. The Frisian, enraged at the Saracen’s interference, bashed him in the ear. The Saracen grabbed the Frisian by the chin with one hand and lifted him off the floor. The hall went quiet. Still using only the one hand, the Saracen carried the Frisian to the door and threw him out.

The crowd roared again.

Abjorn slapped his leg. “That man is no thrall. I would like to have him with us next spring when we sail to Mercia. We should ask him to drink with us.”

Leiknarr beckoned the nearest maiden. Three men at the next bench smashed their drinking horns on their foreheads and laughed. The maiden went to fetch the Saracen.

“Begging your pardon, Gisl,” Abjorn asked as their host arrived clutching the precious barrel of al-kuhl. “But why are you wasting your time in a place like this? Clearly you are a leader of men.”

“It is a long story.”

“We have plenty of time.”

Leiknarr plunked down three more silver pennies. “And you have conveniently brought the al-kuhl with you. Drink with us.”

“That is exactly what I wish to do.” The Saracen poured three glasses, one for himself, and two for his new friends.

“To Odin!” Leiknarr cried, and drank his down.

“To Odin!” everyone around them agreed.

Pleased with the acceptance of his toast, Leiknarr essayed another. “To the fair maidens of this hall!”

“To the fair maidens!”

The Saracen got into the spirit of things as well. “To Shamash!” he proclaimed.

“To Shamash!” the crowd answered.

Leiknarr blinked several times and leaned forward. “Who’s Shamash?”

The Saracen poured another round for himself and his friends. “It does not matter.”

“To King Helge!” shouted a voice from the back.

“To Helge!”

“To Harald Fairhair!”

“To Harald Fairhair!”

A man with a wolf’s head cowl glared at Abjorn. His eyes glittered. “Hail, King Harald!” he repeated.

“I just did,” Abjorn answered.

“Then do it again.”

Abjorn had nothing against King Harald. But he did not like being told what to do by any man.

“Who are you to tell me whom to hail?” he demanded.

The man’s eyebrows disappeared into the wolf’s upper jaw. “I am Botni, and Harald is my king. Do you dishonor him?”

“I dishonor no one,” Abjorn answered. “I hailed your king. If you did not hear me, here is my spoon to clean your ears.”

Botni started forward with an oath. Abjorn knocked him sideways. The Norseman fell, his head cracking against the edge of a bench. He slumped to the floor. Abjorn was sorry he did not rise so he could hit the man again.

“Well struck,” said the Saracen.

“Abjorn! I knew I would find you here!”

A giant appeared, looming over the heads of the other men in the crowd. Abjorn wondered why he had not noticed Joffur before—there was no mistaking the man. Perhaps the al-kuhl had distracted him more than he thought.

Joffur shook his fist. “You told my son I am a liar.”

“I have not spoken with your son.”

“It is the same thing. You told your sister-son to tell my son I told him lies about the Sons of Odin. And my son told me! Since Tyrvi is just a child, the insult comes from you!”

Leiknarr gave Abjorn an irritated look and started to rise. “What exactly did my son say?”

Joffur pushed him back onto his seat. “This is not your affair, old man. It is Abjorn I accuse, not you.”

Abjorn was in no mood for bullying, and knocking Botni down had hardly satisfied that mood. If Tyrvi had paid no attention to what Abjorn had told him, so much the better. Joffur was large, but he was no swordsman. But Abjorn would have to get him outside first, where there would be room to move.

He got to his feet.

The Saracen was between them at once, the barrel of al-kuhl left on the bench. “Warriors, please. This is no place for quarreling. This house is for drinking and singing songs. If you have to fight, go outside.”

Joffur glared at him. “Go away, thrall.”

The Saracen’s eyes narrowed. “I am no thrall. My name is Gisl.”

“You have no name here, thrall.”

The Saracen lifted Joffur off his feet as easily as he had lifted the Frisian. Joffur, however, kept himself from being carried to the door by grabbing the roof beams beside his head. The roof creaked as Gisl tried to pull him free, but the two men were equally matched. The Saracen let Joffur go before the roof came down around their ears.

Joffur let go the beams. He landed heavily, and the moment he did the Saracen tackled him. In the middle of the hall the two men strained, arms locked, their feet scuffing for advantage. Joffur used his greater height and weight to try and force the Saracen to his knees. The Saracen leaned left and right, hoping to throw the larger man off balance. Neither budged. They stood still as a pair of runestones, the rest of the hall just as motionless around them.

The frieze broke. The Saracen gave beneath the giant. Falling backward, he pulled Joffur with him. They rolled head over heels toward the door, and when they stopped the Saracen was on top, his knees pinning Joffur’s arms. Two quick, stunning blows followed. Joffur’s head snapped back at each, then the Saracen picked him up, lifted him over his head, and threw him out the door.

He looked back at the hall. Sigrun regarded him with open admiration. Abjorn seethed.

“Anyone else have a problem with drinking and singing songs?” the Saracen asked.

The door blew open behind him. Frame and lintel followed. An enormous bear, with eyes as bright as coals and strips of shredded clothing hanging from its shoulders, burst inside.

It roared. Canines sharp as daggers and twice as thick gleamed.

Apparently Joffur had not been lying.

Danes and Franks, Norse and Rus, Wends and Gotlanders all reached for their knives. The bear charged. The Saracen met it unarmed, throwing it the same way he had when it had been Joffur. The bear rolled down the hall with men jumping on it from either side. It shook them off as if they were fleas; they bounced off benches and walls. One of them hit the barrel of al-kuhl and knocked it to the floor. Leiknarr grabbed for it but missed, drink splashing his tunic and trousers. The barrel rolled toward the fire.

“Stop it!” the Saracen shouted. But, instead of the bear, he threw himself at the al-kuhl.

These southerners, Abjorn thought. Barely winter, and already they were afraid of the fire going out.

The barrel rolled into the flames. Like a sap-filled pine cone, it exploded. Mouths of flame clamped onto the beams, walls, and nearest men. The Saracen, who had dropped to the floor with his hands covering his head, jumped up and ran for the back as sparks caught in the dry turf of the roof. The hall went up like parchment in a bonfire.

Abjorn faced the bear. Small tufts of hair smoldered on its back and shoulders. He dodged its blows and plunged his knife into its ribcage. The bear grunted and pulled away as two more men stabbed it in the back. Abjorn was just barely able to hold onto his blade as he pulled it free.

The bear backed toward the door. Several men began hammering at the walls with their hands as they saw their escape was blocked. Several more faced the bear. It was every northerner’s worst nightmare, to be trapped in a burning house. No chance of Valhalla, in that death. Odin only took those who died as warriors.

The bear charged again. The men stabbed and slashed at it, but what they really needed were swords. The bear brushed their weapons away. Blood spouted from its chest and arms, but none of the wounds were deep or fatal. Its small eyes blazed with rage.

Abjorn joined the attack; the bear knocked him down. He fell over a bench as its jaws crunched the head of the man beside him. He hacked at its flanks, but it was hard to do any real damage while lying on the floor.

Sigrun appeared, hovering in the air like a swan. Her hair unwound in pale, floating wings behind her. The bear ignored her. Smiling, she reached down for the man who had died. His spirit, ghostly and green, rose to meet her. Gathering it into her arms, she jerked to one side and disappeared in the dark like a bat.

Abjorn’s heart filled. “A valkyrie,” he whispered.

Jumping to his feet, he waved his blade. “Odin is with us!” he cried. “The Valkyries are here! The road to Valhalla is open!”

Leiknarr raced by, his body enveloped in flames. The bear snapped his neck with a blow. Botni staggered to his feet and began to shake. His mouth lengthened into a wolf’s snout, and his ears grew. His cowl crawled over his head. Falling onto all fours, his jaws fastened on the leg of the man beside him.

The Saracen appeared from the back, his arms full of blankets. “If we hurry and smother the fire,” he said, “we can deal with the berserkers after.”

Abjorn ignored him. His heart blazed hotter than the al-kuhl or the hall.

The Saracen looked at him as if he were mad.

The wolf leaped, jaws gaping. Abjorn caught it in the chest with his knife. With strength greater than he had ever known, he held it on the blade before him. It squirmed like a spitted rabbit, all four legs clawing. Abjorn flicked it away and looked around for the Saracen, but the Saracen had disappeared. If he could only find him again his entrance into Valhalla would be assured.

Smoke swirled. Heat blistered. Knives and fangs thrust and bit. The Valkyries swept back and forth above it all, happy men in their arms. Leiknarr, the flesh burnt from his face but not the smile. The Rus, the stumps of his arms draped and dripping around Sigrun’s neck. Botni, his great red tongue lolling.

With an ecstatic shout, Abjorn hacked his way through the flames. A man rushed at him out of the smoke. Abjorn chopped off the man’s hand. The man bashed him with the stump. Abjorn ripped open his belly. Blood sheathed in yellow flames pooled across the floor.

He dropped his knife when his nails turned to claws. The blood on his teeth and tongue was sweet as honey and hotter than al-kuhl. He ripped and rent and tore at the men and beasts around him. They ripped and rent and tore at him in turn.

It was glorious. The skalds were right. Dying in battle was the finest thing a man could hope for. Teeth clamped onto the back of his neck. Breath hotter than fire burned his ear. His long claws mauled an eye from the muzzle in front of him. Other claws sliced his belly.

His heart poured out his life. He looked up into Sigrun’s eyes. His blood stained her robe.

She smiled.

“I have my own interests to look out for,” the old man answered.

They surveyed the ruin of the longhouse. For the second time in as many days, the place had changed completely. Now it was a pile of charred wood and sod, smoke rising from the wreckage. The collapse of the roof had made sure no one survived.

“I never saw a group of men so eager to die.”

Gisl kicked at the smoldering timbers as he spoke, looking for something. Hacked and blackened corpses caught at his feet and ankles. He, of course, looked no worse than he had two days before.

“You haven’t lived through one of our winters,” the old man said.

“Why did you let them do it? You could have stopped them at any time. You were the one who turned the big fellow into a bear.”

“You have your curse, I have mine. And it’s what they expect. Blood and honor is the stupidest code in the world. Someday they’ll see the light and throw me over for someone better, perhaps that Galilean. But until then, they’re mine. I need them.”

One of the ravens flew up from the rubble with something white and bloody in its beak. An eye. The old man examined it with his one good one, then handed it back to the bird. The raven gulped its prize.

“You might try Beijing next,” he said, regretting how quickly Gisl’s sojourn in Hedeby had ended. The man might even have felt at home here. “The Chinese are even more civilized than the Moors. They already know how to distill, too, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Gisl bent to pick something up from the wreckage at his feet, frowned, and tossed it away.

“I have no control over where I go,” he said without looking up.

“I’ll put in a good word for you. In the meantime, good luck. You need it.”

He offered Gisl his hand. Gisl ignored it. Instead, he gave a cry of delight as he found the stone he was looking for and picked it up. Snow and smoke swirled, then both he and the old man were gone.