Prologue

PROLOGUE

The night of the ship's wrecking upon the island of H?y

Rangvald's shoulders tore with pain, but he kept dragging upon the oars, keeping his focus upon his jarl. Eldberg shouted fiercely, urging them on.

How had this come to pass?

There had first been a mist creeping upon the water. Then they were enveloped, so ‘twas impossible to see much beyond the ship. The quiet had been unnatural, as if the fog had swallowed all sound.

What then?

First, the wind raged from all sides at once, twisting them like a child's toy, then lashing rain, blinding his vision.

We shall die.

He'd always believed he would meet this moment bravely—upon the point of a sword or the swing of a well-felled axe. Not for him the slow ease of departing breath in sleep. His would be the glorious end of a warrior in battle, and he'd go to such a death willingly.

‘Twas not meant to be like this.

The ship dipped and heaved and spun again. A wall of water smashed upon them, and he was lifted with it, the oar wrenching from his grip.

The crack of the mast brought with it men's screams.

Whatever struck his chest stole his breath, and he, too, wanted to howl, to shriek his fear and wail to the gods to save him, but no noise came.

The sea rushed to take him, but darkness claimed him first. He was alone when the world receded, as if his life had never been.