received the news. “Why chase the Wolf all
over the woods when you know he has to return to his lair?”
“Mother—”
“She’ll be all right. Hjarlma’s scared to death of her.”
Bragi tried reading behind his father’s beard. The man spoke softly, tautly, as if he were in great pain.
“The war is over now,” Ragnar told him. “Understand that. The Pretender has won. The Old
House is in eclipse. There’s no more reason to fight. Only a fool would.”
Bragi got the message. He wasn’t to waste his life pursuing a lost cause.
He had had fifteen years of practice reading the wisdom behind Ragnar’s terse observations.
“They’ll abandon him as quickly as they flocked to him. Eventually. They say . . . ” A shudder wracked his massive frame. “They say there’s a demand for Trolledyngjans in the south. Over the mountains. Beyond the lands of the bowmen. Past the reeving kingdoms. There’s war a-brewing.
Bold lads, bright lads, might do well while awaiting a restoration.”
Itaskia was the lands of the bowmen. The reeving kingdoms were the necklace of city states
hugging the coast down to Simballawein. For half a dozen generations the Trolledyngjan
dragonships had gone out when the ice broke at Tonderhofn and Torshofn, to run the gauntlet of the Tongues of Fire and plunder the eastern littoral.
“Under the shingle pine, beside the upper spring. The northwest side. An old, broken
hearthstone marks it. You’ll find the things you’ll need. Take the copper amulet to a man called Yalmar at the Red Hart Inn in Itaskia the City.”
“Mother—”
“Can take care of herself, I said. She won’t be happy, but she’ll manage. I only regret that I won’t be able to send her home.”
Bragi finally understood. His father was dying. Ragnar had known for a long time.
Tears gathered at the corners of Bragi’s eyes. But Haaken and Soren were watching. He had
to impress them with his self-control. Especially Haaken, on whose good opinion he depended
more than he could admit.
“Prepare well,” said Ragnar. “The high passes will be bitter this time of year.”
“What about Bjorn?” Haaken demanded. The bastard child that Mad Ragnar had found in
the forest, abandoned to the wolves, was not too proud to reveal his feelings.
“Ragnar, you’ve treated me as your own son. Even in lean years, when there was too little for those of your own blood. I’ve always honored and obeyed as I would a birth-father. And in this, too, I must obey. But not while Bjorn Backstabber lives. Though my bones be scattered by
wolves, though my soul be damned to run with the Wild Hunt, I won’t leave while Bjorn’s
treachery goes unrepaid.”
It was a proud oath, a bold oath. Everyone agreed it was worthy of a son of the Wolf. Ragnar
and Bragi stared. Soren nodded his admiration. For Haaken, terse to the point of virtual non-
communication, a speech of this length amounted to a total baring of the soul. He seldom said as many words in an entire day.
“I haven’t forgotten Bjorn. It’s his face, smiling, pretending friendship while he took
Hjarlma’s pay, here in my mind’s eye, that keeps me going. He’ll die before I do, Haaken. He’ll be the torchbearer lighting my path to Hell. Ah. I can see the agony in his eyes. I can smell the fear in him. I can hear him when he urges Hjarlma to hurry and establish the Draukenbring
trap. The Wolf lives. He knows the Wolf. And his cubs. He knows that his doom stalks him now.
“We’ll leave in the morning, after we’ve buried old Sven.”
Bragi started. He had thought that the old warrior was sleeping.
“A sad end for you, friend of my father,” Ragnar muttered to the dead man.
Sven had served the family since the childhood of Bragi’s grandfather. He had been friends
with the old man for forty years. And then they had parted with blows.
“Maybe they’ll be reconciled in the Hall of Heroes,” Bragi murmured.
Sven had been a sturdy fighter who had
over the woods when you know he has to return to his lair?”
“Mother—”
“She’ll be all right. Hjarlma’s scared to death of her.”
Bragi tried reading behind his father’s beard. The man spoke softly, tautly, as if he were in great pain.
“The war is over now,” Ragnar told him. “Understand that. The Pretender has won. The Old
House is in eclipse. There’s no more reason to fight. Only a fool would.”
Bragi got the message. He wasn’t to waste his life pursuing a lost cause.
He had had fifteen years of practice reading the wisdom behind Ragnar’s terse observations.
“They’ll abandon him as quickly as they flocked to him. Eventually. They say . . . ” A shudder wracked his massive frame. “They say there’s a demand for Trolledyngjans in the south. Over the mountains. Beyond the lands of the bowmen. Past the reeving kingdoms. There’s war a-brewing.
Bold lads, bright lads, might do well while awaiting a restoration.”
Itaskia was the lands of the bowmen. The reeving kingdoms were the necklace of city states
hugging the coast down to Simballawein. For half a dozen generations the Trolledyngjan
dragonships had gone out when the ice broke at Tonderhofn and Torshofn, to run the gauntlet of the Tongues of Fire and plunder the eastern littoral.
“Under the shingle pine, beside the upper spring. The northwest side. An old, broken
hearthstone marks it. You’ll find the things you’ll need. Take the copper amulet to a man called Yalmar at the Red Hart Inn in Itaskia the City.”
“Mother—”
“Can take care of herself, I said. She won’t be happy, but she’ll manage. I only regret that I won’t be able to send her home.”
Bragi finally understood. His father was dying. Ragnar had known for a long time.
Tears gathered at the corners of Bragi’s eyes. But Haaken and Soren were watching. He had
to impress them with his self-control. Especially Haaken, on whose good opinion he depended
more than he could admit.
“Prepare well,” said Ragnar. “The high passes will be bitter this time of year.”
“What about Bjorn?” Haaken demanded. The bastard child that Mad Ragnar had found in
the forest, abandoned to the wolves, was not too proud to reveal his feelings.
“Ragnar, you’ve treated me as your own son. Even in lean years, when there was too little for those of your own blood. I’ve always honored and obeyed as I would a birth-father. And in this, too, I must obey. But not while Bjorn Backstabber lives. Though my bones be scattered by
wolves, though my soul be damned to run with the Wild Hunt, I won’t leave while Bjorn’s
treachery goes unrepaid.”
It was a proud oath, a bold oath. Everyone agreed it was worthy of a son of the Wolf. Ragnar
and Bragi stared. Soren nodded his admiration. For Haaken, terse to the point of virtual non-
communication, a speech of this length amounted to a total baring of the soul. He seldom said as many words in an entire day.
“I haven’t forgotten Bjorn. It’s his face, smiling, pretending friendship while he took
Hjarlma’s pay, here in my mind’s eye, that keeps me going. He’ll die before I do, Haaken. He’ll be the torchbearer lighting my path to Hell. Ah. I can see the agony in his eyes. I can smell the fear in him. I can hear him when he urges Hjarlma to hurry and establish the Draukenbring
trap. The Wolf lives. He knows the Wolf. And his cubs. He knows that his doom stalks him now.
“We’ll leave in the morning, after we’ve buried old Sven.”
Bragi started. He had thought that the old warrior was sleeping.
“A sad end for you, friend of my father,” Ragnar muttered to the dead man.
Sven had served the family since the childhood of Bragi’s grandfather. He had been friends
with the old man for forty years. And then they had parted with blows.
“Maybe they’ll be reconciled in the Hall of Heroes,” Bragi murmured.
Sven had been a sturdy fighter who had
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