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to reach the far side of the plateau and find refuge before lightning charred them all.
    Lut cursed Skuld and her book. He had embarked on this journey expecting to survive it. But now it seemed she was just playing with him—and could snip his thread of life at any moment. He prayed to Thor for mercy. Stop this storm so I may live the night!
    But mercy was not to be his. As Lut’s horse crossed a creek swollen with rushing water, Thor at last found his mark. The night exploded with sudden light and sound, and the flash of lightning struck so near, the force of its heat scorched Lut’s face and he lost his sight completely. Beneath him his panicked horse shrieked and reared—and Lut fell backward, still blinded, and his whole body went cold as he plunged into the icy waters of the creek. Caught in the swift current, he tumbled upside down underwater as it swept him on.
    When at last he struggled to the surface, gasping for air and coughing up water, he had regained his sight and saw the creek had merged with another, far larger one. He was in a much stronger current, twice as deep, with the banks too far to swim to. Fighting it would be futile. Best save his strength for keeping his head above water as long as he could.
    Swallowed by the blackness of the night and the fury of the river, he thought of surrender, of just letting go. Had he not journeyed life’s arduous path long enough? He had lived twice as long as most men, and lived it as fully as possible, filling his days with both the bitter and the sweet.
    He heard a dull, distant roar. He wondered what the sound was—then remembered that the plain they’d been crossing ended in a precipitous drop to a valley far below. That was where the current was taking him, over a cliff and hundreds of feet down to a violent and painful death. His reaction was one of instant indignation.
    By the gods, no! he railed. Of all the indignities! A man my age does not deserve to die crushed upon rocks!
    Spying the stream bank in a flash of lightning, Lut fought his way toward it. The roar of the water grew louder and the current gained strength as it was funneled toward the precipice. Weakening now, the pain like a knife in his chest, blinded again by the battering rain, Lut fought on, thrashing and splashing, bent on this not being his journey’s end.
    Another boom of thunder, and the surging river smashed Lut against a rock, his face scraping along it as the current swept him on. He clawed at it trying to find a handhold. But the rain-slick rock gave him no grip and off he slid, rushing toward the cliff. In a frenzy he spied another rock, looming just ahead at the cliff’s edge. He came rushing toward it and made a desperate grab. Sliding across the rock, Lut’s fingers found a crack in the rock—and miraculously held on. Fearing the fierce current would tear him away, he reached up with his other hand and soon found another handhold. Half submerged in icy water, and having a tenuous hold on the cold rock, he prepared to do the difficult work of pulling himself up and out of the river. But with the little strength he had left, it seemed impossible. He couldn’t hold himself here forever; the current would soon take him. Climb he must, or at least die in the trying. He looked up at the rain-slick rock. No, he wouldn’t climb just yet. He would rest here awhile. Yes, rest and wait. Perhaps the strength would come to him. Just hold on, Lut, hold on.
    The sand became harder packed the deeper Grelf dug. Thidrek had lent him his knife to loosen the soil. Grelf stabbed at the earth, wishing it was Thidrek’s face. His nails broken, his fingertips rubbed raw, he scooped out the loosened soil until he had exposed most of the monstrous figurehead on the ship’s prow.
    All Viking ships bore carved prow heads—often a dog, a dragon, or a wolf—to ward off attackers and to beseech the gods for protection. But this head was unlike