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PROLOGUE

Hvaldalen, Norway, September 30, 875 AD

Andor Thornsson stared at the gray cloud of smoke right above his village.

“It is on fire,” Fridstein said.

“I have eyes in my face, Fridstein, not on my arse,” Andor said to his second-in-command through gritted teeth.

They both stood on the bow of the longship, which cut through the water towards home, a small village at the end of the fjord huddled in a green valley between looming mountains. Andor’s eyes hurt from straining to see through the smoke, and his stomach sank further as it became clear that no one moved in the village.

Silence hung over the ship.

The sickening scent of burning wood, flesh and hair filled Andor’s nostrils and he gripped the side of the dragon figurehead. Drizzle fell in a fine mist, so the wood of the houses was likely wet, and the fire might be nearly out or dying. Perhaps it was not too late to save his people.

“Faster!” Andor yelled to his rowing men without turning. His command would be passed to the two other ships that followed him home. “Hurry, you Loki’s sons. Your wives and children might be burning.”

Andor’s own wife, Svana, might be, too. Terror scraped at his heart.

The ship cut the still waters quicker, his men grunting as one every time the oars sank into the water.

“Can you see anyone, Jarl?” Fridstein said.

“No,” he said, fear gripping his gut and turning his blood to ashes. “Be ready to kill anyone who is not ours.” He unsheathed Dragon’s Trouble, the sword Svana had given him as a wedding present a year ago.

His green-eyed, brown-haired, beautiful wife…Svana had to be all right. She had to be, Odin. If she was not…

He would never forgive himself.

“Faster!” he cried.

The ship crawled, even though the oars rose and fell faster than Andor thought was humanly possible. But the closer they got, the more the charcoal frames of the buildings protruded from the gray wall of smoke. And the tighter his stomach coiled.

The ship barely touched the jetty, and Andor and his men jumped onto the wooden surface, shields, swords, and axes at the ready. A body lay on the quay—the shepherd.

“Thor’s sweaty arse,” Andor spat.

“Protect the jarl,” Fridstein cried behind him, and Andor knew his loyal band followed. He gestured, and his men advanced without taking cover; they were swift but alert.

Around the village, people Andor had known his whole life lay dead and injured. Cows, sheep, and goats were slaughtered. Rye, parsnips, herbs, and other food was scattered on the ground. Most houses stood burned, some more than others. There was no fire anymore, just smoke.

His heart sank when he saw the biggest source of smoke—his mead hall.

His home.

“Svana!” Andor called.

Screams of pain rang out across the village. His men who were closest to the houses and the bushes were fighting and falling with their throats cut. Warriors poured from behind corners, their eyes drunk with violence, their swords and axes atilt. His men launched at them, and the air filled with cries, the clinking of metal, and the thumping of wood.

“Kill the bastards!” Andor yelled.

Battle fury raged in his veins, but cold fear stabbed his gut. Where was Svana? If any of them as much as touched one hair on her head—

He needed to find her—now.

He dodged the first man’s ax and pierced him in the side, between the chest and back plates of his leather armor. The next one almost got him, but Andor whirled and cut his neck. Then he saw her. The edge of her favorite cornflower-blue linen dress showed just behind the corner of the blackened walls of his longhouse. His heart thumped, his limbs chilling. He darted there, slashing, kicking, piercing anyone in his way.

“Protect the jarl!” Fridstein’s voice called out behind him, and he knew his men had his back.