Prologue

East Coast of the Americas, 1319

Tranum Svensen stood on the rocky coastline squinting at the stinging salty plumes thrown off by the highly crested billows of the stormy Atlantic waves. He was feeling sorry for himself.

The bloodlust from the mushrooms he had swallowed earlier was wearing off and he was beginning to sense the salt spray and minute grit in the numerous cuts and bruises that laced his body. He was not a nithing, but he was starting to regret rushing into battle without his shield or bearskin cloak.

Behind him, he could hear the rising howls of the dark, stunted skraelings that had escaped slaughter and were running off to summon more warriors to chase him and Rolf Hairy Breeches down. They wouldn't have to chase Rolf far; he was already dead from a wound to the chest.

Killing that first skraeling had definitely been a mistake, but he could hardly blame Rolf for that. After all, it hadn't looked quite human under the body paint and a man had to be wary of the evil trolls that went about in the dark forests. It was natural for an impatient young man like Rolf to test the dark one with iron to see if it was mortal or not.

Now they knew; the little dark men were definitely mortal. And they had many other little friends that liked to fight with stone tipped spears.

It really was unfortunate that Tranum should not have made it to the knorrs in time to escape with his brethren into the safety of the sea. Now he would have to swim across these nearly freezing, heaving waters in order to meet with the ship.

He looked down at his sword that had come to him from his grandfather. Leg-Biter was three feet long and heavy, especially in the water. But a Dane did not give up his weapons-- without them there would be no hope of entering Asgard and the feast at Valhalla-- so he forced the heavy length of iron into the harness on his back and then waded out into the cold, roiling sea.

"Hvorfor?" he muttered to himself. Why was he always getting left on the shore and having to swim for the boat? His friends thought that it was quite funny that it often happened this way. They frequently made wagers about how long it would take him to drown. Every time he did not drown, they would sail the boat out a little farther and place new wagers. The men of Norge and Sverige had a strange sense of humor and he had not been able to beat it out of them yet.

Tranum did not find the idea of swimming the frigid sea at all amusing; he was not that good a swimmer, and everyone knew that the Kraken was waiting in the waters at the edge of the world.

Was it better to stand and fight? To die now on the end of an arrow and be admitted to Valhalla?

He glanced back over his shoulder. Ja, the little warriors were coming. They carried long spears and animal skin boats. When next he saw Leif, he would have to report that once again the Vikings had failed to find a new dan mark. A new field of plenty for the land-poor Danes. Ericsson's Vinland. Gunnbjorn's skerries.

But then, he thought as a cold wave hit his naked chest, he probably would not see Leif until they met in Valhalla. Not the new heaven promised by the Christian praest in the wooden kirke. Neither he nor Leif wanted to go there. Not for the sons of Viking jarls, these peaceful Christian resting places. When they went to paradise it would be the one with honey wine and willing wenches and other great brothers in arms to share their thrilling tales of battle in the house of Odin.

That did not mean that he wanted to go to Valhalla that very evening! He was young yet and still had a great deal to accomplish. He could not die without seeing the new dan mark, without having married and fathered sons to carry on his name.

A pox on that stupid Sven for taking the boat away at the first sign of battle! You couldn't trust a man who never accepted a holmgang and failed at even the simplest idrottir. How did they think to find their way without a navigator or sun-stone?

A strange, green lightning lit up the gray firmament above the heaving sea with eerie god-fire. The very air crackled with hair-raising light as booming thunder poured into his ears along with the violent waters. Thor's hammer pounded hard in the sky.

The storm was not necessarily unnatural, he assured himself, but it was very rough and the tides were probably against him. Tranum had a literal, sinking feeling that this time Sven would win his wager; he wasn't going to catch his ship.

That did not mean that he was giving up; his thews were strong. He would swim bravely until the sea swallowed him. It was the only way into Valhalla.

Club Valhalla

Copyrighted (c) 2002 Melanie Jackson

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