Sagas described Gottfrid the Bird’s weapon as a “hawk’s talon” and also a “crushing beak.” It was, in fact, a bearded ax called Krókr, meaning “hook.” It was wielded to devastating effect by Gottfrid, then handed down to Hroar Godfredson, then Bjorn Three Beards, both fearsome warriors. There were varied depictions of the weapon online and in history books, but all agreed that the handle was long and intricately carved, and that the bearded head was heavy enough that only the strongest of men could swing it one-handed.

“Krókr,” the blacksmith said.

“You know it?” It hurt Johan’s face to smile, but sometimes he pushed himself.

“I made one for a pilot called The Flying Viking.” Louis shrugged. “It was never picked up.”

“Can you make another? Exactly like this, with the carving in the handle, the hawk’s head?” Johan pointed at the illustration and forced another smile. “It’s a birthday present for my father. He’s from a long line of Danes who believe they are descendants of Gottfrid the Bird.”

“That handle is hand-carved,” Louis said, scratching his jaw with blackened fingers. “A lot of work. I’ll have to contract it out. Won’t be cheap.”

“Not a problem,” Johan said.

It was not a quick job—sixteen weeks—but this gave Johan time to prepare. He put down the game controller and went to the gym—took ’roids and crank and got jacked in a minute. He got his teeth fixed, clean and straight. Vicki, a tattooist on the Strip, became his best friend. She inked his transformed body with Norse runes and symbols. He shaved the sides of his head and grew his beard long, and completed his remodeling by tying it in the middle with a strip of leather.

His mother noticed. “Johan . . . Jesus Christ, you look like a dirty fucking biker.”

His father: “You are showing your Danish roots. That is good. Now show your strength and get a real fucking job.”

Krókr arrived, more beautiful than Johan could have imagined. Its handle was three feet long, elaborately engraved. The head was thick and heavy. And blunt, of course—it was an ornament, not a weapon—but Johan took care of that. Hours at a whetstone, sharpening over and over, until the swooping blade could cut a butterfly down the middle.

He practiced with it. He drove out to the Santa Susana Mountains and whacked at live oak and black walnut trees, felling one after the other, creating drifts of firewood. His goal was to slice through a trunk with one swing. He never managed this—although he came close—but he could wield the ax one-handed. He could jump with it, and bring fury from above.