They penetrated the trenches and stockades. They passed the outbuildings. Fifty feet from the longhouse itself Bragi turned his back into the wind. He dropped dried moss and tree bark into his jar, blew gently. His father and several warriors held out their torches. Others quietly splashed the longhouse with oil.

A man would be stationed at each window. The best fighters would hold the doorway. They would slaughter the drunken rebels as they tried to escape. The Old Houses cause, here beneath the brooding, glacier-clawed northern slopes of the Kratchnodian Mountains, would revive at the eleventh hour.

That was Mad Ragnars plan. It was as bold and ferocious a stroke as ever plotted by the Wolf.

It should have worked.

But Hjarlma was expecting them.

It was a great slaughter anyway. Hjarlma had gotten his warning only seconds before the blow fell. His people were still confused, still trying to shake the mead and find their weapons.

Fire whipped through axed-in windows.

Stay put! Ragnar growled at Bragi. To me! he thundered at the others.

Yai! Its Ragnar! one of Hjarlmas men wailed.

The blond giant attacked with sword in one hand, axe in the other. Not for nothing was he called Mad Ragnar. He went into insane killing rages, became an unstoppable killing machine. It was whispered that his wife, the witch Helga, had spelled him invincible.

Three, four, five of the drunkards fell for each of Ragnars men. And still he could not win. The odds were too terrible.

The fire had become a liability. Without it driving them to save their families, Hjarlmas men might have surrendered.

Bragi went looking for Haaken.

Haakens thoughts paralleled his own. He had secured a sword already. They had not been allowed to bring their own. Ragnar had not wanted them getting dangerous ideas.

What now? Haaken asked.

Father wont run. Not yet.

How did they know?

A traitor. Hjarlma must have bought somebody from Draukenbring. Here!

A rebel, nearly disemboweled, crawled toward them. Cover me while I get his sword.

They did what had to be done. And felt ghastly afterward.

Who sold out?

I dont know. Or how. But well find out.

Then they became too busy to speculate. Several rebels, who had crawled out a window no longer held against them, stumbled their way.

The longhouse burned briskly. Women, children and slaves screamed inside. Ragnars men fell back before the weight of their panic.

In a brief exchange, from ambush, Bragi and Haaken slew three men and sent a fourth fleeing into the pines. They received their own first man-wounds.

Half of us are down, Bragi observed, after studying the main action. Bors. Rafnir. Tor. Tryggva. Both Haralds. Wheres Bjorn?

Ragnar, roaring and laughing, stood out of the fray like a cave bear beset by hounds. Bodies lay heaped around him.

Weve got to help.

How? Haaken was no thinker. He was a follower and doer. A strong-backed, stolid, steadfast lad.