And my young fools, proud warriors, did what we had demanded. I saw Godric appear on the gate’s fighting platform, waving us forward, and then the gate was pushed open and I spurred Tintreg as I drew Serpent-Breath. We had surprised the garrison, and now we would punish them for being surprised. I kicked Tintreg out of the plowland back onto the track, his hooves thundered on the hard-packed earth of the brief causeway that crossed the shallow ditch, I ducked under the crossbar that crowned the gate, and saw a group of men running to my left, intent on attacking Berg’s young warriors who had their backs to the palisade and were fighting off an equal number of sword-Norse. But most of the Norsemen were not in mail and wore no helmets. Then someone screamed a challenge to my right and I slewed Tintreg to face the sound and saw a spear coming toward me. I wrenched Tintreg back to the left, the spear slashed close beside me, so close that the leaf blade sliced my right boot. I spurred toward the warrior who had thrown it, then she screamed again and I saw it was a woman. She was dressed in a thick wool gown covered by a heavy cloak of dark fur and had a silver-chased helmet crammed over black hair. She was shouting for someone to bring her another spear, but it was too late. My horsemen were crowding through the gate, they lowered their spears and rode at Berg’s assailants. I saw a blade slice into a spine, saw the man arch back like a bow under tension, then the Norsemen were dropping their swords and kneeling in surrender. At least two bodies lay in blood, while a wounded man crawled toward the huts with his guts trailing in the mud. A dog howled. The woman still screamed for another spear, so I rode to her and slapped Serpent-Breath across her helmet, and she seized my leg and tried to haul me from the saddle. I hit her again, much harder, still using the flat of the blade, and this time she staggered back, her helmet askew and a tangle of black hair shrouding her angry face.

“Shut the gates!” I called to Berg.

“Did you lose anyone?” Finan called.

“None!” Berg was hauling the gates closed.

“You did well!” I shouted, and it had been well done. The young men had crossed a palisade and they had fought off defenders who, though they had been surprised, had been more numerous and had reacted faster than we had expected. I touched the hammer at my breast and silently thanked the gods for our success, and it was at that moment that I was struck.

I was struck by a thought. That when the gods favor you one moment they will punish you the next.

And in that moment of small victory, beneath a clearing sky, the darkness came. The sudden thought was as sharp as Gungnir, Odin’s dreadful spear, and it told me that I was cursed. I cannot tell how I knew I was cursed, but know it I did. I knew that the gods were laughing at me while the three Norns, those heartless spinners at the foot of Yggdrasil, were amusing themselves with my life threads. The sun was shining, but I felt as though storm-dark clouds were shrouding the world, and I just sat in the saddle, not moving, gazing blindly toward the huts where a crowd of Arnborg’s people were watching us nervously.