“Hundreds, lord!”

“How many hundreds?”

“Three? Four?” It was plain Beadwulf did not know. “They all rode, lord, all of them! They believed no one would be ready for an assault in the winter.”

And that was true, I thought. The fighting season began in the spring, because the winter was when folk crouched by the fire and endured the cold. “So why,” I asked, “has Sköll gone to Eoferwic?” I knew the answer, but wanted Beadwulf to confirm it.

Beadwulf crossed himself, plainly terrified. “He would be King of Northumbria, lord.” He dared look up at me, desperation on his face. “And he is terrible, lord!”

“Terrible?”

“Lord, he has a powerful sorcerer, and Sköll is an úlfheðinn.”

Until that moment the curse had been a vague fear, as formless as the serpent-breath whorls on my sword’s blade, but now the fear congealed into something as hard, cold, and terrifying as the blade itself.

Because my enemy was a wolf-warrior, and he would be King of all Northumbria.

I was cursed.

Eerika, Arnborg’s wife, was laughing at us. “Sköll’s men are the úlfhéðnar,” she said, “and they will slaughter you. You are sheep, they are wolves. Your blood will soak the hillsides, your skin will make saddles, your flesh will feed pigs! They are the úlfhéðnar! You hear me, Saxon? They are the úlfhéðnar!”

We had gone to Arnborg’s hall, where a dozen of my men raked through the bedding and the wooden chests in search of plunder. I had taken nothing but food and ale from Hallbjorn’s steading, and even that I had paid for with hacksilver, but Eerika was determined to defy me, insult me, and frighten me, so I allowed my men to ransack her goods. I let her rant for the moment, stooping instead to one of the hearthstones and picking up an oatcake. I took a bite. “Good!” I said.

“May it choke you,” Eerika snarled.

“Lord! Look!” Rorik, my servant, had dragged down the flag from above the gate. It was a pale gray banner on which was embroidered a black ax. He spread it wide and I saw that it was a careful piece of work, lovingly sewn through the long winter evenings, a fine flag edged with a border of black linen. “Shall I burn it, lord?”

“No! Keep it!”

“Take one thing from me,” Eerika spat, “and your death will be slow. Your screams will echo in the underworld, your soul will go to the death-worm and writhe in timeless agony.”

I took another bite from the oatcake. “Your husband is úlfheðinn?” I asked.

“He is a wolf-warrior, Saxon. He feeds on Saxon livers.”

“And was thrown out of Ireland,” I sneered. “Finan!”

“Lord?”

I smiled at Eerika. “Finan is from Ireland,” I told her, then turned to him. “Tell me, Finan, what do the Irish do to the úlfhéðnar?”

He smiled too. “We kill them, lord, but only after we’ve blocked our ears with wool.”

“And why do you do that?” I asked, still looking at Eerika.