I had killed úlfhéðnar. They were men who often howled like wolves, while other warriors called out insults. They liked to wear wolf skins. They fought like madmen, but madmen do not fight well. They have savagery and seem careless of danger, but the skill of war starts with the hours and days and weeks and months and years of practice; it is sword-skill, shield-craft, and spear-skill, the endless learning of the crafts of slaughter. I have seen enemies screaming like wild beasts, spitting as they charge with glazed eyes, but they died like other men, and they were often the first to die, yet still the úlfhéðnar scared many warriors. Some men claimed that the úlfhéðnar fought drunk, but so did other warriors, while Ragnar, who had adopted me, said that the wolf-warriors drank the piss of horses that had been fed the mushrooms that give a man strange dreams, and maybe he was right. Berg, sensibly, had mentioned none of that. Ragnar had feared the úlfhéðnar, saying they were stronger, quicker, and more savage than other fighters, and even the Christians, who claimed they did not believe in Odin or Fenrir or Ragnarok, were frightened by the madness of the úlfhéðnar.

“But we are better than the úlfhéðnar,” I insisted. “We are the wolves of Bebbanburg, and the úlfhéðnar fear us! You hear me?” I called out to the whole hall. “They fear us! Why else send the monk to lie to us? The úlfhéðnar fear us!”

We had been lured across Britain. There was a compliment in that, though I was in no mood to appreciate it. Sköll Grimmarson had led an army east to Eoferwic, and the only reason for that journey was to take the throne of Northumbria from Sigtryggr, my son-in-law, and Sköll had taken care to make certain I was nowhere near that throne. Evidently the úlfhéðnar feared the wolves of Bebbanburg.

And, despite all I had tried to tell my men, I feared the úlfhéðnar.

And now we must ride east to meet them.

Beadwulf and his squirrel rode with us. I had thought to kill him in revenge for his treachery, but the squirrel had pleaded with me, and Beadwulf, on his knees, had promised to show me a great treasure if I spared him. “What’s to stop me killing you after I take the treasure?” I had asked him.

“Nothing, lord,” he had said.

“So show me.”

He had led me to what I had thought was a small granary, a wooden hut raised on four stone pillars that were meant to keep rodents from entering. Beadwulf unbolted the door and climbed inside. I had followed to see dim shelves on which were stored pots, each about the size of a man’s head. He took one down, placed it on a table, and used a small knife to cut through the wax that sealed the wooden lid. “This is the only one left, lord,” he had said as he pulled the lid free and handed me the pot.