'Good tales, brave actions,' said Bjorn earnestly. 'Your courage will give the skjalds much to sing of.' He stood carefully. 'I thank you for the drink and for your stories. Now I must away. I have matters to attend to.'

Godsmote looked at him in concern. 'Aye, more dealings with our Lord Leman Russ, no doubt!' he said to the others, with an enthusiasm his eyes could not match. He embraced Bjorn again, 'I understand your need for solitude,' he whispered in Bjorn's ear.

'But do not be a stranger, my brother. Come back to us soon. This is your pack, not mine.' Godsmote's sympathy burned at Bjorn as keenly as any insult, and he left with as much dignity as he could muster.

Bjorn hunted out a quiet spot away from all others. There he drank mjod until his head spun.

While in his cups, a powerful melancholy overcame him. With the tip of his long black fingernail, Bjorn scratched a symbol into the stone tabletop: one as old as humanity, the warding eye.

Bjorn had never been completely at one with his fellows. The hearty mockery that passed between the Vlka Fenryka came hard to him. The others thought him dour. If he had his way he would lead his pack in battle with honour, and be left in peace when not fighting. The close-living of the Aett grated at him. He hated to be enclosed. Give him the open skies and the cold, keen wind laced with prey scent. His nose twitched in memory of his solitary hunts. Alas, there would be no time for stalking. The Legion's stay at the Aett was to be measured in days. Above the unfinished Valgard, the forge-kaerls and blademakers raced to effect further repairs to the battered warships of the Wolves.

The stump of his left arm itched. He sank further into his private miseries, his glowering countenance hidden by his leather mask.

Soon, Bjorn was drunk. When he gulped his mjod it spilled into his beard. He didn't care.

Jarl Ogvai Ogvai Helmschrot held court from the high table. His manner towards Bjorn had cooled in recent months. Bjorn didn't blame him. How was a jarl supposed to treat a warrior so unconventionally elevated? There were customs and hierarchies in the Vlka Fenryka as there were in all societies: Russ had defied them. Ogvai had taken to ignoring him, though not from envy. Bjorn's favouring had the smack of wyrd to it. Fated men were ill-omened, for they brought death to others as they followed their bloody thread to its end. 'Hawser. I've become like Kasper Hawser,' slurred Bjorn. He truly Las a bad star. I should have let him die on the ice, Bjorn thought glumly. 'Ever since I shot down his ship and decided to rescue him, my thread has been snarled,' he added aloud.