'One-Handed,' insisted Bjorn. He looked up fiercely, his temper finally breaking. He had had his fill of the gothi's inscrutable pronouncements. 'I am the One-Handed.' He slapped the stump of his left arm. 'Why must you call me Fell-Handed? Is it some kind of bad jest?'

Kva gave him a guarded look. 'Because it is your name, Bjorn, It was braided into your wyrd the moment you were born, follow your thread a little further, and you shall see that it is what you are truly named.'

'Are we done?' growled Russ impatiently.

'We are, my jarl,' said Kva.

'Then, Grimnr, to the foot of the stair,' commanded Russ.

Grumbling, the huscarl directed his warriors away from the platform. Russ stared at Bjorn until the warrior took his place upon the stone, and had turned away from the corrie.

One by one the gothi filed past, Kva in his chair going first. Russ went last. He nodded at Bjorn as he went by.

Bjorn listened to the clack of the gothi's bone charms dwindling into the distance. Russ' heavy tread followed. In the vale of the Krakgard sound was weirdly amplified - Russ' footsteps were as loud as an artillery barrage creeping over a battlefield.

Hot wind stirred Bjorn's beard. His stump ached. He wished for his lightning claw to hide his maiming.

He wished for a great many things.

Twelve

Twelve

Syrtyr's Breath

A U-shaped valley snaked down from the corrie, terminating suddenly in a vertiginous drop half a kilometre away, a legacy of harder glaciations and past tectonic upheavals. Framed by its end were the forests and plains around the Volda Hammarki. The valley funnelled storm breezes that chased themselves up the mountain vale as a hot, steady wind.

The reduced group made their way to the ritual circle. It was set on a nub of hard volcanic rock, different in type to the surrounding slate. At the centre was a slight dimple, not apparent from the platform overlooking the tarn. From within shone a yellow light. Smoke rose up and blew across the ground, splitting apart on the sharp stones. The menhir carved to resemble the Fang stood guard over the hole, its belly tinted orange by the world fire.

Leman Russ walked over to the hole. The smell of hydrogen sulphide made him turn his face aside. He could not look directly down the hole for long. When he did, heat curled his hair, and beat him back. He stepped away with a brief impression of infinite depth, and the world forge churning in the world's heart.

Kva had his twin guardians carry him to the edge of the ritual circle.

'That is Syrtyr's Door, the soul forge, the entrance to his kingdom of the dead.'

'I have not seen it before,' said Russ.

'You have seen the cavity.'