Eyvind had been working hard. The temple was on his mother’s land, though shared by all in the surrounding district, so the burden of preparation fell squarely on the household at Hammarsby. He’d spent the morning chopping wood, stacking the pungent-smelling logs by the central hearth, making and banking the fire. It was nearly time for the ceremony; he should stir the coals now and put on more fuel. The white goat could be heard outside, bleating plaintively. His sisters had swept the stone floor clean and stripped the cobwebs from the rooftrees, while his mother, Ingi, polished the bronze surfaces of ritual knives and bowls to a bright, sunny sheen. These now lay ready on the altar at the temple’s northern end. Cold light pierced the shingled roof above the hearth. From the altar, Thor’s image stared down at Eyvind. Bushy browed, full-bearded, the god’s wooden features held an expression of ferocious challenge. In his iron-gloved right hand he gripped the war hammer, Mjollnir; his left was held across his chest, to signify the making of some vow. Eyvind stared back, meeting Thor’s gaze without blinking, and his own hand moved to his breast as if returning a pledge of allegiance. Till death, he thought Thor was saying, and he whispered his answer, “Till death and beyond.”

The air was crisp and chill, the sacred space clean and quiet in the cold winter light. Later there would be a press of bodies in the temple, and it would be all too warm. As Eyvind used the iron poker to stir the embers to life, there was a sound from the entry behind him. He turned to see a tall, broad figure striding toward him, hair and beard touched to dark gold by the glow of the rekindled fire.

“Well, well, little brother! I swear you’ve doubled in size since the harvest!”

Eyvind felt a huge grin spreading across his face. “Eirik! You’re home! Tell me where you’ve been, and what you’ve been doing! I want to hear everything!”

His brother seized him in a brief, hard embrace, then stretched out his hands to warm them before the flames.

“Later, later,” he laughed. “Time enough for all that after the sacrifice. We’ll have many tales, for I do not come alone.”

“Hakon is here too?” Eyvind asked eagerly. He admired Hakon almost as much as he did Eirik himself, for his brother’s friend had earned his wolfskin at not quite sixteen, which was generally thought to be some sort of record.