In the time of the first frost, Eyvind dreamed of blood and of fire. He saw bright eyes in the darkness, watching; he heard the whisper of the god. The next day they came for him.

It is not a sight granted to many, to watch a full team of Wolfskins ride by. A lesser nobleman such as Ulf, brother of Somerled, might hope to assemble a force of six to spearhead his sea battles and protect him against treachery on land. Jarl Magnus had eleven. Eirik led them; Hakon was by his side, and following grim and silent rode an assembly of warriors who seemed the stuff of some fantastic dream. Their hair was long and wild, or cut to mere stubble on the naked scalp. Their faces were fierce and scarred. Each wore the short cloak of shaggy wolf pelt, fastened at the shoulder with a clasp of bronze or silver. But this garment was no uniform, no sign of a particular allegiance. Each man was himself. At the moment of ultimate test, each went forth alone. And they bore the signs of it; one had an ear missing, and one a deep seam across temple and cheek, where the skin puckered around the old mark of some adversary’s blade. This same scarred man had many teeth gone; his grin was an alarming sight, but even more worrying was his shield rim, which was splintered and worn down all around its upper edge. The children whispered as they watched him; maybe the stories they had heard were true. There were no old men among the Wolfskins, no men of middle years. Eyvind’s own uncles had died nobly in Thor’s service, and it was expected a similar fate awaited any who joined this band. To complete four years or five was considered a remarkable feat of survival. Such a calling was not for a man who wanted a wife and sons and a farm, and to die comfortably in his bed.

Eyvind’s heart was drumming as he swung up onto the riderless horse Eirik led. He was not afraid; it was the thrill of anticipation that made his blood run swift in his veins. He had his axe and his broadsword and a knife or two, but no shield. Eirik looked him over swiftly, gave a nod, unsmiling, and in an instant the horsemen wheeled around and set off northward with Eyvind in their midst. Not one of them looked back. The farm was gone, and the longhouse, and the days of childhood. The god summoned them; if Eyvind passed the test, he would not come home again before seeding time.

They rode a great distance that day, farther than Eyvind had traveled before. At dusk they halted deep in the woods, on a high flat stretch of ground circled by tall firs. A fire was made, a ring of torches placed well out toward the trees. With nightfall came a bone-chilling cold that crept into every corner of the body, numbing fingers and toes, freezing nose and ears and making each breath a burden. Eyvind was hungry, for they had not stopped to eat and there was now no sign of supper. He did not ask.