The voyages in spring and in autumn were the best part. Before he was eighteen, Eyvind had traveled far: north to the realms of ice and back through Hordaland, where there was a powerful ruler with an eye on Magnus’s own territory—they bore him gifts to help maintain their uneasy truce—then south around the coast and across to Jutland, where one might expect savage resistance from the Danes. And farther south yet, skirting the land, slipping into the inland waterways that fringed the fair lands of the Frisians and the Franks. There had been rich booty there, some of which Eyvind got to keep for his own, having soon become one of Jarl Magnus’s favorites.

Magnus had three longships, light, shallow-drafted vessels, well suited to the tricks of shore raiding. Two bore fifteen benches, the other twelve; all went swift and nimble under both oar and sail. The Battlesnake, on which Eyvind usually traveled, could go far upriver. She was easy to beach and easy to launch, and her crew could carry her some distance across a neck of land to reach a new waterway. The Sea Princess and the Longtooth were fine vessels too, making up a fleet that demonstrated Magnus’s strength and built his reputation. Still, the long times at sea were hardly comfortable. One was usually wet, and the rations did not travel well. Camping on shore overnight had hazards of its own. They learned to sleep sword in hand and wake in an instant.

He’d fought his first sea battle at just fifteen; he remembered that one well. Out in the open waters west of the sheltered Limfjord, they were in risky territory. The longships approached the northwestern shores of Jutland where the major waterway threaded through toward the rich trading centers of the Svear. Mist had settled close about their vessels like a soft shroud. It was late afternoon; they had become aware of another ship nearby, just before this blinding curtain of gray had descended around them. Ulf had command of the Battlesnake; he bade the men still their oars, and they sat in silence. In such a mist, ears must become eyes. They waited.

Eyvind, the hunter, heard it first: a tiny creaking, as of the timbers of a longship eased through the water with painful slowness. He gestured to Ulf, that way, and Ulf gave the sign. The Wolfskins edged forward past the oarsmen, hands moving to grip weapons: the hewing axe, the short sword, the stabbing spear, the war hammer.