“Attack!” Ulf commanded, and in his voice was the thunderous voice of Thor, urging them on. The fire came again, hot and urgent in his vitals, in his thudding heart, in his bursting head, and Eyvind charged forward, a scream of challenge on his lips. He had waited for this moment all his life. Behind him, the Wolfskins roared as they sprang across to the bow of the enemy ship, their weapons hungry for human flesh.

There were no Wolfskins among the Danish warriors. Still, the enemy fought bravely, considering the odds. They lost perhaps half their number in that first onslaught. Eyvind knew that he had taken one fellow’s head off his shoulders at a single blow. He recalled a stroke that had seemed to glance off another warrior’s shield, and the surprise on the Dane’s features as he looked down and saw that his arm had been neatly severed. Eyvind had never believed in causing pain when it was unnecessary. He made sure his second blow administered instant death. The deck grew slippery with blood, and one tended to step on things better avoided. The Wolfskins advanced like a dark tide down the ship, the first bench, the second, the third; he heard Hakon screaming behind him somewhere, as if in pain. He saw Eirik turning back, but Eyvind moved on, for his axe was sounding a song all its own, dauntless and unassailable, greeting and farewell.

As he hacked his way forward, the mist began to lift and the dark shape of another vessel loomed up alongside; there was, perhaps, a whole fleet of Danish ships out there, each with its complement of warriors.

“Hold hard!” yelled Ulf, now making his own progress along the slick boards of the deck his strike force had cleared for him. “Ware to the starboard flank!”

But there was no threat. The ship that emerged now between the rags of mist was one of their own, the Sea Princess, with Jarl Magnus himself in the bows watching with interest as his youngest and newest Wolfskin whirled and thrust and hacked his way ever forward, leaving a trail of broken men behind him.

Later, they told Eyvind that he had killed nine in this, his first battle. The Jarl had his eye on him from that time on. One expected displays of courage from a Wolfskin, but to lead, to provide a rallying point, and to account for so many in one’s first encounter, and that at barely fifteen years of age, was something exceptional. There were rewards when they returned to court. Fine weapons, rich cloaks, horses. For Eyvind that was a strange moment, standing before the Jarl, receiving his thanks.