Besides, Eyvind was busy. Over the years since he had earned his place among the twelve, they had lost five men: one from a slicing wound received in an encounter with the Frisians, two drowned in a storm off Jutland, one the victim of an ague, a sorry end for a warrior. The fifth was slain in a heroic, solitary stand against a fear-crazed mob. He killed eight men before they finished him with shovel, hay fork, and scythe. Some folk see only the wolfskins and know only the tales. They thought, perhaps, it was some monster they had killed. These five had been replaced by new men, though none was as young as Eyvind. He had been part of the trial as each newcomer won his wolfskin, and each time it was as if his own bond with the god were strengthened, his vow remade. Now, he did not need ale or the herbal gum they chewed, or the singing and drumming. The singing was in his veins, the drumming in his heart; he carried the fire in his head.

Life between voyages was not all games and revelry and sweet nights in Signe’s arms. Jarl Magnus had many enemies, powerful men with an eye on his borders and an ear out for others inclined to conspiracy. So, when he was not at sea, Magnus made a progress around the halls of his subjects, staying two nights here, three there, just to make quite sure of their loyalty. He received tribute. When he was pleased, he gave gifts. And because you could never really trust anyone, he took his Wolfskins with him. Two shadowed his every move, guarded his slumber, rode by his side. Four hovered at a distance, watching entries and exits, reading men’s eyes and gestures. When all twelve were available, the rest would be deployed more subtly, mingling with the local people, apparently off duty. That way, folk found it harder to set traps.