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PART ONE

To battle! The enemy is at the gate.

Crisp snow crumbled under my boots and icy fingers of a northern wind tugged at my cape as I hurried towards the fields. I was cold, freezing, but there was no time to stop and comfort myself by the fire in the longhouse. It was the month of M_örsugur_and food supplies were limited. We could spare none, yet the howls of starving marauders had reached the bygd. With everyone tending to their duties, the only warrior left to decide between a comfortable winter or months of starvation

• was me.

They were in the fields now - fourteen of them, but I'd fought off an even greater army the week before, and I laughed at them as I balanced along the boulders of the tún.

"Come to steal our supplies, have you?" I flashed an imaginary sword at one particularly menacingly looking ewe.

The sheep gave me an innocent look and bleated twice, which I took for a yes, spoken in the terrible tongue of the Danes. I jumped from the t_ún_and onto the battlefield. Here I retrieved the sword from a fallen warrior; it was only a branch from a birch-tree, but it would serve me well against the wooly hordes.

"Do you not tremble at the sight of the mighty Askuld of Farobygd?" I shouted, but the sheep only nudged my hip. I was outnumbered and soon surrounded by an army of hungry, bleating livestock.

"Feeding time, huh?"

Putting our differences aside, the sheep followed me to the hay storage. Then they became nervous and lost all interest in food; there was something in the air - a stench of decaying flesh.

I soon found its source: a young roe deer had collapsed not far from the storage, probably searching for food. It was a few months too old to suckle by its mother, and this would have been its first winter on its own. But the threat of starvation and predators is always present, for human and deer alike. The corpse was bloated and no longer suitable for eating. Its left eye was halfway closed and frosted over while a black raven was busy pecking at the right eye. A sudden sadness came over me: I too was born in the summer, but I had already seen eleven winters, and my stomach was full.

Shoo! I yelled, and the raven replied with an annoyed KRAH!

"Leave him alone!" I cried, "or feel the blade of mighty Askuld." I charged at the raven with my stick and it took flight, cursing at me until it disappeared among the trees.

---

I began walking back to the bygd when I noticed someone approach from the south. It was a single rider; a dark figure slumped over a grey mare. He held the reins in his left hand while the whole of his sword-arm was tucked away under many layers of clothes. He looked outlandish and nothing like any villager I had seen. Riding alone and wearing a cape dyed black, he stood out as a moving shadow to the naked, snow-covered birches. His hair was long and as black as his clothes, and it flowed freely down his back like a mane. His eyes were light brown. Not brown like those of the travelling merchants who visit us every Nóttleysa, but almost yellow - like the colour of straw.

"Is this Farobygd?" he said in a voice so exhausted that it was little but a whisper. "Home to Sif Thormodsdottir, wife of Starkodder?"

I nodded. Sif was a friend of my mother.

"Lead me to her, boy. I have news of her husband."

I took his horse by the reins and led the stranger through the bygd to Sif's cottage. He dismounted at great effort while supporting his right arm.

"This is where Sif and Starkodder live," I said.

"Thank you, Askuld" said the stranger, and gave me a heavy silver coin.

I almost fainted where I stood; the coin was foreign and bore the image of a face turned sideways. There were other markings circling the figure that looked like runes; not the kind we use, but those of the tradesmen from the south. Foreign or not, the lump of silver was so heavy that I could now pay Bjarki to forge me a knife.

Then it struck me that the stranger had called me by name, but before I could ask him how he had come to know it, he had already vanished into Sif's house, and I had a feeling that he wished for their conversation to be private.

Moments later I heard Sif cry out, and she began to weep so loud that all of Farybygd could hear her. Runa and Alfwin rushed to her door, but before they could enter, Sif left the house, holding on to the stranger with both hands. She buried her face in his tunic and wept uncontrollably.

"The battle at Svoldr did not turn in our favour," said the stranger. Many strong men were lost, and Starkodder and Bjorn Sigvartson were among them.

There was a hush and a murmur among the villagers that now crowded around the stranger.

"Surely it's a mistake" -it was the voice of Runa.

"Not Bjorn - no one could best Bjorn in a fight," cried Bjarki.

"Bjorn was slain by a Dane and died on the battlefield," said the stranger. "Starkodder took a Swedish spear to the stomach and died the day after. I sat by his side, and he told me of his home in Farobygd, his friends there and of his loving wife Sif. And of course about young Askuld -and how you're a mighty fine boy."

So that's how he knew my name, I thought. It was strange though; Starkodder didn't like me, and blamed me for chasing two of his sheep over a cliff-side during play. So, I doubted very much that he would spend his final moments thinking of me as a fine boy, but the words were kind and warming, nevertheless.

"What news of our King?" asked Alfwin, our chief.

The stranger looked to the ground and sighed. "Great King láfr chose death before captivity and cast himself into the sea while the Danes and the Swedes raged and barked at him."

"Then Norway stands without a King," cried Alfwin. "Have the Gods forsaken us?"

The stranger said nothing, but unfastened a leather bag from his saddle and held it between his teeth, while he searched for something inside with his one good arm.

"Starkodder bade me bring you this, in his final hour." He took out a pouch and let it drop to the ground where it split open, and several coins of silver and gold trickled out. "His wages and valuables looted from the Swedes. He asked that it be shared between his faithful wife and Bjorn's mother Ulva."

"A lesser man would have saddened us with the news, but kept the coin," Said chief Alfwin. "But you have proven yourself a man of worth and we cannot let you ride on, in that condition. Please accept our hospitality until your wounds have healed." The chief then turned to me "-and Askuld will be there to tend to your needs."

I didn't mind being assigned to look after the stranger - it was much more exciting than feeding the livestock, so I led him to a small house we use, when travellers stay with us. It was once the home of old Kirstin the widow, but she died. And some say that her house is cursed, but we never tell the travellers - so they don't mind.

"This is where you'll stay," I said.

"Rafn! Replied the stranger;

"Rafn?"

"That's my name, Askuld."

He took the bags from his horse and carried them inside, one bag at a time, because that was all he could lift with his good arm.

"My mother is a healer," I said. "I can send her over so she can take care of your arm."

"NO!" he snapped, and I winced from his unexpected outcry. "There is nothing your mother can do about my condition."

"She's very good," I insisted, taking pride in my mother's skills as a herbalist. "At the least she could take a look at the wound."

Rafn seemed to calm down and offered me a weak smile.

"Not all wounds should be looked into."

---

Rafn soon became popular in the bygd as a visiting story-teller. In the daytime he tought us new ways of weaving and dyeing cloth, and at night-time he'd join us in the longhouse and tell wondrous tales of his travels and of battles he'd fought. To me, all grown-ups look old but mother said that Rafn had lived some twenty-five summers, but that he seemed older than his age - and looked unwell.

He never dined with the rest of us, but preferred to return to his cabin and eat alone. Every night I brought him a meal of bread and porridge or soup, and he sat by the table and ate in silence by the light of an oil lamp. He would then join us in the longhouse and entertain us with his stories. He was unlike most skjalds and story-tellers I've heard, because they told stories of heroes and victories, but Rafn seemed preoccupied with all those who died in battle, and their final journey to Valhalla.

"Most people believe that King Hrodgar was slain by a Rus at the great battle of Frellesvik," said Rafn one night. "-But this is not so. He galloped his horse so hard into combat that it stumbled and fell, throwing off its rider. Hrodgar flew off his horse like a scarlet eagle, and while the ground broke his fall and his neck, his spirit took flight towards Bifröstir where Heimdal gave him the hero's welcome.

This I saw with my own eyes."

Everyone cheered at his story, for the legacy of Hrodgar was favourable. He was a great king and a great warrior, but to have been slain by a mere Rus, somehow seemed below him. Still, I wondered; how could Rafn have been there to see the events when that battle took place more than two hundred summers ago?

"Hush!" said Freyja the weaver. "He's a skjald; they make things up."

"But he's not a skjald," I objected. "He's a warrior, and shouldn't be making stories up."

---

One night I was so busy tending to the sheep, and defending them against invading giants of Utgaard, that I forgot all about delivering food to Rafn, right until Helge shouted at me to hurry up. I was so embarrassed that I dropped my pail of feed and ran as hard as I could, back to the bygd and picked up the waiting food. When 'I reached Rafn's house, I was breathless and panted

"here's...your...food."

He took the plate and put it on the table. "You've been running?"

I simply nodded and then, without warning, he pressed his hand to my chest and held it there.

"You have a strong heart," he said.

"Thank you?" I panted, not quite knowing how to reply. Rafn kept pressing his hand to my chest. It was a little uncomfortable because he didn't say anything, but only stared at me intensely. I didn't want to appear impolite towards our guest, so I stood still and let Rafn feel my heartbeat, until he finally said

"It's pure."

I didn't understand what he was talking about, but I thought I noticed a hint of disappointment in his voice.

Rafn's strange words stuck in my mind. He didn't make any mention of it again, and I dared not ask what it meant to have a pure heart, but from that day on, Askuld the pure-hearted was the one who defended our sheep against all evil. In a way it sounded better than Askuld the mighty.

---

Rafn stayed with us for many days with little improvement to his condition. But one night I walked by his house and happened to glance through the window. Here I found him sitting by the oil lamp as always. He looked into the flame and seemed lost in thought while he ate chunks of bread that he tore off a loaf . Initially I thought little of it and was about to walk on, when I saw that he used both hands to handle the loaf. He held it with his good hand, and tore off pieces with his right hand, with no effort.

His arm must have healed, I thought and crept closer. I knew that he could not see me, for the night was dark and his eyes had adjusted to the flame from the lamp, so I crouched down only a few arms lengths from the window, and watched. I watched how he finished his meal and then began to unwrap the bandages around his arm. Then I saw his wound.

He had suffered a hole that went all the way through his lower arm, front to back.

The hole was so large that I could easily have passed a leek through it without ever touching flesh and so large that no bone or muscle would have remained intact.

And yet he used his right hand as effortlessly as any other man. The hole itself looked black from where I stood, but the edges around it had the colour of healthy skin and I saw no trace of blood or swelling - or any of the signs I see so often, when my mother treats a wounded villager. The wound in Rafn's arm had healed many moons ago.

Later that same night he told stories in the longhouse, and his arm was bandaged up again. He made a display of not being able to use that hand, but I did not trust him, and I didn't know why he kept staying with us. But one thing seemed certain:

the strange Rafn was not a child of Midgard.

---

PART TWO

---

I slept late the morning when wolves came out of the mountains and killed our sheep.

It was an old ram they took; he was too old for breeding but still one of the flock, and we grieved the loss. The wolves tore him open, and what remained of his entrails lay scattered around the carcass in a landscape of crimson snow and tarry blood.

"Wolves," said Bjarki. "They come down when the air turns into ice."

He and I walked together, into the quietness of the winter and tracking pawprints between the trees. There were two sets of prints, side by side and with paths criss-crossing.

"Unsteady," said Bjarki. "They were raven-led."

"Huh?"

"Sometimes wolf and raven work together when times are dire. The sheep's hide is too tough for the raven to peck through, so they find starving wolves and lead them to their prey. Then the raven dives in for the hearts and eyes."

We were now down to thirteen sheep, and we couldn't afford to lose any more to wolf or man.

---

"What do you do around here," asked Rafn "-apart from feeding sheep?"

We had begun talking together. He seemed to have taken a special interest in me, and sometimes asked me to stay and chat while he ate.

I shrugged. "I help out and run errands. Sometimes I chop wood for Kjappi."

"Is that the old man living alone in the woods?" he asked.

I laughed. "Kjappi is our gothi of course."

"Of course," replied Rafn.

Kjappi has seen as many winters as my father's father. He came to our bygd long ago from Bjarkøy in the north, because they already had a _gothi_and he decided to wander and perform wedding and funeral rites where he was needed. He knows about the gods and asks them for advice and assistance when we are in need, and he asks for kind weather and a calm sea when we travel. He is old now, and his beard is white and his hair has fallen out. Even though he speaks to the gods, they don't chop firewood for him, so he asks me to do it in their place.

---

One day we had three new arrivals coming from the south. Two of them were soldiers and bore the shields of King Olav, the third one wore a long grey robe and carried a wooden cross on a beaded string around his neck.

"By the orders of King Olav," said one of the soldiers. "We have come to baptise you in the name of Jesus Christ, the saviour."

"You will be granted eternal life," said the greyrobe. "-and a new tunic."

"New tunic, huh?" asked Sif.

"Indeed," the greyrobe nodded and smiled. "It's as clean as your soul will be, when your sins have all been washed away in the river."

The villagers began to gather around the three strangers. The greyrobe seemed friendly enough, but I didn't like King Olav's soldiers. The one who spoke looked nervous and kept touching his sword. The other one had a long scar running from his temple and all the way to his mouth, and it tugged at his lip so that three of his teeth were showing, even though he kept his mouth shut. At first, everyone was quiet, then Eirik shrugged.

"When I lay in viking, we asked the foreign gods of Poseidon and Neptune to calm the waters, and they listened to our prayers, and we sailed home at good speed. If your foreign god gives me a new tunic just for taking a bath, I'll welcome him also."

"I don't know what your god can do in our parts," said Sif. "But one god more or less can't hurt. And I could do with new clothes."

"But you don't understand," cried their greyrobe. "There is but one god, and he is almighty, and his son died for your sins."

There was a moment of quiet as everyone found his words very strange, then Alfwyn laughed out loud,

"No one god is mighty enough to look out for everything: man, beast, weather and battle - that idea is just ridiculous. Just imagine if Odin was in charge of fishing: with his one eye he'd only catch fish every other day!"

"or Hoeder weaving clothes - we'd all go naked!" Giggled Ulva.

"No! priest of a foreign god," said Alfwyn. "The world is large and the tasks are many. Too many for one god; we need many hands, in Asgard as in Midgard."

"If you do not convert," said the soldier who spoke. "You will offend your King, and tarnish the name of Olaf who died in battle to keep Norway free. The orders are, that every chief in Norway must convert - and that includes you, Alfwyn of Farobygd."

Alfwyn stood with his head bowed. "I don't know about your foreign God, but I'll do what's neccessary for keeping the Danes and Swedes away from our lands." And with these words, our chief followed the priest down to the river. He dressed Alfwyn in a white tunic, then they walked into the river until they stood knee-deep in the freezing water. The priest then began to grapple with our chief, who stood one head taller and much stronger.

"You must lie down!" cried the priest.

Alfwyn wrapped both arms around the priest, who looked cold and miserable in the icy water. "If I fall, so do you," sneered Alfwyn and threw himself sideways into the slurry, dragging the priest with him, and the entire bygd howled with laughter at the sight of their bobbing heads and flailing arms.

Now, that our chief had been dipped in the water, the soldiers seemed satisfied. Some of our tribesmen bathed with the foreign priest and were also given new tunics. Only Freyja the weaver was hesitant towards the offer. She rubbed the fabric of the white tunic between her fingers and sniffed.

"I can make this weave without the help of any gods...."

I tugged at Alfwyn's new tunic to get his attention. I knew that their gothi had performed a rite on our chief and that he had gained a new god and a new shirt, but I wondered if our own gods were still inside him?

"I don't feel any different," said the chief. "Only colder."

---

Later that day Jorunn gave birth to Helge's baby girl. I helped my mother tend to her, and the night was very dark when I went back to the longhouse to sleep. I had not seen Rafn all day and he had not been present when the visitors performed their rites, so I walked down to his cabin to see if he needed anything. I found him sleeping on his back by the light of the oil lamp. He had covered himself in sheep skins, except his right arm which was bare. The strange black wound was clearly visible from the window and I couldn't stop looking at it.

Why couldn_'t I see any muscle or bone in there?_Yet the more I looked, the more I got the impression that something was moving inside the blackness, like ripples on a lake. Curiosity overcame my fears and I sneaked into the cabin. I held my breath and tiptoed across the room until I reached the table. I took the oil-lamp and listened to Rafn 's breath. It was slow and deep and my presence had not disturbed him, so I squatted down beside him and put the lamp on the floor. At first, I saw nothing but darkness pulsating softly within the hole, but then figures began to take form and move in the black mist, just like drifting clouds can turn into trees and animals. It was slow at first, then became more and more vivid. Faces, horses, men at arms; an entire battle came alive through the small window in Rafn's arm. I watched a rider, with long blond hair and light eyes much like myself, charging into battle, shouting something that I could not hear, and many warriors followed him. I saw his horse stumble, and the rider fell off and hit the ground. His warriors stood around him and one squatted beside him, but the rider was dead.

Was this the death of King Hrodgar, the way Rafn had described it? I wondered. Then the pictures changed and I saw an old man in a long white dress walk down a flight of stairs. Several people in similar dresses walked up to him and surrounded him. Then one of them drew a dagger and stabbed the old man, who wrapped his robe around himself to shield his face. The other men kept stabbing him until he lay lifeless by the foot of the stairs. It was very disturbing to watch, because they didn't challenge him to a duel, the way they should have, so I quickly placed the lamp back on the table where I'd found it, and left the cabin.

---

The next morning, I was awakened by the sound of Runa screaming in the distance. I rushed out of bed and saw her running towards the bygd from the forest.

"The soldiers have slain old Kjappi," she cried among sobs. "By the gods, they fell upon him and killed him with their swords."

I heard a rustling noise behind me, and Thorstein came out of the longhouse. His mouth was open and his eyes were very large.

"My...father?" he asked.

Runa nodded. "I was in the woods setting rabbit snares when I heard the sound of quarrel. The voices were loud and there was much swearing. I walked in the direction of the noise and it led me to Kjappi's cabin, where he and the soldiers were shouting at each other. Then the tall soldier held Kjappi's arms, while the scarred one stabbed him through the stomach with his sword.

Thorstein let out a roar of rage, then ran back inside to get his weapons. I am a fast runner, but the fury of Thorstein was so fierce that I had to run all that I could, to keep up with him. He bellowed all the while until we reached the cabin.

Kjappi was on the ground with his eyes glazing over, and faint whispers of steam rose skywards from a wound in his stomach. The two soldiers stood beside Kjappi, and the scarred one wiped blood off his sword with a rag. Their gothi looked very pale and steadied himself against the house. Then he sat down and hid his face between his hands.

"Only wolves and cowards hunt down the old," shouted Thorstein. "-and I shall see you all die the coward's death". This meant that he didn't challenge them to a duel as is our custom, but that he intended to slay them on the spot.

"Your gothi refused to follow the orders of King Olaf!" shouted the taller of the soldiers.

"Norway stands without a King", sneered Thorstein "and your words have been worthless for months." With these words, Thorstein drew his sword and axe, and his eyes were dark with grim determination. He took three steps towards the soldiers, who drew swords and prepared to defend themselves with their shields.

Thorstein did not have a shield, but held his sword in one hand and a long-shafted axe in the other. He raised the axe as if preparing to strike at the tall soldier's head, and the soldier raised his shield. But instead of bringing the axe down, Thorstein used his axe to pull at the soldiers shield, leaving his midriff vulnerable. Thorstein seized the opportunity to thrust his sword forward, cutting into the soldier, who yelled in pain and fell to his knees. Thorstein raised his sword and was about to strike, when the soldier scooped up a handful of grit and threw it in Thorstein's face. Thorstein cried out and rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic.

"My eyes!" he shouted, and kicked blindly at the space before him. His foot found the shape of the wounded soldier and with one mighty thrust, he drove his sword through the soldiers head. The soldier moaned and there was much bleeding while his body writhed among the fallen leaves.

The scarred soldier who had slain Kjappi closed in on the blinded Thorstein and prepared to strike at his neck. I was unarmed but decided to jump at the soldier and cling on to his legs to stop him, but before I could move, a dark figure was over him and cast him to the ground - it was Rafn.

I never knew where he came from, for he had not followed us from the bygd and I had not seen or heard him until now, but I was thankful that he was here to help. But when I saw his face I became very frightened, for it was no longer that of a human, but that of a wolf, and he tore into the scarred soldier with hands that were claws, and bit into his flesh with teeth that were born from nightmares. The scarred soldier screamed in horror once, and this was the first and the last time I heard his voice. I think he would have screamed again, if not Rafn had torn out his throat, and all he made were strange gurgling noises.

Thorstein was blind to all this, still rubbing at his eyes and cursing every god he knew. The priest who had not joined the struggle now stood with his mouth open and kept making a motion across his chest in a pattern that resembled a cross.

"Fenris!", he cried. "The beast of the north."

"You're getting warmer", sneered Rafn and pressed his hand to the chest of the priest, just like he had done to me weeks earlier.

"Yesterday your heart was pure," said Rafn, and this time he smiled.

The priest stared at Rafn and his eyes were wide, then he turned and fled into the woods. I heard his footfalls stumble, and branches breaking off as he brushed against them in panic.

"You're letting him go?" I asked.

"I have my standards," said Rafn.

---

Thorstein sat down by the corpse of his father. He held Kjappi's head in his lap and stroked his hair with a gentleness that I didn't know Thorstein possessed. I could not tell what tears were caused by pain and what flowed from grief, but he sat still and rocked back and forth holding his father.

"You brought down the gods for us to see; now see how our king has let us down and brought us pain. What are we to do?"

I don't think he addressed anyone but himself, but Rafn was quick to reply.

"We must travel to Bjarkoy and tell Thorir the Brokkr about the loss of his dear brother."

Thorstein thought about it for a moment then nodded approvingly. "Your words are sound, and we can ask the gothi there, to make the proper rites for my father."

"I will travel with you," said Rafn. "For I am of little value to Farobygd, and my one good arm will not be missed."

"Then Askuld shall join us," said Thorstein. "For he's got two good eyes and two strong arms, and together that will make us whole."

Rafn didn't seem satisfied with this decision, but he still nodded, and we began preparing ourselves for the journey to Bjarkoy in the north. Rafn and Thorstein both had horses, but I had none so Alfwyn let me ride one of his.

Mother cleaned Thorstein's eyes but she said that they had been scratched by the grit and it would take weeks until he could see properly again.

"A blind, a cripple and a child," sneered Thorstein. "We'll be lucky if we make it to Narvik."

"Before you leave," said Alfwyn. "Helge and the boy can give us a hand with the corpses before they attract animals to the bygd."

Helge, Runa, Alfwyn and myself walked back to Kjappi's cabin to remove the corpses of the two soldiers. Alfwyn and Runa took Kjappi by the hands and feet and carried him back to Farobygd, where they laid him in a hay shelter. It was very cold, so it would take many days before his flesh turned bad. The corpses of the two soldiers were turning dark, and Helge and myself carried them into the woods so that they could be eaten by the woodland creatures, but something had gotten to them first: their chests had been ripped open, and there was a deep and hollow crater where their hearts had once been. Helge studied the unexpected wound and frowned.

"Their hearts have been stabbed out," he said. "With something pointy, like a spear or a pick."

We both began looking around for tracks. This part of our land was often visited by both wolf and bear, and they would eat the corpses of fallen warriors, when they were hungry enough, but we had never seen wounds like this before.

Then I found a black feather.

It looked just like any ordinary feather from the wing of a bird, only it was as long as my arm and as wide as my hand. It was the largest feather any of us had seen in our lives. The cold sun shone on the black barbs and reflected back an iridiscent rainbow, and it felt like a bit of Bifröst had broken off and landed in my hand.

"Could it have been caused... by a beak," I asked.

Helge shook his head in bewilderment and his voice dropped to a whisper.

"No bird of Midgard is that large."

---

I felt that Rafn was somehow connected to the events at Kjappi's hut. I had seen his face change and I had seen little people move inside his arm, and I couldn't sleep that night. I had to look into the wound again; maybe it could tell me something about the strange feather that now laid next to me in my bed. I sneaked out of the long-house and down the familiar path to Rafn's cabin. I found him asleep by the fireplace, with his bags packed and ready for departure in the morning. He had not touched the food I had brought him, and there was an odd smell around him, like that of raw meat. I grabbed the lamp from the table and squatted beside the sleeping man. I carefully lifted the pelt covering his arm and looked into the pulsating void of his wound.

Shadows moved and combined into images that were strange and frightening at first. I saw leaves rustling, leaves and thorns. Then they formed themselves into a crown that rested upon the head of a man. His arms were outstretched, and someone had put large nails through his wrists and hammered them into a wooden plank. They had done the same to his feet and he hung limply on a wooden cross. He was in great pain, and sweat and blood mixed and ran down his forehead. Now and then he looked to the skies and said something that I could not hear.

I was so entranced by the strange scene before me, that I didn't pay any attention to Rafn. When I looked away from the vision, Rafn was awake, lying still and looking at me in silence. He sat up and put on his tunic.

"Some wounds shouldn't be looked into," he said eventually.

"Why do you have little people inside your arm?" I asked.

"Its me," he said, rolling down his sleeve. "Everywhere I've been and everything I've seen, is in there".

"Who was the man who was nailed to a cross?" I asked.

"Many winters ago, he gathered people to serve that foreign god of the soldiers. Then humans turned against him and had him killed."

"So why is he inside your arm," I asked.

"I was there, when he suffered," said Rafn. "I soothed his pains and told him of great things to come. In his darkest hour, when even his own God had left him, I sat by his shoulder. I was the only one who did not abandon him and I offered to see him to Valhalla, but his heart was pure like yours, and I could not have it.

"Did he die on the cross?" I asked.

"Our kind never dies," said Rafn.

TO BE CONTINUED

Notes:

M_örsugur -_a month roughly corresponding to december.

Bygd - Village.

Tún - an enclosed field, elevated by a few feet to keep the livetock from eating the crops.

Nóttleysa- the summer period.

The Battle of Svoldr (or Svolder)- A navy battle between Norwegian King láfr and an alliance of Swedish and Danish Forces (Autumn, 999AD).

Bifrostir - The rainbow that serves as entrance to Valhalla.

Heimdal - Guardian of Hrimrfrostir.

Utgaard - The realm of (mostly unfriendly) giants.

_Midgard -_The realm of humans.