Prologue

The wind howled down from the North Country like a ravening
beast, eager to strip warmth and shutter from the small cramped houses
of Dimmentagr. Snow and gusts took over the evening, driving the
inhabitants of the village together in search of warmth and comfort.
Already many of the outlying landsmen had brought their families and
livestock into the village to bear out the worst days of winter.

The Long Hall was packed beyond comfort with heaps of

humanity, the youngest and oldest afforded seats near the firepit to feel
the greatest warmth of the carefully hoarded wood. It may yet be days
before the men could go out to gather more. Men hunched over their
bone dice whiling away the long hours, only occasionally heading out
into the tempest to check that the animals hadn't frozen to death and
had plenty of grain to keep them.

The women kept to what mending and cooking they could,

gossiping and tittering over the traits of their husbands, while the
children gathered around the elders to listen to the stories of yore. Only
one child was not, the young pale-haired Bjorn, the het-man's son,
sweating beneath several skins. Fever had taken him since he'd been
brought in. He'd been hunting in the woods with his new bow when the
storm came, taking the village by surprise. The men had found him
blinded by the whiteness, his hand twisted in Throat-Biters collar,
crawling in the drifts toward home. His mother and hers now toiled
desperately to save him from the hand of the Cold One, keeping his
body warm and toweling away his sweat. Concern twisted the faces of
both women into masks so terrible that the others felt uncomfortable
around them and while many came over to speak of their prayers and
concerns, most avoided looking their way for fear of bringing the death
god's attention to them.

From a corner of the lodge, a tall, thickset man, whose flaxen

hair now began to bleed into silver, rubbed his tired eyes and glanced
worriedly over where his son lay stricken. Gathered around him were the
town's council made up of the older men of the village who hadn't fallen
into dotage. Heavy topics were being discussed since the survival of the
entire town might be at risk if the weather did not break soon. The tall
man stood and stretched out his long muscular legs and picked his way
through the throng to his wife's side.

"How is he, Marna?" he asked softly. The younger of the two

care-givers looked up at her husband with eyes on the brink of tears and
shook her head.

Then the door flew open and a trio of fur-clad youths, barely
considered to be adults, stumbled in from checking the livestock. All
three were mumbling incoherent words through the laced hoods of their
coats. Finally one of them got his hood unlaced and began to chant in an
agitated voice, "Demons! Demons!!...Demons of ice!!!"

Instantly, a loud murmur washed over the townsfolk as the

realization of the youth's words struck each person. One of the elder
men strode over and struck his son to bring him back to his senses. The
youth, started for a moment, gasped in shock at the treatment, then in
a loud serious voice, urged in earnest, "It’s true, papa! They came in on
us in the barn! They were covered in fur! And their eyes glowed!!" A new
wave of fear caused the already audible clamor to peak even higher.

The tall man pushed through the crowd until he reached the
youths. He grabbed the first and pulled him close. "What trickery is this
Skulnar?! Are not our circumstances dire enough?!"

"Skarn! It's true I say! Demons in the barn! Covered in fur!"

Skarn pulled the youth's coat-sleeve up before the frightened

young man's eyes. "You are covered in fur, Skulnarsson." He released
his grip on the youth. "Demons enter our barn and you left them there
to kill our cattle. You've just killed the entire village, boy!!"

The boy, sensing that he was being called coward, bristled. "And
what would you have of me, O Great Skarn! I have no magic to fight
demons with!"

"Then at least there would be three less mouths to feed!" Skarn

spat, giving Skulnar’s father a disgusted look. He strode over to the
Trophy-Wall and lifted a great battle-ax from where it hung on the wall.
It's head, made from a strange silvery metal began to glow a bright blue
when Skarn's hand wrapped around the haft, casting a azure sheen over
the entire room. Tense moments passed as Skarn studied the weapon
closely, reverently, until he finally whispered, "Wave-Splitter!" He
turned, heading for the door.

As he grasped the wooden handle that moved the slidebar, Skarn

turned back to the group. He lifted Wave-Splitter high and spoke aloud
so all could hear, "Magic to kill demons!" He let his gaze rest upon the
weeping face of his lovely wife Marna, and gaze her a warm smile of
encouragement. Then his eyes swept around the room, seeking out the
men. "Who will come?!" he challenged.

Silence greeted him. He'd not expected much more. In his own
belly, queasiness and fear were desperately trying to talk sense into
him, but he stood strong before his people. He looked at the youth
Skulnar. "Boy! You will hold a light for me so that I may fight
unhindered!" The boy looked about to faint.

Skulnar's father looked at Skarn, then at his son, and in a

moment of decision he reached out and slapped the youth into motion.
"You!" He roared at his son, "You dishonor me boy! Fetch a light, or I'll
have you no more!" As Skulnar scurried to fetch a lantern, his father
grabbed up his swordbelt from beside the door. "I go for my son's
deeds!" he declared. Skarn nodded to him.

The three men pushed their way through the drifts toward the
long low lodge that housed the animals. No sounds came from the
building that could be heard over the storm's howl. Skarn motioned for
Skulnar the Younger to see to the barn door as he readied his grip on his
weapon. The elder Skulnar held his blade with some uncertainty. The
youth heaved his shoulder against the barn's door bar and heaved the
portal open. The storm roared inside.

As Skarn’s fear and wariness made his pulse race, the blade of
Wave-Splitter flared brightly, filling the stables with light. Down at the
other end, two slim figures held their hands against the light’s glare. The
figures were indeed furry, a thick shaggy white fur like a winter hare's.
Skarn peered at them for a moment, then his tenseness eased.
 Skarn turned back and took the lantern from the trembling hand
of the youth, inciting a squeak from both father and son. "Go back to the
house. Close the door first." he commanded. After they had left, he
turned towards the approaching pair of figures.

"Well met the tallest of the two spoke. Skarn Olafson. May your
children live long!" The invader was as tall as Skarn, who was tall for a
man, but Skarn new that the being was only average amongst his kind.
His long red hair pooled in the back of his furry hood which was pushed
back on his shoulders. Large alien tilted eyes like saffires crinkled
warmly as he watch Skarn. His face bore a feline cast, and as always,
Skarn expected to see them grow fur at any moment. His companion, a
female of their species had darker hair, deep brown with hints of red in
it. But her eyes held the same crystal blue of her companion's. She
studied Skarn intently but silently.

"My child will not survive this night." Skarn spoke quietly. "Your
blessing comes late." The two looked quizzical for a moment, then the
male looked to the other and nodded. She hurried to the door, pulling it
aside and dragging it back closed behind her against the storm’s
disfavor. Skarn and the alfar-man studied each other a while longer,
then Skarn broke the silence. "This is a bad time for this."

The alfar looked grim. "There is never a good time for this. Shall
we go inside before we freeze? Show me the truth in the sayings your
people have about northern hospitality."

Skarn grasped the barn door. "There is little here for hositality, I
fear. Should Tor not stop his rage and let the hunters out, there will not
be a village here either." Again the storm poured into the barn.

"Miri has a tea about her that will give your people strength
against the cold!" the alfar yelled over the storm. "It may not be much,
but it could help your people to survive!"

Skarn and his companion entered the lodge with a swirl of snow.
He pushed the door to, sliding the bar back in place and turned to find a
handful of his men standing slack-jawed near the doorway, weapons
scattered around them as they stared numbly at the walls. When the
rest of the villagers saw Skarn's companion, the womenfolk let out a
series of screams of alarm. Skarn glanced at his family and friends then
raised his hands to shush their voices.

"We have been blessed my people!" He spoke. "These are Alfar.

From Alfheim. They have come to bless the people and give us magic to
ward off the Cold-One." He nodded to where Miri tended to Bjorn, his
son. "She is a great Alfar healer, and she will give you a potion to give
you strength." A comment to which Miri turned and looked at her father
with irritation. "You must trust them."

The villagers were not ready to give up their superstition so

easily, though, and many a murmur drifted around the gathering about
fairy-wines and tricks. The crones especially waggled their fingers. But
Skarn was well respected, as both courageous and wise. And he didn't
seem to be under any spell. And he had a magic ax that protected him
from enchantment.

Skarn stepped over to where his stunned clansmen were

beginning to drool. As he studied them, another round of mutterings
concerning fairy-magic swept the room. "It will pass soon." the alfar
commented.

"Came at me with steel." Miri growled from the deathbed.

"Northern hospitality!" She huffed.

Skarn strode over to Marna and hugged her, then asked "Will he
live?" The alfar woman looked at the worried parents and slowly nodded.
"I have given him some herbs that will take the fever away. It's too bad
that such herbs grow so far to the south when they are need so sorely
up here." She turned back to her care of the boy.

Skarn sighed and struggled with himself for a few moments, then
stood, resigned and faced the male alfar. "You have not come all this
way, Silandrilrandion, to save my son or my clan. Speak now, though I
know what you say." He felt Marna's hand grip his tighter.

"Skarn Olafson." The elf said quietly. "I have come to claim the
oath you swore twenty-seven summers gone."
 “Why!?!” Marna wept as Skarn gathered his traveling things.
“Your son lies dying, your people are starving! How can you leave m...us
like this?!?”

“I swore an oath woman!” Skarn’s eyes hardened to cold glints.

“Would you have me an Oath-Breaker? Would you have Bjorn grow up
the son of an oath-breaker?!?” He laced the protective flap of his pack
down to keep his belongings safe from the harsh blizzard. “I would not
want Bjorn to survive this night if I made such a choice!”

He heaved the pack over his shoulder and opened the door of their
lodge. The dawn could only be distinguished by the lighter color of the
snowfall.

“You will perish in this snow”, Marna called after him. “You and your
Alfar. The only oath you will keep will be to the Cold-One!”

Skarn turned on her, snarling, “Silence Woman!! I will not have you
curses following me!!” Marna looked as if she were about to collapse.
The whole village waited to see their hetman and his strange
companions away. Skarn turned to his people and placed his hand on his
brother, Baga’s arm.

“I am going fill an oath I made to these good Alfar when I was young. In
my place stands my brother Baga. His words are mine until the spring
gathering. “

At the conclusion of these words, he was nearly struck down by the body
of his wife. She clung to him desperately. “Live for me, Olafson! Live for
Bjorn!”

The village watched the three disappear into the swirling snow.

The crowd stood stunned, hands raised in mid cheer. The challenger lay
in the dirt bleeding from his shoulder, his leg, his scalp, scrabbling for
the end of his broken sword in shock. The Chieftain stood defiantly over
him, roaring his victory out and shaking his great axe Skull-Crusher over
his head with two hands. As the challenger tried to stand, he kicked him
down, once, twice, three times until the man took the defeat,
understood his place, knew he was a lesser man. As he strode back to
the Honor seat, his lackey, his spy Skaggi held out his mantle of furs,
but he brushed it away. Even though the early dawn hour was cold he
was flushed with the heat of battle. He dropped his great scarred bulk
into the throne and snatched a horn of cool Southland wine from his
second wife, eyeing her lasciviously before draining the draught. The
crowd was screaming his name, wishing him long life. The Waking
Season challenges were all over, the one contender put down. He was
practically a god to his people for another year. He smiled and nodded to
his man, then shook a few musty leaves from his peppery beard.

The challenger, a young lean powerful man with pale blonde hair
seemingly almost white, was seized by the lackey and gazed at the
chieftain groggily as the lackey pulled his head up and held his knife to
the man's throat. The boys own father had been ready to challenge
years ago before he disappeared into the winter a ten-year earlier. Now
the boy fell in his father's place.

"Bjorn Skarnesson" the chieftains voice was commandingly deep and

harsh as the winter's breath. "You have challenged for the leadership of
the clans! You have failed! You are banished from all clan lands. Anyone
that helps you will be thralled! You have until sun-down, and then I'll
have my hounds after you!"

The Chief stumbled down off of his chair and spat on the young
man before ambling off to his tents. The crowd, unsure what to think
trickled away until all that was left were a few of the younger warriors
who began kicking the bloodied challenger out of the combat area,
harrying them until he was out of the bounds of the gathering. They
kicked him a few time to set him into the woods, but the Cheiftain said
they would be after him at dusk, so they wandered off to find some
other amusement until the man-hunt began.

Bjorn stood in the near freezing spring water, half submerged,

letting the chill clear the cobwebs from his brain and clean the dirt and
sweat from his wounds. In his hand he still clutched his broken sword,
his eyes glaring at it as if still unbelieving the events that had led to his
banishment.

His reflection in the crystal water glared back at him with sorrow.
The pale blue eyes, so popular with the girls of his tribe and the
neighboring ones, seemed foreign and unrecognizable. Water droplets
fell from the white hair of his head and youthful beard, and dripped onto
the bruised skin of his body pulled taught over his developing muscles.
His awakening mind began to take stock of all he had lost. He would
never see his house or village again. Nor his wife. He would never raise
his unborn child to the eyes of the Father, nor teach him to hold a blade.
He would never be Chief again and fill his father’s boots. He was
Vargr, ..wolf. Outlawed and alone.

He knew he should be worrying about the hounds and putting as

much distance between the clan lands and himself if he wished to
survive, but he was beginning to form the suspicion that something
beyond his youthful inexperience had been involved in his failure. His
thoughts had seemed so fogged, the chief had moved so much faster
than he should have been able to. Even the crowd had seemed slightly
askew and moving in twitches and jerks.

The Theiftaker!!

The loathsome little man had bumped him as he came to inspect

the two combatant’s weapons for trickery. Bjorn began to recall a slight
pain that had accompanied the little man’s nudge. Could he have been
poisoned before the match began?

Rage boiled up in Bjorn’s heart, and he howled his frustrations at

the overhanging trees, the setting sun, the vastness of the All-father’s
Cloak of fading daylight. Several moments dragged on until his throat
was raw from the torture of his uncontrollable rage.

Slowly, he came back to himself, and lowering his arms and

thinking more clearly than he had in hours. Beat the dogs. He began to
trace his way up the stream towards the Spring encampment.
 The chill eve passed into even colder morn as the last few
revelers fell into their blankets and the Spring festivities took a breather,
refreshing itself for the next day of rejoicing. The last few of the youths
that weren’t still out on the hunt for the banished Bjorn sat around their
tables, nursing down the dregs of their cups and barrels and dozing off
with their fur cloaks to ward off the evening chill.

A cry broke through the silence, a woman’s shriek, alerting all

from the tents around, bringing the still drunken Northmen running to
the opening of the chief’s great tents. Some of the older men cautiously
prodded the tent flap open with a drawn blade and looked inside.

The chieftain’s head wife crouched in the corner, nursing the

chieftain whose face was covered in welts and blood. Servants and
lesser wives stood about in fear and shock. Dominating the center of the
tent, spoil of a southern raid, a huge table dripped slowly with the
pooling blood of the Theiftaker - impaled on a broken sword hilt.

The alarm was raised, the men ran all about in the night,
searching for the banished Bjorn to bring him to justice, but in the
morning’s light, all that was found were the missing items: the
Chieftain’s ax, the Chieftain’s favorite daughter, and the Chieftain’s
richly endowed funereal ship.