Scorn

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My Great Scorn is an unseen chain wrapped around my waist, so heavy it steals my breath. It bound me the day the savage Norsemen descended upon my land and took everything from me. My family. My home. My freedom. Seven long, cruel winters have passed, and still, they take. I have forged link upon link for every vile thing done to me, and their number is now beyond counting. Yet the first remains unchanged, for it belongs to the heathen boy Reidar, whom I hold accountable for all my sorrows.

— Brigit O’Clery, 20, Rathlin Island, Éire, 803 A.D.

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Flaw

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Seven winters past, I met my Great Flaw and named her Ingrid—a name fit for a goddess. It was a folly worthy of a green boy on his first Viking voyage, but not of Reidar Valorborn. For all her beauty, her bronze tresses coiled like snakes about her shoulders, and her emerald eyes burned with such searing scorn they could turn a man to ash. If Odin wills that I find her, it would be only to prove she is no goddess and to rip her from my heart once and for all. For a jarl can afford no flaws, and I will be jarl—no matter the cost.

— Reidar Haraldsson Valorborn, 22, Ljosstrond, Norway, 803 A.D.

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​Chapter One

Shadowbane

Reidar

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Go now, Skirnir! and ask my son

What is troubling him so;

And get an answer, for he is

Deeply in love.

— Skírnismál, stanza 1

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As his father’s longship hurtled through the roaring Irish Sea, a strange dream took hold of Reidar. He knew this unsettling vision well, for it haunted him often. In its grip, he had neither human shape nor dwelling, but he had eyes. A wondrous thing, for with those eyes, he peered into those of another—two bright, bottomless pools the color of the spring leaves, fresh grass, and all that made life worth living. And as he stared into those eyes, sinking deeper and deeper, and wishing never to emerge, a sweet ache swept through him like the distant call of home.

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To his annoyance, Reidar woke as he always did—before he could glimpse the owner of those mesmerizing eyes. He pushed himself upright, blinking away the remnants of slumber. The tides had calmed. Some rowers sat at their thwarts, watchful and silent, dipping their oars in measured strokes. Others lifted their shields from the gunwale hooks and set them at their feet, helms in their grip.

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“By Thor”—he scrubbed a hand over his face—“how could I have slept so long?”

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Above, his father’s splendid sail of red and gold stripes billowed full, the favorable wind carrying the longship forward. 

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Reidar stood and stepped to the prow, fixing his gaze on the land rising ahead. Even through the haze of the falling evening, it burst with the bright hues of the gems his father brought from the Eastlands raids last summer. He called them emeralds, those large, shining green stones Reidar could study all day, imagining the faraway lands where such treasures lay free for the taking. The treasures and the thralls—strong men and comely women who yielded great profit in the Westlands markets and made his father, Jarl Harald Fairblade, a wealthy and powerful man.

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For the past three summers, Reidar had begged Harald to take him along on a voyage. He’d been ready after his twelfth winter—tall, broad, and skilled with his battleaxe and sword. Soon as he turned thirteen, he’d attended his first Althing, where he received his arm ring, lay with a woman, and defeated each of his peers in the much-celebrated weapons practice. At fourteen, he bested most of his father’s men and hunted and felled a bear without aid. But Harald Fairblade never broke his rules, not even for his firstborn. So Reidar Haraldsson would go a-viking after he’d seen fifteen winters and not a day sooner.

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“Steady now.” Harald’s hushed command drifted over the deck and faded into the thickening mist.

Reidar’s heart fluttered in pace with the thrilling splash of the oars slicing the waves as the longship made its relentless passage toward the mist-shrouded hills. For the hundredth time, he stroked the fine inlay of his sword’s pommel, smooth and comfortable in his hand. Shadowbane was his father’s gift—its double-edged blade inlaid with silver and gold and tempered to perfection. It was the best one in Ljosstrond, worth sixteen head of cattle and fit for Odin’s Hall. 

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All his twelfth winter, Reidar had pondered the name. It came to him as he watched the blade catch the light, straight and powerful as it was. By the gods’ favor, Shadowbane was a weapon to cast light into the heathen darkness, to add to his father’s wealth, and to bring honor to their bloodline. 

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He clenched his jaw, pushing away the memory of his fostra’s shiny eyes and trembling chin as she bid him farewell, painting his face with coal while muttering incantations against fear. The old woman needed not fret. Reidar Haraldsson may not have yet drawn his first blood, but he would soon earn the name he’d coveted since he was small—Reidar Valorborn.

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The rain fell as the lush hillside grew near. The cool rivulets slid down Reidar’s neck and seeped beneath the wolfskin wrapped around his shoulders, but he scarcely felt them. His body hummed like the thunderclouds before a storm. His soul longed to run, fight, and conquer. His heart yearned to show his father how ready he was.

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“Green Éire—we meet at long last.” His uncle, Vargr Bloodgale, came to stand beside him, stroking his well-worn axe haft with a large, calloused hand. “Your first raid, hmm?” His clap to Reidar’s shoulder nearly sent him reeling. “A boy is not a man until he proves to the gods he is a warrior fit for Valhalla. Are you ready to make your first kill, Reidar the Sapling?”

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Reidar lifted his head and fixed his menace of an uncle with a cold stare. “See that you do not get in my way when I am in battle rage.” Reidar’s voice emerged in a low rumble despite his effort to steady it like his father did when faced with a thinly veiled insult.

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Vargr erupted in a nasty laughter that stopped as abruptly as it started. With a cold smile, he bent his thick neck to Reidar’s ear, and the sharp mixture of sweat, mead, and urine filled his nostrils. “See that you do not get in mine.”

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Harald Fairblade approached before Reidar could reply, so he swallowed his fighting words as he did too often with his father’s dung of a brother.

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“Odin is watching over us.” Harald squinted into the falling dusk. “He gives us cover.” He glanced over his shoulder at the four longships following closely behind. “They will not see us beach.”

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“Lest they have already spotted us.” Vargr laughed. “Then your son will have his first blood before sunup, and Loki willing, I will have the pleasure of a woman. Did your father tell you, Reidar—?” Vargr licked his lip; he didn’t dare call him names in Harald Fairblade’s hearing. “These women are not like the ones back home. They are ignorant heathens, and from them you take what you wish.”

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“Vargr.” Harald’s voice deepened with warning. “The women, if comely or skilled with housework, will yield good profit, as the men will, if they are strong.” He touched Reidar’s shoulder. “We come for the spoils, not to spoil our plunder like ravening beasts with neither sense nor reason.”

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Reidar nodded and said nothing. He wished his uncle had remained in Norway as had been planned all along. But the cursed man changed his mind after his wife died in a strange accident that left her with a broken neck. Surprising all, Vargr joined the voyage after her send-off, claiming distance might dull his aching heart.

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The mist lifted a bit as they drew near, revealing the outlines of a strange longhouse. It sat atop a bluff rising sharply from the rocky shore—too squared, too ordered, nothing like the solid, sloped roofs of home. Dark and silent, it seemed built to keep men in, not welcome strangers. 

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Vargr gave a low whistle. “Odin is indeed with us today, brother—a monastery!”

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“Monks.” Harald scoffed. “I had hoped the boy would face some challenge on his first raid.”

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Reidar squinted, studying the gloomy structure. Monks were men who gave up all their earthly pursuits to worship a God unlike any he knew—one who allowed Himself to be beaten and nailed to a cross. Reidar couldn’t make sense of such a God. He seemed pathetic, meeker than a lamb, weaker than a child. How could they worship such a one? His favorite Thor, the ruler of thunder and lightning with his Mjolnir—a divine hammer—was worthy of worship. The Allfather Odin, the fearless ruler of Asgard and the eternal seeker of wisdom, was deserving of adoration. So was Freyr with his flawless art of fertility and good harvest, and even Loki the Trickster, with his unceasing cleverness, if not the occasional lack of honor. But that unseen Christ of theirs, who went to His death without so much as a protest, defied all reason. Yet according to his father, all Westlanders worshipped him. Such folly didn’t sit right with Reidar, and he wouldn’t be Harald Fairblade’s son if he did not weigh it against steel and sense.

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The rain slowed to a drizzle, and the air grew eerily silent, save for the low hum that seemed to drift from the hills ahead. Chanting. An odd emptiness enveloped the longship. A stillness on the wind that slithered down Reidar’s spine—an invitation and a warning in one.

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“Gold and silver weigh well on a scale—” Vargr spat—“but no self-respecting Eastlander would give coin for these feeble monks, if they even survive the crossing.”

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A half-known outline caught Reidar’s eye while his father and uncle studied the dour walls of the monastery. A splattering of mist-shrouded huts stood a distance away, small skiffs docked on the beach.

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“Father, look—” He touched Harald’s arm. “It is not only the monastery.” 

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“A poor fishing village.” His father shrugged. “Fishwives are homely and ill-tempered. The men might yield some profit if we can find Eastlands fish traders to deal with.” He smiled. “Still, it is a choice granted by Odin. Is it the monastery or the village for you?

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A strange sensation crept into Reidar’s veins—a thrill mixed with something that made the fine hair on his arms rise.

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“The village.” He gripped his pommel, struggling to still the excitement in his voice. “The feeble monks are no match for my Shadowbane, Father.”

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“Good choice, Son.” Harald patted Reidar’s fair, drenched locks. “We’ll enter the village side by side at the monks’ first call to prayer.”

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A thin silver crescent peeked through the rain clouds, casting a glimmer of light onto Shadowbane.

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Reidar hid a smile, thanking Thor for the favor. “Will we hear it, Father?”

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“Oh, we will.” Harald chuckled. “It is a sound unlike any other.” 

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And for the second time that evening, an odd shiver prickled over Reidar’s skin.

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