Snow fell from the sky with gusto, battering streetlights and buffeting Bjorn who pulled his seal skin cloak tight around his throat, frost-touched beard brushing the reddened skin of his hands.

  Lejre was lively, the streets deserted but sounds of cheering merriment carried on the swirling wind leading him towards the longhouse.

  “I do not usually venture this close to human settlements,” Hrafn squawked. Perched on Bjorn’s head, his jet-black wings were wrapped tightly to his body, piercing eyes watching the glowing steadings as they passed by. “They are… large.”

  “Most are not,” Bjorn replied, “Lejre is something of an outlier in these parts.”

  “Safety in numbers,” the bird muttered. “But those galdr runes carved into the walls could not have come cheap.”

  “Aye, they were the first thing father saw to after taking the crown. I had barely seen my fifth winter, but I still remember him telling me of how safe freedmen make better drengr. They do not worry about leaving their families to the galkn-monsters when they sail to war. Makes them fight harder, die better.”

  “Your father sounds wise,” Hrafn said. “Shame I did not have the good fortune to contract with him instead.”

  Bjorn let out a snort as they approached the longhouse, fire smoke twirling and swirling as it exited through the roof hole. Cheering noises, the clanking of tankards and the sounds of laughter all escaped with the smoke and Bjorn stopped short of the doors. There were no guards this night.

  No one would be galinn enough to cause trouble here, not tonight, he thought before steeling himself and pushing open the heavy, oak doors.

  Burning, orange flames met swirling gusts of snow as the opened doors blew winter’s draft through the packed hall. Everyone turned towards the sudden interruption, conversation halted and Bjorn stood before them shadowed by the bleak outdoors which clashed with burning firelight, a saga tale battle between Jotun and Aesir.

  Taking a few steps forwards, the large oak doors slammed shut behind him, carried by the wind. He lowered his frost-bitten hood, let his cloak untighten as he glanced around at all who were gathered for the althing.

  The hall was packed with people: drengir, shieldmaidens, freedmen and women and the thralls who served them. A long table stretched out, covering most of the distance between the doors and the high seat. It was full of people, mead, ale, meats and breads piled high across the entire length. At the head of the table, closest to his mother’s seat, sat four men – Halfdan among them – all sporting bright blue eyes and staring in his direction, apart from Sigurd who did not share the Ragnarsson predisposition for sea-washed irises.

  Ivar, tall and wiry with black stubbled hair, smiled as his half-closed eyes peered at Bjorn. “Brodir,” he said loudly, voice carrying across the hall, echoing as sound cascaded around the walls. “How nice of you to join us. After calling us back from our battle-famed adventures, you can imagine my surprise to find that you were not here to greet us upon our arrival.”

  “Ivar speaks true, brodir,” Sigurd added, chair scraping the wooden floor as he stood, his one green eye darting around the room as if it had a mind of its own as his blue one rested firmly on Bjorn’s frost-touched face. “This had better be important, we were this close,” he held up his hands, fingers positioned so that they were almost touching, “to securing an alliance with Harald Bluetooth. You know how important that was to father.”

  As they spoke, Bjorn stepped towards the closest fire and began warming his snow-reddened hands, frost melting and dripping from his beard, hair and eyebrows as his skin began to thaw and feeling returned with sudden strikes of stinging pain.

  Everyone was watching him, yet he continued to warm himself as the silence flooded his ears, his two brodur, staring at him impatiently. After a long minute, he spoke.

  “Halfdan, mother,” he said slowly, “you did not tell them?”

  “Tell us what?” Ubba asked, the calmer brodir leaning forwards slightly to see past Ivar’s midriff.

  Turning from the fire, Bjorn walked the length of the table, many eyes following him as tense silence walked in his shadow. Reaching the high seat, he nodded to his mother, bent down and kissed her cheek.

  “It is good that you are back,” she whispered. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I did, and even more than that.”

  “The mark on your head seems to confirm it,” she said with a wink. “My little drengr.”

  She smiled and he straightened his back, turning towards the gathered people, looking down at each of his brodur in turn as Halfdan nodded and raised his horn slightly towards him, eyes locked on the fresh tattoo which adorned his temple.

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  Then Bjorn was throwing his seal skin cloak backwards as a thrall hurried to catch it, taking it somewhere to dry out. Bjorn’s eyes swept the hall as he looked over the heads of Sigurd and Ivar, who were growing visibly impatient as they fidgeted with mead horns, shifting weight from foot to foot.

  “Our father,” Bjorn began, thick voice booming out across the hall, “has been murdered.”

  Gasps and whispers spread through the hall like wildfire and Bjorn waited a moment for them to die down before continuing. Ivar and Sigurd looked up at him, suddenly as still as statues. Ubba cupped his hands together, a grim look in his eyes as Halfdan simply looked to the floor, though he, of course, already knew the news which Bjorn was burdened to share.

  “King Aella of Northumbria slayed him. That is why I have called you home to Lejre, brodur. Because I plan to raid England, to visit revenge upon this King Aella and all of his kin, to become the bane of foemen, slaughter my way through the Saxons and show them the error of their feeble-minded ways.” He took a breath, felt spittle hanging from his beard hairs like morning dew on leaves. He felt the heat in his cheeks and the thunderous croak in his crackling voice.

  He steeled himself and then continued. “We will conduct this raid in the summer,” he said. “And in the meantime I need your help to raise the largest army of Northmen that Midgard has ever seen. Not only to crush Aella in the name of the great Ragnar Lodbrok, but to conquer his land, enthral his people and announce to the world that we are all sons of Ragnar and we will not be trifled with!”

  A booming chorus of hejas filled the hall, boots and tankards slapping against wood as rowdy freedmen and women cried out in tear-streaked harmony: their sorrowful battle song. Bjorn nodded and stepped backwards, sinking into the seat next to his mother. His father’s seat.

  Ivar furrowed his brow at this, looked up at Bjorn, jaw set. Next to him, Ubba gazed mournfully into his gently swaying ale, suddenly slamming his fist onto the table. Sigurd sank back down into his seat, face as white as the blizzarding snow outside, and Halfdan continued to gaze downwards. Ivar was the only one who remained standing.

  “I am father’s heir,” he said in a dangerous, controlled tone. “As his first born, that seat is now mine, brodir. Do you mean to snake it out from under my arse?”

  Bjorn gazed tiredly at Ivar, the other brodur watching them in tense silence as the rest of the hall continued their cheering, crying and drinking, raising cups in honour of the late Ragnar. “I do not,” he sighed, leaning back in the seat. “But I ask you to indulge me brodir, until this althing is done. As the one who called it, I would chair this meeting and then retire to bed. Then you can have your inherited throne.”

  Ivar’s gaze locked with Bjorn’s, eyes challenging, lips twisted. “So be it,” he replied, voice icy as he sat back down and leaned forward on his elbows. “Let’s hear it then.”

  Bjorn held his hand up and in moments the hall quietened once more, then he cleared his throat before addressing the people. “In order to raise this army,” he began. “We will need allies. I have subjugated Sweeden and am now its king, the remaining drengir will fight for us, but,” he shrugged, “Halfdan and I sent most of them to walk the soul road, so they will not be enough.”

  A chorus of laughter rang out and Bjorn smiled.

  “All the drengir of Denmark will fight for their fallen king,” Aslaug said.

  “And their new one,” Ivar growled, slamming his horn against the table to a few hejas which sounded out from amongst those gathered.

  “Sigurd and I,” Ubba said, his voice like stone warming in the summer sun, “will head to Norway on the morrow. King Harald will surely lend us his aide.”

  “Aye,” Sigurd added. “He had better. After Ivar, Ubba and I have fought his battles for the past two winters I would say he owes us a debt.”

  Bjorn nodded, “good. Halfdan, will you stay in Lejre to organise those who come to aide us? They will need a firm hand. Bored drengir are dangerous friends.”

  “Heja,” he replied, raising his horn.

  “And where will you go brodir?” Ivar asked. “Would you not stay here to organise them yourself? This is your deep-cunning plan – as you made a point of telling us.”

  “I will go to Jomsborg,” Bjorn replied. “And I would have you accompany me, brodir. After all, you spent many winters with the Jomsvikings as a bairn. Your connections would be helpful.”

  Ivar smiled and shook his head before laughing. “You arseling,” he said. “Yes, I will take you to Jomsborg. Then, when we return, I will claim our father’s throne. Regardless of who is chairing the althing.”

  “Agreed,” Bjorn said. “Halfdan will also set up training camps for the brave drengir of Lejre. All blacksmiths and boat builders will begin making weapons and ships immediately. We are going to be very busy this winter, all of us.”

  “Heja!” Everyone replied and then mead began to flow, ale sloshed and thunderous, raucous shouting, singing, and conversing began.

  “Brodir,” Halfdan said, getting up from his seat and passing Bjorn a tankard of ale. “Why is there a bird on your head?”

  “Yes, Bjorn,” Ivar laughed. “I would like to know this as well. It was hard to take your battle speech seriously, my eyes did not know whether to look at your serious, red-bright face, or the pigeon perching on your braid.”

  “I am not a pigeon!” Hrafn squawked, “Bjorn, I demand satisfaction. Holmganga this insolent skitr slefja this instant!”

  “I think you offended it,” Sigurd smirked. “I don’t speak pigeon, but I think it challenged you to a holmganga,” he laughed.

  That’s actually exactly what he said, Bjorn thought, thought-cage turning as he gazed passively at Sigurd’s darting green eye, which for once was still, staring intently at Hrafn.

  “Sorry Hrafn,” he said, reaching up to pat the familiar on his soft, feathered head. “Pay no mind to Ivar, his mind is clouded by the mead he cannot handle.”

  “Oh gods,” Ivar said. “Have you all seen this? Bjorn Ragnarsson, our fearsome, bear of a brodir, has returned to us galinn-touched and talking to birds. This invasion does not stand a chance now.”

  Everyone laughed, including Bjorn who took a swig of his ale and reached forward, picking up a leg of meat and sinking his teeth into the warm flesh, grease dribbling down his beard.

  “I see it is going to be a long night,” he said through a mouthful of half-chewed meat. “So much for resting my weary head.”

  “You can rest in Odin’s great Hall,” Ubba said, wrapping a thick arm around Bjorn’s neck. “This is the first night in many that we are all together. If we are to properly mourn Father, we must do it in the way he taught us to live.”

  “With ale in our bellies and a blade in each fist!” All the brodur replied in unison.