Buskeland, Norway, December 24, 874 AD

“It is a rare day that a man gets a new son.” Jarl Bjorn’s voice rang across his mead hall at the Jul festival.

The hum of the feast died away, and even the king who sat by his side was listening.

The day after Rachel had left, Father had realized that this was the first time Kolbjorn had tricked him. Kolbjorn remembered his father staring at him as if seeing him for the first time.

After having received three hundred sapphires, Eirik gladly became Father’s new official ally.

Jarl Bjorn continued, “And it’s even more rare when that son is a grown man. But only when the gods had a hand in it, is that son saga-worthy. Today is my lucky day, as Kolbjorn, whom many of you know as my bastard, will join the wolves of my clan and become part of this family.”

Kolbjorn had been feasting in the middle of the hall with Modolfr and his sword-brothers, listening half-heartedly to their banter, as all he could hear was the “I love you” said by the auburn-haired thief before she disappeared and took his heart with her.

He did not even register the meaning of his father’s words at first. Then he felt all eyes in the hall on him like probing fingers, and he looked around and finally understood—really understood—what the jarl had said.

The words he had been yearning to hear his whole life.

Kolbjorn jumped up, his face as stiff as a stone mask, his fists clenching. He opened his mouth to say the speech that he had rehearsed so many times in his head over the years.

But nothing came.

Finally, he could feel accepted, be part of the family, be loved by his father. But those things were not important anymore.

What was important was that he was true to himself.

The realization hit him harder than his father’s words.

All he’d needed all along was this inner strength, inner approval to live by his own rules. No one would be able to take it away from him. Not if he was a bastard, not if he was a jarl’s son, and not if he was a jarl himself.

And as long as he had that, he’d be all right.

Kolbjorn took too long to respond to Bjorn’s announcement, and his father’s face looked livid. The king watched him with amusement, and Ebbe looked as if he would spit venom if he could. He was probably angry for the two of them: his brother who was recovering at the healer’s and himself.

Kolbjorn clambered out of the mead bench. He needed to respond—respectfully. Now that he did not need Father’s approval, he did not mind making him wait. He walked towards his father, his shoes rustling against the floor reeds. Then he stood right before him, their eyes locking.

The jarl was frowning, struggling to hide his anger. Kolbjorn noted with a strange satisfaction that now it was Bjorn who was waiting to see if his bastard would accept him as a father.

But Kolbjorn would. Of course he would. Doing otherwise would be the greatest insult to Jarl Bjorn, especially in front of the king.

“Father,” he said. “This is everything I have ever wanted.”

Kolbjorn’s voice came out not as stiff as it would have before, but smooth, a diplomat’s peace offering. The jarl’s face relaxed. He got up and stood in front of Kolbjorn, put his hands on his son’s shoulders and squeezed them tightly.

“You are not just Kolbjorn anymore. You are Kolbjorn Bjornsson!” he roared the last word, and the hall erupted in table hammering, roars and wolf’s howls.

And then he added softly, just for Kolbjorn to hear, “Kolbjorn Bjornsson. The next leader of the pack. My heir.”

Kolbjorn was still trying to get his head around everything that had happened as they began the winter deer hunt three days later.

It was a warm day, and sometimes bears would come out of their winter dens. As one did this day.

The beast was huge, and he stopped fifty feet or so away from them, sniffing the air, without any sign of aggression.

“The gods are smiling!” the king said to Jarl Bjorn. “I think a bear stew tonight and a bear fur cloak would do just fine. If you kill him, Bjorn, I will help you become a king by next Jul.”

Kolbjorn glanced, worried, at the drunken smile that spread on his father’s face.

“I think I would like that bear stew as well, Eirik. And being a king next year. Kolbjorn, Son, give me that spear.”

Kolbjorn did not move a finger.

“Father, is this wise? Let the beast go.”

“What? Kolbjorn, where did you lose your balls?”

“You are drunk.”

“So? My hand is just as steady. Give me the spear.”

Kolbjorn clenched his jaw. Fear for his father chilled his skin like a winter draft. He had to keep his father from being injured.

“Better I kill him for you.”

Bjorn’s face lost all amusement. “No.”

“Looks like your new son thinks you are too old to handle a bear,” Eirik said.

Bjorn snorted and took out his long hunting knife.

“Then I’ll kill him with my own hands.”

Before Kolbjorn could make a move to stop him, Bjorn growled, and with a roar, he darted towards the bear.

It ran at first, but it was slow from the snow and sleepy and weak from the long sleep and lack of food for weeks, and Bjorn reached it, sinking his knife right in between the shoulder blades. Kolbjorn was already on his way towards his father, his heart racing.

The bear, now enraged and fully awake, turned to Bjorn, roaring, biting, jaws flashing, claws slicing. The jarl was surprisingly quick for the amount of mead he had consumed during Jul. His knife slashed and sank.

But not fast enough.

Kolbjorn was already there when his father fell clutching at his side, a scarlet bloom spreading on the snow around him.

The bear rose, its pained, furious roar hurting Kolbjorn’s ears. It was about to jump on Bjorn for the final deadly attack when Kolbjorn threw the spear. It pierced the mighty animal right in the chest, kicking it back a little, and its roar trailed off. It sank into the snow right at the jarl’s feet.

When they brought Jarl Bjorn home, Kolbjorn, remembering Rachel’s advice, wanted to tell the healers to wash and boil the linen before applying it to his father’s wound. But it was too late; they’d already used the dirty rags.

After that, the jarl got rot-wound. Kolbjorn wished then that there was a necklace or a treasure or anything else that he could have stolen, fought for—died for, if necessary—that would make his father healthy again. He understood Rachel then like never before.

His father fought against the rot-wound, but it won.

In two weeks, he was dying. At his death bed stood Alfarr and Ebbe and Kolbjorn. Out of the three of them, he locked his eyes with Kolbjorn, and said, right in front of everyone, “There is no father more proud of his son. Be the best jarl this land can have.”

Kolbjorn’s eyes burned. He wished Rachel was by his side. She had been right all along. When he’d stopped caring what his father thought and started living by his own rules, he’d gotten everything he had wanted—except that he had no father now.

Nor the woman he loved more than life itself.

Buskeland, Norway, June 875 AD

Kolbjorn threw the sack with oats onto the longship, the breeze cooling his bare chest pleasantly. It was not a jarl’s job, but he hated the idea of putting himself above his warrior brothers, who had always protected his back in the raids and always would. Kolbjorn had learned that besides Ulf, Garpr and Haki, the rest of the warriors from the village had remained loyal to him, refusing to hunt him down with his brothers.

His muscles sang from the physical exercise, and he was looking forward to the satisfying burn he’d feel in his shoulders after rowing for a long time. A breeze brought the scent of the sea from beyond the curve of the fjord, enticing him.

Kolbjorn hoped the adventure would be a pleasant distraction that would stop him thinking about Rachel every moment of his life.

They were setting sail later today, after all the ships were loaded with necessary cargo and they had made a sacrifice to the gods for a successful journey.

This would be his first raid as jarl.

Jarl Kolbjorn Bjornsson.

But now he wanted other things.

What he wanted most was Rachel. Kolbjorn, a bastard just a few moons ago, was the new jarl. But it did not matter. Not one bit.

Because now he had no father. And he had no Rachel.

The world around Kolbjorn faded as he remembered standing on this pier a few moons earlier, his heart bleeding...

The burning ship bearing Jarl Bjorn’s body sailed slowly down the fjord between the mountains. The world would never be the same. He wished Rachel was standing next to him. He wanted to feel her soft hand in his, to feel her reassurance and understanding. Her love.

“I love you,” she had said.

He was still watching the ship when snow started falling quietly, the breeze whispering, and he thought that in between the snowflakes brushing his ears, he felt the cold, wet kisses of the Valkyries who had come to take his father to Valhalla, and they promised Kolbjorn he’d meet his father there one day.

His brothers had left the jarldom after the burial, even though Kolbjorn had promised them places on the raiding ships. Alfarr was a cripple now and could not fight well. Ebbe was a coward who had always been at the back of the battle.

Kolbjorn returned to the here and now with a jolt, then threw another sack of oats grown by his people at his village. His home.

Thanks to the alliance with King Eirik, the Swedes were not a threat anymore, and Kolbjorn was building a peaceful and prosperous new home. And he missed Rachel so much that his very bones hurt. If he could trade the jarldom, his name, all his silver and gold, for just one night with her, he would.

He had gone often to the sacred grove, praying, making sacrifices, demanding that the Norns give Rachel back to him. Once or twice he thought he saw a movement behind the trees, her cloak, a swish of auburn hair, but when he looked, she was not there.

And he bled inside, the pain so strong, as if a hammer pounded at his bones making them crack and crumble like rocks.

He straightened up after throwing the last sack onto the ship, the warm early summer breeze tickling his sweat-slicked skin. Strangely, the breeze brought the scent of sweet apples that was forever linked to her, and his chest ached as if pierced by a blade. He needed to forget her. But he knew that even on his death bed, she’d be the only one in his thoughts.

He turned to walk to the village and saw an auburn-haired figure in a woolen cloak standing on the pier.

His heart stopped, his very bone marrow buzzing.

He wiped his eyes, then squinted to be sure he was not dreaming.

She smiled.

Rachel.