Buskeland, Norway, December 874 AD

A sharp gust of snow hit Kolbjorn’s face, and thoughts of a beautiful auburn-haired woman evaporated, leaving his heart feeling empty. She had consumed his thoughts ever since he had seen her three moons ago. He’d asked about her in the village, but there always were a lot of visitors near the end of the raiding season and nobody knew who she was. Modolfr had suggested that she might be a merchant’s daughter.

Kolbjorn’s dreams of her made him feel drunk, and the futile hope of seeing her again made his heart shrink in disappointment every time he thought he saw a slim figure dressed in all black.

Kolbjorn stood guard by the jeweler’s workshop in the dim light of the winter morning. His eyes watered from the cold, and his nose was wet from the condensation of his breath against the bear fur of his winter cloak.

It was still calm, but a snowstorm was coming. Kolbjorn felt it like he always felt the shift of the ship deck right before meeting a good wave. The village looked empty under the dusting of snowflakes, everyone huddled in the warmth of their dwellings. He wished he was huddled by a fire with the auburn-haired beauty.

Kolbjorn had been hearing clay dishes clanking from the house behind him for a while now—the jeweler must have been making porridge and having breakfast.

Kolbjorn was probably a fool for standing here in this weather, but ever since his father had appointed him to guard the jeweler two weeks ago, Kolbjorn had only paused for a short sleep or to go to the privy. He even ate here, thanks to Una and Modolfr—they were the only ones brave enough to come near the cursed house.

A Viking was not afraid of death, but there was nothing he feared more than bad luck. Newly made jewelry had disappeared four times from the jeweler during the last few moons—and in the strangest ways…

Previous to that, of course, the jewelry had been stolen from Kolbjorn’s house. He had never seen his father so furious.

“I should ban you from the village.” Jarl Bjorn’s eyes had thrown lightning bolts. “I should make you an outlaw. The gods have never been so ashamed than when looking at you, and neither have I.”

Kolbjorn had wished for the earth to open up under his feet and swallow him. His whole body must have glowed like a red-hot coal from embarrassment. He had failed the biggest and most important task his father had ever given him. He had let his jarl down. Fury and desperation had made bile rise in his stomach.

Jarl Bjorn had forbidden him to come near the mead hall and had taken away his every possession: his silver, his house, all his weapons but one ax and one sword, and his armor.

For the last three moons, he had lived with Modolfr’s parents on their farm. He had helped them with the animals to make himself useful and thank them for letting him in, but his every move and every breath was soaked in desolation.

The only thing that had given him strength and energy was the hope of finding the auburn-haired girl. He had been torn between the burning desire to find her, just to talk to her, and the hope that his father would forgive him and invite him back to the village. He had stayed put. They could have no future. Being a bastard, he could not give her and their potential children an honorable name…if things progressed that far. And now he didn’t even have a house, or a piece of silver to buy bread.

But the opportunity to redeem himself had come much sooner than he’d expected, when Modolfr had arrived to take Kolbjorn back to the village.

When Kolbjorn had stood before his father, the jarl had said, “I will forgive you and give back your status and your place on the raiding ship if you make sure no more jewelry disappears. The master will finish the king’s gift, the Necklace of Northern Lights, right in time for Jul.”

Hope had burned hot in Kolbjorn’s chest. “I won’t let you down, Jarl. Have me killed if I let anyone—or anything—touch the necklace.”

But in the two weeks that Kolbjorn had guarded the house, nothing out of ordinary had happened. From the men who had guarded the jeweler before, he’d heard stories of how the jewelry had disappeared.

The first time, it had been at night. The jeweler never noticed an intruder, but in the morning the jewels were gone.

The second time, food and drinks from Valhalla had appeared on a cart by the market square: smoked sausages so aromatic they’d made men’s mouths water two streets down, honeyed pies that looked like clouds, dark-brown breads that smelled like Loki’s sin, drinks so sweet and bubbly they seemed as if they came from the fountain of wisdom by the roots of Yggdrasil.

The third time, a transparent woman had appeared from thin air, so beautiful it must have been the goddess Freyja herself, dancing in the air, removing her clothes, sending kisses to them. She had sent them howling like hungry wolves, and they had seen nothing else but her.

The fourth time, a giant wasp had flown in front of the guards. It looked like it was made of red iron. It had four wings that buzzed and moved like those of a dragonfly, and it had one eye. The men had chased it with axes and swords—futile of course—and while they were away, the jewelry had disappeared again.

The village witcher, who had witnessed the whole thing himself, proclaimed that the jeweler’s house was damned and that the giants and the evil spirits wanted the jewelry for themselves.

But Jarl Bjorn was ready to fight anyone, even the gods, for what was his.

And Kolbjorn did not know who was stealing the jewelry, but he did not believe it was spirits. Whoever it was, he’d catch the thief and make him pay.

Through the thickening snowfall, Kolbjorn saw a slave approaching, his eyes wide. The boy stopped five feet away. “Jarl Bjorn invites the jeweler to breakfast in the mead hall. It’s going to storm soon, nothing to do but wait and feast.”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself.” Kolbjorn chuckled. He was not afraid of spirits. He was afraid to let his father down again.

The thrall made no move to do so. “I have enough bad luck in my life,” he said. And with that, he turned around and jogged back to the mead hall.

Kolbjorn shook his head and went inside. But what he had thought was breakfast turned out to be mead. The heavy smell of fermented honey hung in the air. The surface of the table was covered with liquid, the clay jar stood right on the table, and Master Olfar was emptying the drinking horn.

“Kolbjorn,” Olfar mumbled. “Come, son, join me in this doomed dwelling. I just finished the Necklace of Northern Lights. The spirits must be on their way. Let’s meet them like Norsemen. Drunk.”

Kolbjorn’s jaw tightened. “The jarl is asking you to wait out the storm in the mead hall. I’ll stay here and guard the necklace. Come, I see you can’t get there on your own.”

Even though he’d have to leave his post for a short while, Kolbjorn was confident no one would approach the haunted smithy in this weather. And what choice did he have? He couldn’t exactly send the prized jeweler off on his own in his condition.

In the mead hall, the feast was starting. It seemed everyone in the village was ready to feast but Kolbjorn. Alfarr and Ebbe followed him with especially evil looks on their faces, and something else—a strange triumph that made his skin crawl.

Kolbjorn remembered the first time he had seen a similar look on a five-year-old Alfarr after his mother had whispered something to him. “Go play with the dogs, mongrel!” Alfarr had exclaimed so that the whole mead hall heard, and his mother had laughed. It had been the first stab of rejection, the first time Kolbjorn had felt dirty and excluded and low, and his cheeks had burned. His childhood wish to be part of the family, to be close to his brothers, had been crushed. And he had no illusions now that it would ever happen.

Kolbjorn delivered Master Olfar and headed back to the house. The snowfall thickened and the wind blew stronger. Kolbjorn would wait out the storm inside the jeweler’s house. He might even allow himself to sleep a bit, as it was unlikely that any thief—human or otherwise—would be able to get away with anything in this weather.

But when he opened the door, a figure slouched over the chest with the jewels.

Kolbjorn’s hand shot to the ax on his belt.

The figure’s head was hooded, but at the sound of his entry, the thief’s head shot up, eyes wide, and recognition made thrill run through his whole body.

It was her.

The Necklace of Northern Lights glittered in her hand.

She was the thief!

Shock hit him like a wall of ice. Then came anger.

“You,” the word escaped his mouth, and it was filled with both hope and anguish. He hated that the first woman who had made his heart race had turned out to be a common thief. “Put the necklace back.”

Her fist clenched around it, and she hid it in the folds of her cloak. She straightened up and her face turned into a stern mask.

“No. Please, Kolbjorn. Let me go. I need it more than you know.”

How did she know his name? He raised his ax, and her green eyes widened, but an inner hardness shone in them.

Kolbjorn made a step towards her, and she backed deeper into the house. “Give it to me,” he said, “or your next breath will be the last one you take.”

Her eyes flicked just for one moment to the side. She backed a few steps further, hesitation in her face, but then she yelled: “Behind you!”

Kolbjorn spun around, and his ax flew up to meet another. Alfarr’s bloodthirsty face flashed in front of him. Kolbjorn threw him back with a roar.

“Treacherous worm!” he grunted.

“You are a worm. You are alone in the damned house in this storm? I’ll never get a better chance to get rid of you. People will think it’s the spirits.” Alfarr charged him like a bull, and his head slamming into Kolbjorn’s solar plexus kicked the breath out of him.

They flew across the table, his ax knocked from his hand. And as they landed on the floor, he saw a movement to his side.

The girl! The jewel! She was going to escape.

Kolbjorn gathered his strength and pressed on his half-brother’s chin with one hand. With the other one, he searched for his lost ax on the ground. Clasping the handle, he hit Alfarr with the dull side of the ax, and his brother collapsed on top of Kolbjorn.

Kolbjorn pushed the unconscious man off and jumped up. She was gone.

He ran outside, and even through the thick snow he saw her dark figure running up the hill in the direction of the sacred grove.

Calling for all the gods who would listen and straining every last part of his body and soul, Kolbjorn rushed after his last chance to get back in his father’s good graces.