Eric leaned on the tiller as he sailed across the breakwater to see armed peasants guarding the creaking docks of Demril. Glints of their harpoons and pitchforks shone across the harbor; Eric's callused hand ached for his broadsword, but he forced himself to remain calm and stroked his long gray beard; although nearing sunset, it was too early for the real sailors, the tough fishermen of Demril, to have returned from their day's labors. Eric didn't need to kill these village fools; their deaths would ruin his plan.
            Eric grinned wickedly and steered his dragonship closer. Spray showered the deck as his sturdy oaken vessel cut through the swelling surf. The evening breeze was blowing inland, his square, striped sail billowed taut, its colorful canvas catching the wind's invisible speed. Timbers groaned and flexed as his dragonship rolled over the last wave and rode it into Demril's sheltered harbor.
            Eric could hardly blame the Saxons for bearing weapons; even one dragonship justified Saxon fear. Soon those fears would be realized: King Svenson Two-Sword was halfway across the North Sea, and sailing fast, his whole army hungry for vengeance. All of Demril would be slaughtered when Svenson's horde arrived.
            Hoping that the Gods were watching him, Eric sailed closer to the armed peasants guarding Demril. If he killed them while they held weapons then they should thank him because, according to Norse lore, the only purpose for living was to die a warrior, but Saxons were strange. For more than four decades, Eric had marched, sailed, and ridden past thousands of fools like them, farmers and fishermen who lived only because men like Eric, warriors of steel destined for the glories of Valhalla, saw no profit in killing them. Saxons were short-sighted: what good was a century of peace in this world compared to an eternity of regret in the next? All men die. Few truly live.
            Silently Eric scolded himself; this was no time for philosophy. Svenson Two-Sword was hunting ... and Eric was his prey.
            Eric looped a line over the tiller to hold it steady and hurried across the loose deck planks to the tall, polished mast. Carefully gauging his speed, he grabbed the main spar line, waited until just the right moment, and then pulled the knot loose and jumped back. The freed line flew upwards, the rigging spun in its pulley, and the great square sail crashed down across the deck in a tumble of puffed sailcloth, heavy spar, and loosed lines.
            The huge dragonship slowed abruptly as the wind lost its canvas catcher, though its momentum pushed it onward. Eric ran aft as the deck surged and rocked beneath his clomping boots. He pulled off the line and threw his full weight against the tiller. The massive ship, built for two hundred men, dangerously neared the old, waterlogged posts. Eric leaned hard against the tiller, then reversed it twice, hearing the complaining roar of seawater slosh against the wooden rudder. The vast dragonship slowed to a steady drift, and then Eric wielded the rudder like a mighty oar, slowing as the alarmed villagers stepped back, worried that the great dragonship might ram their tiny, aged dock.
            Eric grinned at their nervousness; they had to see by now that he was alone on the ship.
            Smoothly Eric steered his great warship beside their dock. Eric dropped the tiller, vaulted over the fallen spar and sail, and snatched up a rope. Leaping up onto their worn, weather-beaten dock with an agility that belied his age, Eric looped his rope twice around one of the tall posts. When the rope went taut, the weather-beaten dock groaned and creaked as it lurched underneath both him and the startled townsmen, and then the dragonship settled quietly in its berth. The villagers glanced at each other nervously and stared at Eric; few could dock such a vessel alone.
            Eric flashed them a toothy, reassuring grin. He knew how he must look to them; they'd expected a savage raiding party to pour off his boat and instead received only one aged Viking. Eric stepped back onto his ship and strapped on his swordbelt, upon which hung his heavy broadsword. The villagers eyed his deadly blade and tightened their grips on their weapons, of which several were leveled to point at Eric. Eric ignored them; he hadn't come to fight. Eric lifted up his rough burlap sack, swung it over his shoulder, and then jumped back up onto the dock and faced the villagers calmly.
            "I need a horse," Eric said, eyeing the few mounts that were tied to a nearby rail. "Any kind, as long as it's saddled and ready to ride. Have any of you a horse that I can purchase?"
            The villagers stared at Eric, confused, holding their weapons like farmers hold hoes. It was disgraceful: weapons are the measure of the warrior, and the respect that men hold toward their weapons shows the respect that they hold for the life that the Gods gave them. Most of these villagers were old men in ragged tunics, the rest were red-faced drunks; the lay-a-bouts of Demril, probably roused from sleeping in their only tavern by shouts of their hard-working wives and daughters. Their trembling fingers and worried expressions revealed a degree of cowardice that was rare even among Viking women; Eric's arrival in an otherwise empty ship, prowed by a red-painted dragon's head with fangs made of walrus tusks, baffled them. Eric tried not to smile, but his request to purchase a horse had bewildered them entirely.
            Slowly, one old man, a thin graybeard with an oval brass broach which pinned a thin, stained quilt around his shoulders, and weakly holding a rusty short sword as if his grip hadn't the strength to lift it, stepped forward.
            "H-how much money do you have?" the old man asked, his voice heady with nervousness.
            "None," Eric grinned widely. "An even trade, my ship for your horse."
            The gathered townsfolk gasped; a dragonship was worth thirty good horses even without its valuable sail. Eric laughed, walked toward the stunned villagers, and gently took the old man who'd spoken by his thin, unmuscled arm. The befuddled townsfolk lowered their weapons and stepped aside to allow them to pass.
            "She leans a little to port," Eric said, laughing heartily to reassure the old man. "Always put your weakest oarsmen on the starboard side."
            Eric untied the reins of the biggest horse and climbed up onto its saddle; he didn't know or care whose horse it was. Waving farewell, Eric rode away, leaving the armed villagers standing speechless on the dock. Eric had no use for thirty horses, and besides, he'd stolen the dragonship, and its owner was on his way.
            With great reluctance, Eric rode past Demril's rustic tavern. After days alone at sea, the weathered old sign, of which only traces of a painted foaming beer mug remained, shined to Eric like a beacon-fire in a storm. Eric could use a stiff drink to steel his nerves for what he was about to do, but he doubted if even a full keg would be enough.
            The rest of Demril was barely worth noting; old wattle and daub houses in disrepair, one narrow muddy street, and a few dirty children clutching rag dolls and stick ponies who stared in disbelief as the old Norseman rode past. What a horrible place, Eric mused silently; not a good place for dying, let alone living.
            Demril Harbor sheltered in the shadow of the white cliffs of Othar, a nearly vertical wall of stone. High atop the majestic bluff stood the tall marble towers and thick, high walls of Castle Bristlen. It'd been eight years since Eric had visited there. He hoped that no one recognized him; they might want revenge.
            Pressed for time, Eric cantered his horse past the last decrepit building toward the base of the cliff. A rough trail looped around the cliffs and snaked up the backside to the gate of Castle Bristlen. It would be a long, arduous ride, but delay was unthinkable.
            Like Eric, his horse was an old, worn beast, a bit round and sagging in the middle, with a lot of gray mane. Eric nursed it along, never pressing too hard. Old horses could be ornery when provoked, and steep cliff-side trails were no place to test their deference. Eric let it amble along, occasionally stopped to let it rest and chew some weeds growing out of the weathered rocks, and nudged it only when it needed encouragement.
            The red sun touched the ocean's horizon as Eric summited the white cliff. From his high perch, Eric spied several distant fishing ships sailing toward Demril; the sailors were returning. He grinned slightly, imagining their faces when they spied his mighty dragonship resting beside their dock.
            Castle Bristlen was an imposing structure towering over the wide Atlantic atop the white cliffs of England. Two formidable towers flanked its heavily-protected gate, and a taller watch-tower faced the shining sea. Its great hall's wooden roof peaked over the top of the high wall, and its towers and walls were slashed with many arrow-slits. The wall near its gate was rough stone blocks stacked twenty feet high, crenellated to provide even more protection to those defending Bristlen, with murder-holes visible for those that had eyes to see them.
            Eric chuckled to himself; even with a hundred of his kinsmen and all the weapons that they could carry, Eric could never force his way into Castle Bristlen. Fortunately, he was alone.
            The thick portcullis was closed, and two dozen guards with long spears stood on the parapets above the gate. Eric wasn't surprised; they must've been frantic, seeing a Norse dragonship sail into their harbor. Frowning deeply, Eric raised his hand in peaceful greeting and rode onward.
            "Halt!" cried a large, black-bearded man with a voice like a snarling bear, standing on the wall above the gate. "What business have you here, Viking?"
            Eric reined in and glared up at the black-bearded man. Eric was vastly outnumbered and far from home. Several Saxon guards wielded strung bows and Eric had no shield; they could kill him at will.
            "By what business dares any Saxon question me?" Eric shouted defiantly. "I am Eric Bjornson, Ambassador of His Majesty Svenson Two-Sword, King of Southern Norway! I've been sent here with a gift for your lord, or whatever form of scoundrel you Saxons deem fit to rule this stone-pile. Send him out to me at once!"
            "Baron du Harmonn waits on no man, much less a Viking," the black-bearded man shouted. "I'm Captain Sir Gunderson. Convince me of your reason to see our baron or be off!"
            "So be it!" Eric shouted back. "I'll take my gold back to Svenson and tell him your baron didn't want it!"
            Eric scowled and started to turn his aged horse around.
            "Wait!" Captain Sir Gunderson shouted from above. "Prove to me that you carry gold and I'll let you see the baron."
            Eric clenched his teeth to keep from smiling; these Saxon fools were playing right into his hands.
            Eric reached into the burlap sack that he'd carried from his ship, lifted out a large gleaming object, and held it up for all to see. Polished yellow metal shined brightly in the setting sun's light, reflecting its rays in all directions. Aloft Eric held a golden mead-horn: a musk-ox horn banded and decorated with over a pound of the precious metal and many sparking jewels.
            "Open the gate!" Captain Sir Gunderson shouted.
            With much clanking and creaking, the huge portcullis raised. Eric admired the gate; the portcullis was made of sturdy mountain ash beams, a handspan thick on all sides, and braced with riveted iron fastenings. Svenson would require fifty warriors with a stout battering ram just to penetrate it. Alone, Eric had gotten through with just a few lies and a stolen drinking horn.
            By the time that the portcullis was raised enough for Eric to ride beneath it, Sir Gunderson had descended the steps and was waiting in the courtyard with a score of soldiers. Captain Sir Gunderson was a tall bear of a man wearing a blackened-steel breastplate engraved with a mighty falcon. Eric stashed his priceless horn back inside his burlap sack and dismounted before him.
            "Surrender your weapon," the knight ordered.
            "Those who worship Odin never go weaponless," Eric snarled. "I'm no assassin; I'm an ambassador, and not by choice. Just let me present this gift, deliver my message, and I'll gladly ride out of here."
            Captain Sir Gunderson nodded at his men and several drew bows and pointed them right at Eric.
            "Keep them on me, if you wish," Eric said absently, "but I can't surrender my sword. You have my word that I intend no harm to your baron. My message is one of ..." Eric paused, frowned, and then spat on the ground. "... friendship."
            "I see," Sir Gunderson said. "Very well, ambassador, but if your hand touches your hilt then you'll be dead before your sword clears its scabbard."
            Eric shrugged as if expecting nothing less. "Let's get this over with."
            "I'll inform the baron that you're here," Sir Gunderson said. "Guards, keep him here until I send for him."
            "Be quick about it," Eric snarled.
            Offended, Sir Gunderson turned and stomped away. The remaining guards glared at Eric, but kept their distance. Eric said nothing, but his thoughts were racing. While Castle Bristlen could easily repel a hundred invaders, Svenson's thousands would swarm over this backwater-castle like hungry red ants on a rotten apple. Eric didn't know exactly when Svenson Two-Sword would arrive, but Svenson had sworn that Eric would be tortured to death if he captured him alive.
            Eric noticed one of the guards watching him intently; a tall youth, well-muscled, just sprouting his first whiskers. He was standing perfectly balanced, evenly distributing his weight, almost poised, not resting or leaning on his long spear; with training, he could be a great fighter. The boy stared at Eric as if he'd never seen a Viking before; probably a farm-boy from the interior who dreamed of being a knight and got suckered into guarding this worthless pile of stones. He had thick brown hair, smooth skin, and steady gray eyes; doubtless the wenches favored him.
            "Come here, boy!" Eric commanded.
            The youth's eyes flew open.
            "Now!" Eric shouted. "Or do you mean to insult King Svenson Two-Sword's ambassador?"
            Hesitantly the tall youth glanced at the other guards, but they wisely turned away, unwilling to get involved. The boy took one small step forward, but no more.
            "What's your name, boy?" Eric asked.
            "Karl."
            "Have you never seen a Norseman before, Karl?"
            "Only heard the stories."
            "What stories?"
            "Saxon stories," Karl smiled. "I'd gladly repeat them, but I wouldn't want to insult King Svenson Two-Sword's ambassador."
            Eric tried not to smile but failed; this youth was quick-witted, intelligent as well as big. His face was too handsome; some men scarred themselves so that they would look fiercer on battlefields. Eric grinned; he needed a Saxon to travel with through England.
            "How long have you been guarding this stone-pile?"
            "Nine days," Karl answered, and suddenly every guard listening burst out laughing.
            "I fought at the Battle of Ferny Creek!" Karl protested, brandishing his spear.
            The older guards kept laughing, but Eric ignored them.
            "Have you no sword?"
            Karl glanced down, subdued. "All they gave me was this spear."
            "Good warriors should wield a sword," Eric said. "Fetch me a tankard of ale and I'll get you one before I leave."
            Karl's eyes opened wide with surprise, and then he nodded and ran off. The rest of the guards laughed louder.
            When Karl returned with a full tankard, Eric greedily took it and drank deeply. It was warm and pathetically weak, but it tasted sweet on his thirsty tongue.
            Sir Gunderson returned and escorted Eric, surrounded by the guards, through the wide doors of the great hall. The hall was one vast, dark room, half the size of the castle keep. Thick, colorful tapestries hung upon each wall, but in the sparse torchlight their depictions were shadowy. Long wooden tables and benches lined the walls, the central area clear. Overhead, great wooden beams upheld a mighty roof which was mostly lost in thick, dark cobwebs. At the far end of the hall, in front of a huge black and blue banner, stood a tall, polished throne; upon the throne sat a fat old man.
            Eric set down his burlap sack and drew from it the golden drinking horn and a large earthenware jug. Leaving the sack, he raised the horn and jug for all to see, and then walked straight toward the throne. Baron du Harmonn nervously leaned back as the Viking approached; Eric pretended not to notice.
            "Behold!" Eric shouted, turning so that all could see and hear him. "I am Eric Bjornson, Ambassador of His Majesty Svenson Two-Sword, King of Southern Norway! I hold here the Horn of Friendship, a great gift of gold for the lord of Castle Bristlen. This very horn did I witness as King Svenson Two-Sword drained it in one great gulp. Now I pass it on to your baron with these words from my king; 'Drink, and forever friends we shall be!'"
            Eric raised the heavy jug to his lips and pulled out its cork with his teeth, then poured its contents into the golden horn. The thin yellow mead poured out quickly and released the sweet scent of honey. Eric filled the horn all the way to the top until it spilled over the edges and splashed onto the floor. Then he stuck the cork back into the jug and raised high the golden horn.
            "Behold!" Eric cried, his voice booming distressingly. "This is the Horn of Friendship, from King Svenson Two-Sword to Baron du Harmonn of Castle Bristlen. To empty this horn is to agree to a pact of peace between the peoples of Bristlen and Norway. Let now this truce be sealed!"
            Eric stepped forward and held out the overflowing, dripping horn. Baron du Harmonn took it gingerly and feigned a smile. The fat baron eyed the mead suspiciously and glanced about at his people, especially Sir Gunderson; the black-bearded knight only shrugged, and the rest just looked frightened. Hesitantly Baron du Harmonn raised the overflowing horn to his lips and sipped. Instantly he gagged and coughed; the horn shook, spilling mead upon his robes.
            "Have more!" Eric said sternly. "It's only mead, and I must witness you drain the horn entirely before I return to my king." Eric pulled out the cork with his free hand and leaned forward, overfilled the horn once again, and spilled more mead upon the baron.
            Sir Gunderson seized the earthen jug from Eric's grasp. Cautiously he sniffed it, and then he tasted it.
            "By my sword!" Sir Gunderson swore. "Mead it is, but I've never tasted the like! It kicks like my horse, and is stronger than Irish whiskey!"
            "It was brewed by Gunthar the Ale-Master, the finest there is," Eric said. "But perhaps it's too strong for womanly Saxon throats. If need be, you can prop it in a corner for a while; its bite wears away when left open to the air. By morning it'll taste like mother's milk; a sad waste of good mead. I'll suffer the night here and witness you drink it tomorrow, if there's no other way. But I must leave tomorrow morning, and take the Horn of Friendship with me, if I don't see you drink it."
            "Of course," Baron du Harmonn said, although his sneer belied his disgust. "Captain Sir Gunderson will see that you have a place to rest tonight. Tomorrow you'll see this horn emptied, We promise, and you may return to Our noble cousin King Svenson Our most glad greetings."
            "If it would be no trouble," Eric said, "I'd like a guard to attend me, who can bring me food and ale while I stay. Karl has already served me in this manner; I'd welcome his service again."
            Karl, who'd obviously heard every word, startled. The baron glanced questioningly at Sir Gunderson.
            "One of our new recruits from the Ferny Creek affair," the old knight explained.
            "Of course," Baron du Harmonn said. "Lad, run to the kitchen and fetch a plate for Our guest. And now, We retire for the evening. We thank you for your service to Us and your king, good Eric, and We shall meet again at dawn to complete your mission."
            Eric bowed deeply, and then he walked back to where he'd left his empty burlap sack. Sir Gunderson followed him, but the baron took the brimming, dripping, priceless horn and exited the hall through a door behind the throne; Eric noted his passage carefully while pretending to pluck something from his beard.
            Captain Sir Gunderson showed Eric to a small room in the castle to one side of the great hall. Karl arrived with a huge platter of food and a pitcher of beer; Eric took both and sat down before a small table. Sir Gunderson gave Karl orders to keep the Viking in the room and allow no disturbances during the night. With stern glares at both of them, Sir Gunderson closed the door behind him.
            Eric doubted if he'd ever see the brave Sir Gunderson again. Outside, night had fallen. Svenson Two-Sword would soon sail into Demril Harbor with thousands of young Viking warriors led by hundreds of fierce berserkers. By dawn, not a single Saxon would be alive in Castle Bristlen.
            "Dine with me, Karl," Eric smiled at the youth. "There's much about this castle that I wish to ask, and if you answer well, then I'll get you that sword."
            Obviously nervous, Karl pulled up a chair and sat down opposite the old Viking. Eric grinned; this youth would serve him well ... whether he wanted to or not.
            "This is a mighty castle," Eric said. "Is it the first that you've ever seen?"
            "Yes," Karl tore off a chicken leg and began to eat.
            "How many warriors do you think this castle could repel?"
            "Only fools would attack a fortress like Bristlen," Karl chuckled.
            "Really?" Eric laughed. "So, you think that if a hundred warriors, say, Scottish clansmen, attacked this castle, they'd never make it inside your walls?"
            "Three times that," Karl said seriously. "The guards here are well-trained."
            "Ah, yes," Eric smiled. "The Battle of Ferny Creek. But what of a thousand warriors?"
            "If a thousand Scottish clansmen were marching here then we'd know about it."
            "No doubt, but if they were here, a thousand warriors, you'd be outnumbered ten to one."
            "Bristlen would endure," Karl said, "or few would be left to boast of its conquest."
            "I've seen greater castles fall to fewer men," Eric said. "But what if even more attacked? How many would be required for Bristlen to fall?"
            "More than a thousand, I guess, and there'd be no hope. Why?"
            "I'm just curious. My people don't pile stones and hide inside them as Saxons do. I just wondered what you'd do if enough warriors attacked that you had no hope. Would you stay and defend Bristlen ... and throw your life away?"
            "I'd do my duty."
            "Of course you would. You have honor: I see it in your eyes. But no pile of stones is worth my life, and I doubt if any Norseman would willingly die for rocks. Are you Saxons so different?"
            "I never asked to become a soldier."
            "How did you become a guardsman?"
            "Sir Gunderson watched me fight at Ferny Creek," Karl said. "I guess ... he was impressed."
            "Doubtless," the older warrior smiled, even though Karl hadn't fully answered his question. "Do you enjoy your job here at Bristlen?"
            "They feed me; slop, but edible," Karl said, "and I have a place to sleep."
            "How exciting ..."
            "Better than begging."
            "Warriors don't beg!"
            Karl sipped his beer and said nothing.
            "Food and beds can be bought anywhere," Eric said. "If you had countless wealth, would you stay ... or leave?"
            "Why do you ask?"
            "I must depart soon. I'd welcome your company on my journey. We could go wherever we pleased, eat the best foods, and sleep in beds that come with wenches."
            "I'm not sailing to Norway," Karl said.
            "Nor am I. I must leave by morning; that's true, but I intend to depart on horseback and see as much of England as I can before the Valkyrie take me."
            "Valkyrie?"
            "The Handmaids of Odin," Eric said. "Choosers of the Slain, from Yggdrasil, the Immortal Lands where the Norse Gods live: beautiful women warriors who ride over all battlefields. Know you not of the Valkyrie? They're the last sight that every true warrior hopes to see! The Valkyrie choose, from the fallen, those of skill and daring enough to serve Odin in Valhalla, the afterlife of dead warriors."
            Karl threw back his head and laughed, almost tipping his chair over backwards.
            "Believe what you will," Eric said, "but I've seen them myself, their tall forms outlined in the swirls of dust over battle. I've seen them swoop where heroes fall in wars forgotten before you were born. You're a soldier now, trained to kill others; what reward has your Christian God for such deeds?"
            "I worry more about this life than the next," Karl said, still chuckling.
            "That's a foolish choice," Eric said. "Many elders that I once respected thought the same. Now they're old and withered, unworthy of the attention of the Valkyrie. They await their deaths joyless, objects of pity and scorn. I'm forty-five years old, just beginning to feel their pain. My skills have earned me great acclaim, but they betray me; my sword arm would keep me alive, if I let it, beyond the measure of my fighting prime. No man lives forever in this world; I'll have my immortality in the next.
            "Yet I'm not ready to die this instant. My offer stands: I wish to see England one last time, and a Saxon to travel with would prevent many troubles."
            "I saw you give your golden horn to the baron. Your bag looked awfully empty after that. Where's your 'countless wealth'?"
            "Only fools tell others where their wealth is hidden."
            "Only bigger fools believe in wealth that they haven't seen. There are only three places where you could have gold: on your ship, on your person, or buried somewhere between the dock and Bristlen."
            "There's one other place, but you'll never guess it."
            "Then you'll be traveling alone."
            "I think not. Before this night's over, I'll wager that you'll beg me to take you."
            "I've no money to wager ..."
            "You will," Eric smiled. "When all in this castle are asleep, I'll tell you where it is."
            Karl shook his head, stretched out, and closed his eyes, a knowing grin plastered on his face. He thinks I'm mad, Eric mused. No matter: his fate is decided.
            Eric scooted his chair around to face the small fireplace and used one of the sconces to light a fistful of straw. The kindling ignited the piled, half-charred logs, and Eric pulled out a bench to prop his feet upon, sat back, and tried to relax. His plan was working, but Svenson was coming, and Eric had to be gone before his vengeful king arrived.