Chapter 1    Jelling, Denmark, 958

She blinked in confusion, trying to focus on the ravens. Two large black birds were circling above her. Was she dead? Only in Asgard, the home of the Norse gods, would you expect to see Huginn and Muninn — Thought and Memory.

Odin’s birds traded places, cawing as they stole thoughts and planted new ones like barleycorns. Somewhere from the darkness came a deep, echoing laugh that might even have been the one-eyed god himself.

But then there was the familiar, earthy scent of garden herbs, steeping in hot water. An old, bony hand took the steaming bowl from her even as she slumped to the ground in a cloud of light linen.

“Are you all right, child?”

The man’s voice was a growl in a language she hardly knew.

She rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands. Where was she? Before, she had been —

Or had that been a dream, already fading, all but gone? Her memories were as jumbled as if she had been hit on the head, but nothing seemed to hurt.

The hall was huge and dark, lit only by a flickering central hearth and a murky ceiling smoke hole. Long axes clanked on stone as two giants in helmets and chain mail lifted her to her feet.

“The girl collapsed,” one of them grunted. “We’ll take her away.”

“No.” It was the old man, with a gray beard and silver chains, propped up by heaps of furs in an elaborately carved wooden bed. He held the bowl in his shaking hand. “She — she was helping. I felt something.”

The soldiers released the girl and stepped back into the shadows.

“Who are you?” The old man’s eyes were cloudy, troubled, weary.

What could she answer? She looked down at herself and shook her head. Her linen shift hung straight from a very young girl’s thin hips. Her arms were narrow and white. She felt as if her mind had been emptied of everything except a hidden wish, trapped behind a dozen doors.

Her young body, however, felt wonderfully alive. It seemed to know what it was doing. She smiled, pulled her long ash-blond hair behind her ears, and used her linen sleeve to dab the sweat from the man’s brow.

The old man relaxed. When his eyelids fluttered, she nearly gasped aloud. She had seen through the lids to the darkness of Niflheim beyond.

Did he know he was dying? Had he already seen his fetch, the spirit that would lead him to other side? She took the bowl from his hand, dipped some bread in the broth, and held it to his lips. He breathed in, his eyes now closed, and took a half step back from the land of the dead.

“Yes,” he murmured.

Suddenly two large doors swung open at the far end of the hall. An entourage of nobles and dignitaries walked in, whispering in earnest tones. The sight of all these men and women made the girl wonder where she was. This was clearly some sort of Viking hall, but these people’s clothes, speech, and mannerisms all seemed new. So much jewelry and colored cloth! The men wore short hair, or none at all! The Norse they spoke slid from their lips like song — slippery waves of words.

If ever the girl had seen a queen before, the majestic woman at the front of this crowd was surely one. Her golden hair, tied up in a single thick braid, hung over a dark blue cloak amid silver keys and gold clasps. An even row of teeth shone between remarkably wide lips. Was she smiling or gritting? She seemed about to take a bite. Instinctively the girl fell back and dropped to one knee.

The queen swept up past the hearth and towered at the foot of the bed. “Ah, Gorm, my love. And how have you been managing with my little English elf?”

Gorm closed one eye, a slow wink. “A smart one.”

The queen laughed, her wide mouth both beautiful and alarming. “I’ll admit the girl has a cunning way with herbs. Although she can’t be more than ten winters old.”

“Who?” Gorm pressed out the word from wrinkled lips.

“Lifu,” the queen replied. “Her name is Lifu, although that is almost all I know about her. Harald’s crew brought her back from England as one of the many hostages last week. Then we learned that her family in Oxford is dead. There’s no ransom, so I took her on as a thrall.”

“Eyes,” the old king said. “Pretty.”

“You think so?” The queen lifted the girl’s chin with a finger. “One is blue and one is green. I suppose anything that makes a man look twice can be called beauty. Plenty of mystery in this one. Can’t speak a word of Norse.”

Lifu — for apparently that was her name — blinked in surprise. Couldn’t she speak Norse? Then how could she understand them?

At this point the queen suddenly switched to another language. Some of the words rhymed with Norse, but everything else was different. Incredibly, the girl understood it perfectly.

“Lifu,” the queen said, “Fetch a pitcher of fresh water from the well by the old temple.”

“Yes, my lady,” Lifu heard herself reply in English. She bowed and took a jug from beside the bed.

The queen looked out imperiously at the crowd. “And as for the rest of you — honored guests, noble jarls, rival kings, ambassadors, warlocks, and vultures — you can see for yourself that King Gorm of Denmark is still fighting battles. Now that my son Harald has returned from his travels, Gorm and I have much to discuss with him in private.”

The old king grumbled, “Leave us.”

A powerfully built young man of perhaps twenty winters, evidently Prince Harald, crossed his brawny arms over a chest plate of gilt armor. “We will call you back if there is any news you need to hear. Guards too — wait outside. Tonight there will be meat and ale for all in the long hall.” His light brown hair and beard were short and finely groomed. Hawk-like eyes glared from beneath a thick brow. His mouth was as wide as his mother’s, but when he stretched it into the same voracious grin, he exposed a front tooth that was a startling blue-black. If that tooth had been damaged in a fight, Harald’s grin suggested that the man responsible was dead.

Lifu retreated with the others, afraid and confused. Outside she blinked at the bright gray sky. She felt lost and alone. Why on earth had the gods sent her here?

Then she remembered the jug in her hands. She was supposed to fetch water from a well by an old temple. At least this was a manageable goal. Around her was a city of wood and thatch, with horses, wagons, and people. But there was also one large hill, with dirt so fresh that grass had only just started to take hold. She decided to climb it for a look around. She needed to get her bearings in this strange new world.

The hill was only a little taller than the largest of the halls, but she caught her breath at the view from the top. She had expected to see the ocean, or perhaps a mountain capped with snow. But that would be Norway. Had she once lived in that wilder, rockier land to the north? Here the horizon in all directions blended from a patchwork of green farm fields to wooded dales and gently rolling hills. Herds of reddish cattle grazed peacefully. Men with horses plowed rich brown earth. This was Denmark, and for some reason she was here as an English slave.

Something smelled wrong.

The stench seemed to be coming from behind an enclosure of rough planks near the top of the mound. She found a gate, peered inside, and gave a start. The decaying head of a goat stared back at her from atop a pole. A raven hopped from one horn to the other. The bird pecked at a ghastly eye socket and cawed.

The ravens of Odin! She remembered them circling in her dream. Surely that was a clue. She would have to use her wits to find out more.

The queen had told her to go to an old temple, but this altar was obviously new. In fact, now that she considered it, the entire hill was not natural, but rather a freshly built mound. Perhaps a grave mound for an important person? Perhaps even for a king who had seen his fetch?

On the far side of the mound she noticed two rows of standing stones. The rows converged to a point, as if to outline the prow of a gigantic ship. She thought the fallen stones near the front might be the remnants of a temple. And in fact, when she ran down the hill, she found a well beside the stones. She filled the jug and returned to the king’s hall.

Soldiers were guarding the hall’s door. Lifu hesitated, unsure whether to ask the guards for permission to enter. Would they understand her? Even if they did, would they bar her way? She decided to wait, as inconspicuous as any small girl with a water jug. Eventually the guards were distracted by a lady in a clingy dress riding a horse — something that even Lifu found shocking.

Lifu slipped into the hall’s shadows like a swallow returning to its nest. It was so dark inside that she stopped, afraid that she would stumble and break her jug. While she waited for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dark, her sensitive young ears began to make out voices speaking in the lilting Norse of the Danes.

“You yourself called them vultures!” Prince Harald’s voice was the angriest, and the easiest to overhear. “You invited all the realm’s enemies here so they could divide up my inheritance.”

“No, I asked them here so I could keep my eye on them.” The queen lowered her voice. This time when she spoke, Lifu caught only the words “friends” and “distance.”

The prince scoffed. “I’ve seen the other Danish kings strolling about the streets of Jelling as if they already owned it. Each of them dreams of uniting the islands with the mainland under his own hand. That is our danger.”

“Have you seen so little of the world in your travels?” the queen asked loftily. “Both Sweden and Norway are united, with fleets of warships we cannot match. To the south, Emperor Otto’s lands stretch to a distant sea at Rome. His Frankish armies are Christian, and believe it is their duty to convert or slaughter people of other religions. This is the real danger. It is why, during your father’s illness, I have been in Hedeby, rebuilding the ancient Danevirke, our wall to the south.”

“Really, Mother? Is that why you were in the south? I’ve heard you’ve been meeting with the Slavic jarls of Pomerania.”

“Of course I have. An alliance with the Slavs would help secure our common border to the south against the Franks.”

The prince countered, “Wouldn’t it be wiser to unite Denmark, so we can stand together against threats from all sides?”

For a moment the queen and her son glared at each other. Then she suggested, “Let’s ask your father which strategy he would prefer.”

The queen sat on the edge of the bed and lowered her voice. Lifu crept closer so that she could hear. The queen held the old man’s bony hand. “Gorm my love, what do you recommend? Defending our border against the Frankish empire, or attacking our fellow Danes?”

The old king’s eyelids had sagged. But now he opened his mouth. For a moment his labored breaths merely blew the white whiskers of his mustache back and forth. Then he swallowed and spoke. “Do not argue, my wife and son. You are both right. I am too old to wield a sword. But I fear the time may have come for Holger to be drawn from its scabbard once again.”

“Your ceremonial sword?” Harald asked doubtfully. “Is that old thing even useful as a weapon?” He took a bedraggled leather sheath down from the stave wall above the king’s bedstead. When he slid the sword out, even Lifu could see the gleam of steel that was still shiny. Had she seen that blade before? One of the doors blocking her memories opened a crack.

“Oh yes,” the king whispered. “Holger is not its real name.”

“If it’s not Holger, then what is it?” the prince asked.

“Cursed.” The queen held up her hand, as if to ward off evil. “Do not be tempted to use it. At our wedding your father was gifted this sword by an Arab emissary from the Caliphate of Cordoba. But I fear it was forged somewhere else, long ago, for a darker purpose.”

“Why do you say that?” The prince examined the blade. “Damascened layers. Excellent work. With some sort of engraved pattern.”

“It wins battles, Thyra,” the king admonished his wife. The exertion left him coughing. Then, more quietly, he said, “You know as well was I that Holger secured the kingdom in my youth.”

“At a cost. It is a heartless thing, this sword. Everyone loves you better since you set it aside.”

“Perhaps so,” the old king sighed. “Still, it is a sword of fate, merely sleeping. One day Holger will awaken to save Denmark in her hour of need.”

“May that day never come.” The queen shook her head.

Meanwhile, the prince was turning the sword in the firelight, marveling at the ancient markings. “There are runes.” Even Lifu could see them.

As if pushed from behind, Lifu stumbled forward. She held out the jug and stammered in English, “Here is the water you asked me to bring, my lady.”

Harald flashed the sword up to the ready. “How much did you overhear, spy?”

“Harald!” his mother objected. “She’s an English slave. She doesn’t speak Norse.”

“Intruders should die.” Harald stepped forward to swing. Lifu cowered in terror.

The queen caught his arm. “Don’t you hear yourself? That’s the sword talking. Lifu brought water, just as I asked. She’s not a spy. She can’t understand our Norse.”

Harald lowered the sword. His bushy eyebrows were knit in thought.

“Hang the sword back on the wall,” the queen said.

“No. Keep it.” The king slowly closed one eye. Was this another wink, and if so, what did it mean? “Perhaps, Harald, you will choose to bury Holger with me when I die. Or perhaps you will use it.”

The silence in the hall was as thick as the smoke from the hearth. At length the queen drew herself up, her hands on her hips. “My husband and I need to speak alone. Harald, escort this girl on your way out.”

The prince strapped the leather scabbard about his waist. “I’ll kill her when we’re outside.”

In response his mother recited a verse from the skalds, the court poets:

The boy who breaks

A tiny tree

Will never taste

Its foretold fruit.

Without reply, Harald turned to go. He held out his hands, herding Lifu before him as if she were a sheep. Unlike a sheep, however, Lifu had understood that she was almost certainly being led to slaughter. Her ten-year-old legs wanted to run, to dash through the city’s dirt streets and hide. But she knew the prince’s men would probably find her. And the barleycorn of an idea in her mind had already sprouted a more complicated plan.

In the hall’s doorway Harald caught her by the arm. He pulled her around the edge of the mound to the old temple of fallen stones. There he pinned her leg against the ground with his foot and drew the sword.

Lifu brushed her hair casually aside and said in Norse, “I can tell you the real name of your sword.”

Harald stopped, the sword over his head. “What?”

“That sword you’re waving around. Its true name isn’t Holger.”

“You speak Norse after all?” Harald lowered the sword a bit. “Then you are a spy.”

“I could be.”

“You have a strange accent. How did you learn Norse in Mercia? And why does my mother think you only speak English?”

She dodged his questions. “Aren’t you going to ask how I know the name of your sword?”

“I don’t ask slaves. I command them. Speak.”

“The sword’s name is written on the side of the blade. Look at the runes for yourself. It says Fenris.”

“But that’s the name of the wolf god.” Harald frowned at the markings. Everyone knew Fenris, the evil demon destined to devour the world at Ragnarök. He looked to Lifu warily. “How is it that you read runes? This is not the skill of a slave. Are you a witch?”

Lifu stood and straightened her linen dress. “I am Lifu, the heiress of an estate at Oxford. If you kill me, you will prove that your mother is right about the sword. If you set the sword aside I can offer you something of great value to a future king.”

“You have nothing of value to me.”

“Are you sure?” She lifted an eyebrow. ”I have surprised you twice in as many moments. Who is stronger? You, or an old sword with too many names?”

Harald weighed the sword in his hand. Then he set it on a fallen stone beside him. The hilt remained just inches from his grasp. “What is your offer, Lifu of Oxford?”

“To serve you. You asked if I was a spy. Let me be yours. Every king needs eyes and ears in unexpected halls. You are surrounded by rivals. You suspect even the queen may have plans of her own.”

“And in return, am I supposed to spare your life?”

“No, that is not payment enough,” Lifu said, giving her blond hair a shake.

“What?” Harald laughed at her. “Would you also have a ring from my hand? Perhaps my smallest ring would fit on your big toe.”

“No ring,” Lifu said. “But one day I would like to have what is rightfully mine. An estate in England.”

Harald’s smile vanished.

Lifu asked, “Or do Vikings not honor such rights?”

“Nowhere do slaves or little girls have such rights.” Harald paused. “Even the rights of free men were seldom respected by the Vikings of the sagas.” Those men had been banished to Iceland generations ago by his namesake, Harald Fairhair of Norway. He lifted his head. “Danes are different. We respect honor.”

“Even when you are raiding England?”

“The eastern half of England is called the Danelaw for good reason. There, as here, law speakers are elected to recite the laws and hear grievances. Juries, not kings, decide guilt. In your half of England, where the king and the laws are weak, rival warriors do as they please. The weaker ones sometimes ask the Danes to help settle their scores, promising us treasure and slaves.”

“Is that why your men killed my family?”

“Your parents were killed by the English duke who called us in. The west of England is a lawless, dangerous place.” Harald shook his head. “Are you sure you would want to go back there?”

Lifu bit her lip. She wasn’t sure. “Will you let me live and serve you?”

“You are full of surprises, little Lifu. I’ve never met a slave who dares to talk to me in such a tone. I might yet kill you. I haven’t decided. But in the meantime you have made me curious to learn what fruit you foretell.”

She jumped up and kissed his hand.

He shook her loose. “Do you swear loyalty to me? By all the gods?”

She thought a moment. “Yes, I swear it.”

Harald picked up the sword and slid it into its scabbard. “I wonder if, like this blade, you have more than one sharp edge.” He tapped the hilt. “Are you Fenris, the destroyer, or Holger, the rescuer?”

Fear fluttered in her heart like the beating of a raven’s wings. “Will you bury Fenris with your father?”

Harald turned, eyeing the grave mound. An opening at its base, framed with timbers, tunneled into its dark depths. A cold wind, gray with the smoke of evening hearth fires, shivered across the mound’s fresh grass.