CHAPTER ONE
NORWAY, 811
Katarina Larsdottir strode along the rocky shoreline, the cool summer air biting her skin. The sun was descending into the sea, its rays gleaming upon the dark waters brushed with crimson. With every stride, she kept her hand upon the blade at her waist.
For she dreamed of vengeance.
In her memories, she could see the faces of her enemies. Geilir, son of Jósep, and Jokull, son of Áfalstr. Although both of the Norse warriors had left the shores of Rogaland, Katarina had sworn to the gods that she would find them…and they would die.
Her steps slowed as she reached the small cairn of stones upon the hillside. Bitter remorse flowed through her, and she rested her palms upon the limestone, dropping to her knees beside her sister’s grave. One day soon, the men would regret what they had done.
Even now, after a year, she could not forget what had happened. Gentle Ingirún had barely reached the age of thirteen. Her beautiful sister had been ravaged by those drunken men, and she’d died at their hands.
A hard lump formed in her throat, and Katarina clenched her fingers against the cool stones. “Odin, grant me vengeance,” she whispered. “Let me bathe my blade in their heart’s blood.” She would give anything in exchange for their deaths…anything at all. One day, her sister’s enemies would pay for her death with their own lives.
Perhaps then, Katarina could forgive herself.
When footsteps resounded behind her, she spun, her blade in hand. But it was only her brother, Hrafn. He wore a cloak, hiding the stump of his missing right arm. “You should not be out here alone, Katarina. It will be dark soon.”
She only shrugged and shielded her eyes against the setting sun. “If I choose to visit with our sister, what harm is there?”
“You are watching for ships,” he predicted. And in that, he was right. Each day, she watched to see if the striped sail would arrive, unfurled in the wind as the boat crested along the waves toward the shore.
“None of them has returned,” she said.
“Not yet,” he agreed. But her brother knew she would never stop searching. Her enemies had gone a-viking to East Anglia…but when they came back, she would be waiting.
Hrafn’s gaze narrowed, and he remarked, “Leave it be, Katarina. If they do not return by next summer, I will find their settlement and bring them here to face judgment.”
“If you go, I am coming with you.”
“No. This, I will not allow. You cannot travel with us,” he insisted.
She said nothing but turned back to walk toward their settlement. Hrafn didn’t understand. He had not been there, never suspecting that his sisters would fall prey to men of their own tribe while he was away.
Katarina closed her eyes a moment, pushing back the dark memories. Her sister had been attacked and raped by the raiders before she could save her. When she had found Ingirún, her sister was lying motionless while blood streamed from her head.
And then Katarina had been attacked. The men had beaten her, tearing at her clothing. She’d been battered and bruised, trying in desperation to fight them off. Thankfully, Valdr, thejarlof their tribe, had arrived, along with Leif Tormundsson, before she was harmed.
Katarina’s eyes blurred with hot tears. Even when she’d tried in desperation to bring Ingirún to the healer, it was impossible to save her sister. She’d never awakened, for the men had struck her head against a stone during the attack.
She slowed her pace, fingering the scar at the corner of her mouth.One day they will die for what they did.
Katarina continued walking toward the settlement before she cast a look back at Hrafn. Her brother had remained near the rocks, letting her return alone while he kept watch. He had looked after Ingirún and her during the past year, ever since their father died after a hunting accident. Their mother, Kolla, had died a few years earlier, from illness during a long winter.
Although Hrafn was only three years older, he considered himself responsible for her. He had hardly left her side since the night their sister had died, and Katarina had never told him that she, too, had been attacked. After Ingirún was dead, it had seemed unnecessary. He carried his own burden of guilt for not being there—and she saw no reason to make him feel worse. Especially when she had been rescued before any true harm was done.
Just inside the walls, she sawMóðirGerda. The oldvolvawas seated upon the dirt, her legs folded beneath her skirts. Both of her palms faced the setting sun, and she was chanting to herself in words Katarina had never heard. A strange chill crossed over her back, and the hair stood on end at her nape.
Thevolvawas chanting a name, she realized. Arik Thorgrim.
Without meaning to, Katarina took a step backward, her face flushing. As a young girl, she had been deeply in love with Arik. She had once dreamed of sharing a life with the stoic warrior. She had twined locks of her hair with charms, hoping that one day he would look upon her with interest. But he had left the settlement, traveling across the sea with another woman, Svala.
Why would thevolvaspeak of him? A cold fear slid over her spirits, for she was certain that Arik was dead.
She remained frozen in place, wondering if she should leave. But an invisible force seemed to draw her closer until she knelt beside the old woman.
“He is coming,” the woman said, her eyes opening. One blue eye was already blind, and she seized Katarina’s arm. “You must be ready. At dawn, he comes.”
