Kare Valdirson was no coward.

He was a veteran of battles aplenty and no stranger to blood. He had spilled the blood of southerners while raiding. He had slaughtered Nords from other Aettir and kin from his own. He had spilled his own blood when his brother sullied his betrothed. Never, during those times, had he hesitated or feared. Kare Valdirson was no coward.

He smiled at this thought, as he leaned against the lighthouse’s outer wall, his boredom somewhat subsided. It was a good place to keep watch over the ships, for it overlooked both piers and the warehouse’s entrance. Others stood guard as well, of course, but Kare was willing to bet the ones on the ships were sleeping their mead off and Jork outside the warehouse was not the sharpest blade of the armory. It did not matter; the village had not raided yet so no one would raid from land. And from the sea, no ship could sail in without Soerbjorn knowing.

Blade. He smiled at the thought of the word, drawing his sword once more and watching its blade catch the pale moonlight as he moved it. Two blades, sharpened and merged into one, sprouting from a hilt made of two metal serpents coiled around each other, their joined heads forming the pommel; despite the three missing stones from the eyes, it remained as beautiful as ever. Tvennr it had been named long ago by his ancestors, twofold, and it had proved a fitting name. This was the sword that Sjolne had used to subdue Heilfa and the same Kare had used to take his own brother’s life for it. A just killing, the elders had declared it. Twice over, he thought, for the blade should have been passed on to him in the first place.

It dawned on him, for a moment, that such a story was no stranger to the blade. After wielding it for decades, his grandfather, a true bastard of a man, had lost his life to it. His father, Valdir, had seen to it. Before that, his great grandmother, Aitta the Bloody, had wielded it, and she had killed more Nords than any in recent memory.

It had been suggested, of course, that the blade was cursed. An heirloom, they said, from the Fire Giants; some said it was, in fact, a dagger, some ceremonial thing in the hands of those that once wielded them. Others said that it was one of a pair, wielded by firechildren generals; twins that died side by side, failing to secure the Firegod’s flank. Skoffa of Bjornheim was supposedly wielding its sister blade, but other candidates were named as well. Truth be told, Skoffa’s Einnari was a similar looking blade, but feather themed; and Skoffa, if rumors were to be believed, had done his share of murder in his prime.

With a shrug, Kare sheathed the sword and scoffed. Such tales of curses were not rare in Mannheim; nor were tales of blood and violence. It was the Nord way. He had no intention of not wielding this family heirloom, and stories and fables be damned. Kare Valdirson was no coward.

Then, the water moved. His eyes narrowing he scanned the bay, cursing the weak moonlight piercing the clouds lazily. Eventually, he saw it, a big bulk, a small whale perhaps, lost in the fjord, sticking its back or head out of the water. Good; Soerbjorn was an expensive mouth to feed and this would buy them a day or even two, perhaps. Hoping the sea Jotun would keep the kill quiet, he waited for the familiar gust and spray of the whale’s blow to echo in the night, but it did not come. Instead, the whale just stayed there, floating gently as the weak current of the bay moved it. He smiled, thinking the hunt was already over and waited to see the carcass being pulled below water.

Instead, he heard more water stir, this time from the shore.

Kare Valdirson was no coward. But as he saw the dead walk out of the water, the wet plumes of their helmets dripping as they hung mournfully to the back or the side, their unmasked faces as expressionless and empty as the deathmasks among them, he felt his warning cry choke him.

Jork, gods bless him, rang the bell and screamed for the village to take arms. One by one, alarmed cries answered the call. But Kare did not. One of the dead, soaking dark robes dripping water and malice around him, stepped out and turned immediately to look at him, despite the distance. Then, the figure pointed at him, and the dead moved.

Kare Valdirson shook like a leaf in a storm before he died.

FORCES OF THE OLD DOMINION ARE IN MANNHEIM, LOOKING FOR RELICS OF THE LAST CRUSADE. THE OUTCOME WILL INFLUENCE THE RESULT OF THE RITUAL.