God Of Thunder. Alex Archer

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      Yellow flashed on the hammer, revealing that it had been inlaid with amber on the sides of the head and the haft. It looked as if the weapon had been forged of lightning.

      The detonation of thunder came immediately on the heels of the lightning strike. A blast of heated air washed over Skagul. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a tree near the red-bearded man topple sideways, trailing smoke.

      All the stories about Thor, the Norse god of thunder, who controlled storms and lightning, rushed through Skagul’s mind. He knew the gods sometimes journeyed from Asgard, where they lived, across the Rainbow Bridge to Midgard, which was what they called the human world.

      This is no god, Skagul told himself, and told himself to believe it. A god would never have retreated or relied on ambushes. For Skagul saw that was what they had run into as shadows shifted in the forest on both sides of the red-bearded man. Man, he told himself again, not god.

      Skagul’s reactions, honed in dozens of deadly encounters, pulled him up sharply. He opened his mouth to shout a warning. Before he could say anything, a withering hail of arrows from the Curonians drove him to cover.

      This time Skagul saw the defenders hiding among the trees and brush. They rose only long enough to fire their bows and drop back behind cover.

      Two of the Norsemen went down with arrows piercing them. But the others never broke stride, knowing from past experience that within a short distance they would be too close for the archers to fire again. As they raced across the clearing, the ground gave way beneath their feet. In disbelief, Skagul watched his men disappear as if the earth had opened up and swallowed them whole. Lightning flashed again and freezing rain poured from the sky. Less than twenty of the Norsemen pulled back from the edges of the pit that had been covered with branches and dead grass so that it blended with the landscape.

      The trap hadn’t been prepared overnight after someone had seen the Norse ship out on the sea. The Curonians had been prepared for an invasion for some time. Skagul thought about the red-bearded man’s statement, that he was raising sons who were Curonians.

      It was Redbeard, Skagul thought. He was the one who prepared the Curonians for battle.

      A Norse warrior clambered up from the pit. With the rain falling, the earth had turned to greasy black mud. The man was stained with mud and blood. Three thin stakes pierced his body, letting Skagul know the bottom of the pit had been lined with them.

      A single arrow flew across the distance and struck the Norseman in the face. The warrior stumbled and went down to his knees. The arrow protruded from one of his eyes through the opening in his helm. He reached for the arrow jutting from his face, then he simply rolled over and vanished once more into the pit.

      Curonians charged from the trees. Their bowmen fired arrows over their heads that struck three of the surviving Norsemen.

      “Back to the ship!” Skagul yelled. “Back to the ship!”

      As undermanned as they were, he didn’t know if they would be successful in getting away. He ran, struggling through the brush.

      Redbeard and the Curonians pursued, but they were temporarily slowed by the pit they’d built for defense. Occasional arrows slipped through the forest.

      Skagul never slowed, but he heard the thump of heavy footsteps closing on him and knew who it was. Lightning flashed overhead and thunder pealed. Throwing a foot out in the slippery sand of the beach, Skagul slid forward and managed to twist his body at the same time. He brought the war ax around in a flat arc aimed at Redbeard’s midsection.

      The amber hammer blocked the ax. Metal clanged as thunder pealed again.

      Surprised and more wary, Skagul stepped back and raised his ax in a defensive stance. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Curonian bowmen put shafts into the backs of his men who’d made it to the sea. The Norsemen fell. The survivors of the first wave turned and charged the Curonians, unwilling to be shot down like dogs or taken prisoner. They were slaughtered one by one.

      Several of the Curonians surrounded Skagul. They had arrows nocked back to their ears. At that range they couldn’t miss.

      Redbeard held up a hand. Blood stained his wounded leg. He spoke in the Curonian language, obviously keeping them from loosing their shafts. To Skagul he said, “I’ve told them they can’t kill you unless I say so.”

      “You’d better kill me,” Skagul replied. He was afraid, but his pride wouldn’t let him admit that. He’d always believed he would die in battle, not like a deer run to the ground by hunters.

      Redbeard looked at the dead Norsemen lying on the ground around them. “I would prefer not to if I didn’t have to. We’ve already caused the death of too many of our brethren.”

      “We?” Skagul scoffed.

      Redbeard’s face darkened. “You chose to be greedy.”

      “And those men aren’t your brethren.”

      “I’ve not always lived among the Curonians,” Redbeard said.

      “Where do you hail from?” Skagul asked. He pushed away the fear and tried not to acknowledge the cold that bit at him with sharp teeth.

      “Birka.”

      Skagul nodded. Birka was an island in Lake Malar. “I’ve been there. I come from Jorvik.”

      Redbeard let out a breath. “I could demand payment from your family for your return.”

      The offer was a true one, and Skagul knew then that his unwilling host was a Northman at heart. Mannbaetr reflected a man’s value in his tribe, and it was different for each individual. Even if a man killed another man in a fight, he wasn’t put to death as he would be in some cultures. Instead, the killer had to pay the mannbaetr everyone agreed on.

      No one was put to death except for adultery, treason or stealing. But the worst punishment that could be doled out to a tribe member was banishment from the community.

      Thinking about that, Skagul thought he had leverage that he could use. “They won’t accept a demand from someone who’s been banished.”

      “I wasn’t banished,” Redbeard stated. “In my homeland, I was a jarl.”

      The declaration surprised Skagul. What was a jarl, a man close to a king, doing living with the Curonians?

      The storm raged overhead. Lightning blazed through the sky and leached the color from the world for a moment. The thunder rolled in over the sound of the waves.

      Skagul didn’t want to be ransomed back to his village. He wouldn’t accept anything less than going back as a champion. Taking advantage of the lull, he threw himself at Redbeard.

      Redbeard knocked Skagul’s ax from his hand, but Skagul had expected that. He kept rushing forward, planting his shoulder in his opponent’s chest and knocking him back. Before Redbeard could recover, two of the Curonian archers had loosed shafts.

      Skagul felt the arrows bite into his flesh at his back and side, but he knew from past experience that neither wound would prove fatal. He carried scars from worse encounters.

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