Prologue

Early Summer—987

There is a time in every young man’s life when he begins to wonder how futile it is to struggle against the inevitable. Tribulations arise that seem intent on pushing him over the edge and into oblivion. He sees hope in nearly surmounting one obstacle. Then des-pair replaces hope when his next obstacle comes immediately, greater than the last. No matter how hard he fights, his problems only grow more steadfast. They continue to drive at him, draining away what little life he has in him. They gnaw at his very existence, picking at his flesh and soul bit by bit.

More than a thousand years ago, such a man found himself in a dire predicament. There seemed to be no more obstacles for him; he was simply at the end of his line. On the vast deep sea he floated, far from any land he once knew. The night flashed with occasional lightning, briefly setting aglow the rising swells around him.

Ironically, what should have killed him in the first place was the only thing that kept him from sinking to the ocean floor. The long knife had been intended for his spine, but had pierced his left flank instead and fastened him to the chest he was forced to hold. It saved his life from certain drowning, only to let it drain away as his blood seeped into the salty waters. It was a wonder no sea creatures had come to eat him.

Days must have passed, but he had no way of telling for all the times he had blacked out. He should have been dead by now, he thought. It was not as if he were trying to hold on to his life. Any other man would have succumbed to it even had they the willpower to live. He, on the other hand, would get no such release.

You will not die on this battlefield…

He heard the voice in his head and looked up. But of course there was nobody there. It was a voice in his memory; words he had heard not more than a year ago.

He did see something, however. A dark silhouette stood against the murky grey of the clouds above. Was it land? He wondered. Then a flash of lightning answered his question. It was indeed land.

The words whispered in his mind again. He closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. He would not make it; this he knew. Already he was beginning to pass out again. Somehow he knew this would be the final time. His life began to flash before his eyes, and it seemed it would end in much the same way it began.

Many years before, a baby boy floated in a basket off the southern coast of Iceland. It was a young woman by the name of Aesa who happened upon the infant as she was walking along the beach. Like fate, it seemed, she managed to hear the basket’s tapping against the rocks over the roar of the sea. She went to inspect it, thinking it was merely a basket of fruit, and was pleased to find the child instead.

Her prayers to Freyr for fertility had all gone unanswered since her marriage to Styr. Perhaps this was a certain compensation for that.

Unable to contain her glee, she scooped the basket up out of the water and took it to the grass near the beach. Then she leaned down to get a closer look at the baby. Right away she was smitten by the greenish-grey eyes and toothless grin. The child was simply adorable. She could not resist taking him back to her husband.

Styr, however, was not as excited as Aesa about the child’s sudden appearance. He questioned the reason behind it being left by its parents to die at sea. His only valid-ation was that there must be something wrong with the boy.

Aesa would not accept that. She pointed out that he had all the right parts in all the right places. It was obvious he was not blind. When they tested his hearing, it became evident that it was fine as well. He even laughed, seemingly at their attempts to find out what was wrong with him, and that made it clear he was not mute either.

“Well he’s certainly not a newborn,” Styr said as he tried to clarify the mystery of the boy’s existence. “He must have at least three months in him for his hair to be so thick.”

He curled some of the child’s brown hair around his little finger, and Aesa could not help but notice the faint smile that crossed his lips as he did so.

“Perhaps his family was poor,” she suggested.

“Perhaps,” Styr agreed quietly.

“A poor family would not wish to kill their child right out. They took care to wrap him in a blanket and put him in a well crafted basked. Maybe they set him off down a river in hopes that a wealthier family would take him in…a family like ours.”

Styr half smiled as he looked at his wife. “You are persistent, I’ll give you that.”

“Is that not why you married me?” Aesa asked teasingly. Then she returned her attention to the baby. “Just look at him, Styr. Is he not exactly what we’ve been praying for these last three years?”

“Aesa…”

“Look at me, husband,” she said, placing a hand on his cheek. He turned his face to hers. “I want this baby.”

Her husband was a big man, and a stout warrior. But his heart was big as well. He let out a soft sigh and looked back at the child. He wiggled his finger against the baby’s chest, tickling him. Then the child grabbed his finger, and he felt the boy’s grip tighten noticeably.

“He’s a strong lad,” he said with a smile. “Very well…we will talk to the family about keeping him.”

And so they discussed their proposal with the family in the longhouse that night. The men saw the infant’s strength and apparent health and agreed. The women, too, saw his health, but also the healing effect he would have on Aesa, and also agreed. That night they held a naming ceremony and Styr poured water over the child, conferring upon him new status as a member of his family and the village of Bœrvik, as well as the right of inheritance. So it was; the life of Raynor Styrsson had begun.