Crouching in the underbrush, Bjorn peered between the trees at the wagon in the distance. They had observed it from their longship during the gray hours of the morning. It took them until midday to find a place to beach the longship close enough to the coastal road. As luck would have it, there was only one road between these two Softlander villages, so they had gambled. From what he could see, it would pay off. Einar had been right, showing that the gods still favored him.

The raiding party was spread out among the underbrush of a sparsely wooded area at a bend in the road. To Bjorn, the place shouted ambush, but Einar was the raid leader and had made his choice. There would be death or glory either way.

The smell of fresh grass and trees was strong. Much more so than back home. It blended well with the wet dirt he had painted on his body and face.

There was a calm to this place. For now, at least. He wanted to lie down and close his eyes for a turn, let the sun warm his body. Listen to the birds that had started singing again now that the intruders kept still long enough.

It almost saddened him that it would end soon. The peace of this place would all too quickly be ruined by the spirits that would haunt it.

If he squinted, he could make out the faces of the men marching in front of the wagon. Ten in total. Their metal armor made them look like the strange contraptions the traders from the east sometimes brought. Small toys that would walk by themselves when you turned the metal handle enough times. Bjorn had never owned one, but his cousin Bragi had, and they had much fun with it until Bjorn had said they should see if it could walk around the lip of the well. Bragi had cried for two days. He never told his cousin he knew it wouldn't. He had already seen it fail to walk around a table, but he had been jealous.

Where was Bragi anyway? He was supposed to be to Bjorns left. He could see Bragi together with Einar a little further down. They were discussing something by the way their heads leaned towards each other, but no sounds reached him.

Turning back to the wagon, he could see the marching men clearly now, even the five that walked behind the wagon. That made fifteen guards and two drivers. Whatever was in that wagon had to be valuable. Maybe they could capture a few thralls. The village was always in need of more. Even those as weak as the Softlanders had their uses.

Watching the wagon getting closer and closer to the ambush, he felt the thrill of the coming battle run through him. When he first joined the raiding parties, he had been frightened. Now he knew that being frightened meant you were not moon-touched or a berserker, so he reveled in it until it burned away in anticipation and excitement. He would live or die, but if he died, he would meet the ancestors with his head high and a smile on his face.

Bjorn's part today was important. He was to run in and cut loose the horse on his side, so the wagon could not escape. He looked at the long knife in his right hand. It was good cold iron, given to him by his parents when he reached maturity on his fifteenth winter. He always made sure to hone the edge until it he couldn't see it anymore. The knife had yet to fail him.

Knut had been chosen to do the same from the other side of the road on the second horse. Knut was good. He had proven himself on many raids even before Bjorn had been old enough to join, and the gods favored him. He was only missing two fingers on his right hand.

Bjorn made his way forward, silent and gentle. Not disturbing bushes or tall grass. When he was as close to the road as he dared, he stopped to lie down. Making sure the twigs and grass he had twisted through his clothes covered him. He smeared his head and hands with the wet dirt one last time and lay still.

Time moved slowly, as it always did before things started going all too fast, but then he could hear and feel the step of the soldiers and the wagon wheels rumbling. One of the axles had not been oiled properly.

It was time. Bjorn gently got up, trying not to draw too much attention to himself, and ran hunched over toward the back of the horses. He didn't know why, but none of the soldiers were looking at him. They were peering at the other side of the road.

He made it to the back of the horse and managed to saw through the harness. Still crouched down, he looked around, surprised at how easy it had been. He heard the warcry go up from the raiding party and could hear them come running from their hiding places. That's when he noticed Knut on the road, an arrow through his neck. Squinting up, he saw one of the drivers standing with a short bow in hand. Bastard.

Not wasting any more time, he made his way over to the second horse and got his knife most of the way through before the driver signaled for the horses to run. The harness broke, and for a moment, he watched with a grin as the horses ran into the soldiers creating more chaos. Then he reached up to the bow wielder's leg and pulled. He was on the bow wielding driver the moment he hit the ground, stabbing him in the chest and belly before he slit his throat, spraying his face and mouth with the driver's lifeblood.

Bjorn reveled as he tasted the blood of his foe. Grunting, he felt a line of fire go down the left side of his back. Still crouched on the driver's body, he turned around and spotted a young soldier pulling back his spear. The boy looked terrified. The wet streams going down his pants told their own tale of that. The boy's stance was all wrong. Bjorn could see he would overextend his next thrust, so he waited a moment and grabbed the shaft of the spear as he moved to the side, dragging the boy to him. He was up and had his knife through the boy's chin before the young soldier understood what was happening. He watched the terror in his eyes as he couldn't breathe. Bjorn took pity and pushed his knife at an upward angle between his ribs, ending his short life. At least he died with a weapon in his hands. Who could ask for more?

Looking around, he could see the raid was going well. A group of four soldiers was holding their ground still, and a giant of a man was using his spear to keep the raiders back, but they were mostly baiting him like he had seen the traders from the east do with captured bears. The traders had been slain by orders of the Jarl. The giant man would fall when they were done playing.

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He didn't know how the back of the wagon looked, but spotting the remaining driver with empty eyes staring after where the horse had run, he was whipping the rains hanging uselessly down the front of the wagon. Bjorn took pity. No man should live with the indignation of losing to fear like that.

Scrambling to the top of the wagon, he saw the driver looking at him with horror. Good. Bjorn was already helping the man. Gently leaning forward, he held a finger to his mouth and made a drawn-out shhh sound. Took the rains from the man's vice like grip and placed one of his boot knives in the driver's hand. Moving his hand to the man's shoulder, he looked him in the eyes as he slit his throat. Again Bjorn got sprayed with lifeblood. No matter what they managed to loot, he would regard this a good raid.

Gently he put the driver down on his back to let him go to the Softlander afterlife in peace or stay as a howling spirit. It was not for Bjorn to judge the man's life. Bjorn wished him well, but it was up to the gods now. When his last breath was taken, he retrieved his boot knife.

Crouching on the roof of the wagon, he looked around. The soldiers guarding the back of the wagon were all dead. Torfin was waving around the severed head of a soldier and was shouting something about “His new Softlander shit hole.” Torfin had always been a bit of a jester.

The previous four soldiers were down to two, but one of them was likely the leader or a champion. His sword was like lightning. Two raiders lay at his feet, even as a group of six were trying to box him in. Still, it wouldn't be long now. The swordsman had lost his shield. Bjorn would remember to honor him in his next offering.

The lone giant was down on one knee, still swinging about, but that was all for show. The only thing the giant had was strength, and it would run out soon enough. The raiders knew that but were having too much fun baiting him.

He counted five dead from the raid. Five of the People would go to the halls of the gods for judgment. He noticed Bragi and Einar standing by the treeline, discussing something again. Bjorn was loathed to admit it, but Einar made for a good raid leader. He would have to remember to give a toast when they got home to show his appreciation.

To his surprise, he heard the wagon door open and watched a man in strange red flowing clothes step out. Bjorn wasn't the only one surprised because everyone had stopped moving. When the man withdrew his hands from his sleeves, pandemonium erupted. Someone shouted “Witch!” simultaneously as the man turned the world into fire.

Raiders were hit by balls of fire. Snakes of fire started slithering along the ground, hunting those that tried to run. Bjorn saw the group around the swordsman explode in fire. One moment they were there. Next, pieces of burnt flesh and glowing armor flew through the air in all directions. Even the swordsman was not spared the witch's loathsome magics.

They had to do something. He had to do something. The witch, Bjorn, shuddered just thinking about it, hadn't noticed him standing on top of the wagon behind him yet. Feeling weak and cowardly, he finally managed to make his limbs work. When the witch raised his hands, Bjorn could see the marks running up and into its sleeves, the marks of the great deceiver. Bjorn nearly froze up again.

Praying for the gods to favor him, Bjorn jumped feet first toward the witch's back, but his cowardice and hesitation showed its ugly head. Instead of pushing the witch down to the ground, it felt like he hit a tree whit deep roots when he hit the witch on the right side. The witch spun around as the rest of Bjorn landed on him, and they both fell in a tangled heap.

Somehow finding himself on the bottom, fire burning his chest. He was looking into the angry eyes of the witch. Bjorn knew he was dead the moment the witch hadn't been knocked out by his boots.

He managed to stab the witch in the back and the side of the belly a few times, but the pain from burning was making him clumsy. Seeing the fiery anger in the eyes of the witch turning to fear gave him hope. He sliced and stabbed, sliced and stabbed. Hitting himself as much as the witch. The pain from the fire was so all-consuming now that he didn't really know anything but the burning pain. Watching as the life was leaving the eyes of the witch, he managed to bring his arm up, and by the grace of the gods more than skill, the blade's edge was against the witch's throat instead of his own. Bjorn slid the sharp blade across its throat with all his might, the scorching lifeblood filling his mouth as he tried to scream.

Laying there, his body on fire, he could feel the sun on his face. Behind the iron scent of blood, ash, and burnt corpses, he thought he could smell the scent of grass and trees. But now he missed the frozen winds of his home.

He wanted to lay in the untouched snow and roam through the deep woods stalking the great elks or hunt the giant steppe bison roaming the windswept tundra in countless numbers. He thought he could hear someone calling his name. Was it time for supper already?

“Bjorn!” Yes, someone was calling his name. Opening his eyes, he looked at his cousin's face and smiled, or tried to. His face wasn't doing what he wanted it to do, so he tried raising an arm to signal all was fine, but it did not want to go up. Looking into his cousin's eyes, he tried to tell him that all would be fine, but it was too much, and he was too tired. Dinner would have to wait.

Bjorn dreamt of fire. A great ocean of fire carrying him to and fro. It would bring him somewhere and tell him stories of the fire that lived there and then someplace new, to do the same there. For an eternity, the fire made him travel and told him stories. Some were of great triumphs, like the birth of a star. When man first discovered how to use it and spread its warmth and light. It took great pride in its role as the great changer, as the catalyst, as the bringer of new.

Other stories were of times of great sorrow when there was nothing. No lights in the sky. No new stars were born. No man to seek its warmth and protection in its light. Only the great emptiness, nothing changing.

But fire knew. The time would come for a new fire to start when everything began again, and its joy was boundless. There was no true end to the fire, not even the long nothing, and the fiery ocean would rise up in celebration of that knowledge.

Then the fire let him go, and Bjorn flew into the sky. Into the darkness. How long he stayed there, he didn't know. Time had long since lost any meaning when he felt something reach out to him, and he found himself enveloped by love.

The being held his head on its lap and stroked his hair and face. Like his mother had used to when he was a child and was hurt. Her, it was her. It was The Mother. When he tried saying it out loud, she gently touched his lip with a soft finger and continued stroking him as she lay a hand on his chest. He lay there wanting to bask in that love for an eternity, but his eyes couldn't stay open, so he opened them even more.