An icy wind, chilling the bones and freezing flesh, swept down from the mountain peaks of Mount Tereged to blanket the fjord in a fresh coat of frost. Bjorn Torikson pulled the bearskin cloak tight about him as his breath froze, leaving his body. His shaggy dark hair billowed with the icy wind to mix with the coarse fur on his cloak. He ached with anticipation for today was the day. Today was the day of his final test to become a warrior and a man.

He looked out upon the fjord from the vantage point of his mother’s home. She had been a shield maiden and was wedded to Bjorn’s father Torik before his disappearance ten summers ago while on a raiding voyage. The fjord was peaceful in the early morning hours. The sun lit up the sky with deep reds and yellows as if the sky itself was being set aflame with the fires of Hafelheim itself. This contrasted against the deep indigo of the fjord that stretched south. The evergreen trees that sprouted from the rocky earth, like a thick carpet, were coated with fresh snow giving the rocking gray cliffs the appearance of being covered partially with a white blanket. Ripples in the water could be seen as pod whales breached the surface, spraying foam into the air, as birds of prey circled high above searching for their next meal.

A quake rumbled through the earth, shaking snow from the nearby trees and sending birds darting into the air, smaller vermin scurried for the safety of their burrows, and a herd of caribou darted from the tree line seeking the stable area of open ground. The crashing of stones and rocks could be heard in the distance as if Grimnar himself was striking hammer blows against the earth.

“Cliff slide,” he muttered under his breath. His senses felt sharp, his mind ready and focused, as he had been waiting for this day his whole life. The day he would face his Rite of Passage and take his place amongst the warriors of his people. Today was the day he would become a warrior and be allowed to join the coming summer raids.

“Tereged is as restless as you this morning my boy,” his mother said. Her voice was harsh, serious, and that of a shield maiden. She was readying the nets and gear for her morning trip down to the fisheries.

“Aye mother,” Bjorn replied as he moved swiftly to help his mother gather the thick fishing nets that were used to fish the fjord. Grim, the God of the Seas, had blessed the fjord they lived on with bountiful supplies of silverfin, yellowtail, and white bass this spring. “As if Grimnar himself awoke in a foul mood and decided to strike the earth with his hammer,” He began once more to fill the silence, and yet silence once again overtook their conversation. “Today is the day, mother.”

His mother stopped folding the nets and looked at him. “And you are worried? Nervous? Anxious?” His mother said. “Maybe even scared?”

“I’m not scared!” Bjorn barked, but the knot in his stomach told him otherwise.

“Relax dear boy,” his mother said as she snickered. “Let no warrior tell you they have no fear for you know them to be dishonest and a coward that will run and break at the first sign of real trouble.”

“But father said,” he began before his mother cut him off.

“Your father was an oaf and too headstrong for his own good,” she said.

“You’ve always talked of how fearless and mighty he was in battles,” Bjorn replied. “How he could defeat any warrior from any land.”

“Aye son,” she began. “He was a proud, honorable, and terrifying warrior. But do not get that confused with fearless. It was because he knew how to conquer his fears that he was able to be all those things and how he is all those things in the everlasting battles in Geldheim.”

“Some talk that he abandoned us,” Bjorn said.

His mother jerked and grabbed him by the shoulders. “You mustn't listen to the foul lies of those fools who sit with drink too often,” his mother said. “Now grab your gear. You must leave or you will be late and Hrothghar will be most displeased if you show up late to your Rite of Passage.”

He nodded and made his way up a small path to his home. The home of his mother and father looked like it was carved from the hillside. A triangle archway, forming a point above the lone door, provided a small overhang of cover and was the only indication that a home existed here at all, besides the few outbuildings and small forge that his father had built before Bjorn had been born. Bjorn had understood the reason for building homes like this was due to the quakes of Mount Tereged, where legend had it the vast warm known by the same name slumbers.

The interior of the home was warm and well-furnished with an oak table, four chairs, and a stone fireplace that heated the space. Herbs, tankards, and a variety of other implements hung from hooks scattered about, and the interior smell of woodsmoke and sage. His gear had been stacked near the stone fireplace, by which Fimir, the family wolf hound, lay. The hound, with grey shaggy fur, had always preferred the fireplace to anywhere else in the home.

He rubbed the scruff of the wolfhound’s neck and scratched his belly as the wolfhound rolled onto its back. “To think you brought down a deer just a month ago,” Bjorn said with a laugh as the wolf hound panted in excitement at the belly rub. With a final pat, Bjorn moved to inspect his gear.

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Piled next to the logs of firewood were all the items which Bjorn Torikson could call his own. The head of a broad-bladed axe glimmered silvery-white in the firelight as it rested against the wall. Beside it was a broad round shield with the emblem of a watery serpent, the sigil of House Torik, and a leather bag filled with spare clothing and all the implements needed to maintain his weapons and armor. Hanging on the wall, above the axe, was a dull grey hauberk of mail, with a round war helm that had a nasal piece that ran down the center and wings that flared forward on the sides. The interior of the helmet was lined with leather, and he knew he would look every bit the son of a once First Prime of the Thane.

~

The thorp known as Keiji was nestled in a small bay thirty minutes walk from the home of Bjorn. Bjorn crested the rise overlooking the thorp and took in the community he had grown up in. The heart of the thorp was the long wooden longhouse. The longhouse was constructed of solid oak timbers and bowed out in the front which reminded Bjorn of one of the dragonships the warriors used for raiding. Spreading out from the longhouse were various other buildings that were crafted of local timbers and possessed thatched roofs. Docks reached out into the water and a tall wooden palisade surrounded the thorp, with four tall watchtowers that gave sight across the fjord.

Over the sounds of the surrounding nature, he could hear the ringing of blacksmith's hammers and the tolling of the bell that hung high in the longhouse signaling that he was indeed late for the start of the ceremony. He hefted his pack onto his back once more and took off at a pace down the path.

Hrothgar will have my hide. He thought as he felt his feet bite into the dirt with the extra weight of his armor, weapons, and pack.

He covered the final distance in a few minutes at a brisk pace and was breathing heavily as he jogged along the windy muddy path and made it through the small eastern gate. The thorp had a life of its own at this time in the morning. Bjorn dodged to the right as an ox-drawn cart moved down the center of the narrow streetway. The craftsman waved his hands at Bjorn in frustration but passed him in moments as Bjorn rushed to make his way to the longhouse.

“Little late are we?” the voice of Sigurd said. His friend since childhood darted from underneath one of the nearby stalls to trip him and send him sprawling face-first in the mud.

Bjorn pushed himself to his feet, wiping mud from his freshly cleaned armor and picking bits out from his helm. “Sigurd,” he replied as he spits mud out from his teeth. “Nice to see you.”

“Isn’t it though?” she giggled as he helped try and pull mud out of his bearskin cloak. “You will be late if you don’t hurry.” Sigurd smiled at him as she urged him onward.

“I wasn’t going to be!” he shouted as he took off at a run once again.

“My father will be angry you are late!” she shouted, but he could not respond because he was late and wouldn’t miss this opportunity and have to wait another year. He covered the final distance, ducking between two structures and cutting across other streets, in short order and trotted up to the longhouse.

Dozens of people were gathered in the small clearing before the longhouse. Bjorn set his gear down and took in the scene. Half a dozen boys his age were milling about. Each wore a mixture of armor, shields, axes, spears, or swords. He knew these were the other boys who would be taking part in the Rite of Passage, and he recognized each of them.

He saw Sven and Svorn, twins who were the son of the blacksmith, each wearing newly crafted war axes on their belts, a metal banded shield, and freshly polished mail armor. Rumor had it their family was in some way related to the Thane, but the Thane never admitted this fact. Each had long blonde-gold hair down to their shoulders and a fair complexion. Sven bore a scar on his right cheek, just below his right eye, and was the only way they could be told apart.

The next boy was Halifax Dornson, the boy of a farmer from an outlying farmstead. He was shorted and stockier than Bjorn, but his arms were thick and musclebound. Formed from years of toiling the fields and moving boulders.

The fourth boy was scrawny looking, by Bjorn’s comparison, and wielded a bow and a quiver of arrows. His name, if Bjorn remembered correctly, was Eros. He was the son of a hunter and had won the archery competition for the past three years. He was one that Bjorn did not wish to anger for Eros could kill Bjorn before he could close in for close combat.

The fifth boy was a tall, broad, and wide-shouldered lad by the name of Jerix. He was the son of warriors, like Bjorn. He could see Jerix’s calloused hands and two scars that ran parallel along his chin. The boy was dressed in a mail hauberk and wielded a round shield and broadsword at his hip.

“About time ye showed Bjorn!” Sven said as the boy broke his concentration. Bjorn had to look up slightly as Sven was nearly half a head taller than Bjorn, who was not short by any means.

“Looks like he had an accident!” Svorn joined in. “And not just with the mud!” Svorn waved his hand before his nose indicating the stench. Bjorn could not deny that he stunk from the mixture of mud that he had tripped in.

“Craftsman’s cart made me lose my balance,” Bjorn replied as he lifted his head high. The mud had cacked his face and given him a pseudo warpaint.

“And you have the desire to be a warrior!” Sven shouted with a booming laugh.

“Silence!” the booming voice Bjorn recognized as Hrothgar’s erupted across the clearing. The side conversations settled into low murmurs or stopped entirely.

“We will settle this later,” Bjorn muttered to Sven.

“Yes,” Sven said as he smacked the back of Bjorn’s head. “We will.”

“I said silence!” Hrothgar shouted once more as he glared at the two boys. “Thane Eivnor of House Keiji welcomes those lads who seek to face the Rite of Passage this year to earn the right to join the warriors on the summer raids. Each of you has prepared, learned what you can from the warriors, and readied yourselves for the challenges to come.” Hrothgar motioned to the elderly man who was seated on the throne that had been placed in the archway of the longhouse entrance. “Thane Eivnor will now utter the words of our ancestors and the Rite of Passage will begin.”

Bjorn took in the elderly man as he stood up. His form looked feeble, but he wore ornate bronze-colored armor and had a rune-crusted axe looped at his belt. His shaggy brown hair blew in the breeze and his wolfskin cloak billowed in the wind as the elderly man stepped forward. “Lads,” the thane began, but as he did so he doubled over with a coughing fit.

Bjorn watched as Hrothgar darted to the thane’s side and offered him a shoulder to lean on. “I’m fine,” Eivnor said as he pushed himself from Hrothgar. “Lads, today marks the day your lives will change. Your task is well known, but for those who have forgotten let me remind you. The Rite of Passage is an ancient and reverent right that has been practiced for generations by our people. Follow the stone path leading to Mount Tereged and climb to its summit. There you will find the first Temple of Grimnar. Enter the temple and drink from the Pool of Celestial waters and take the strength of Grimnar as your own.”

Bjorn wondered how they knew who drank of the pool and those who did not. Surely no one would pretend to complete the trial and then return. Would they?

“For those who think to deceive the gods know that upon returning you will be tested to insure that you drank of the pool,” the old thane said.

Makes sense. Bjorn thought.

“Pray to the gods for strength,” Eivnor continued. “For not everyone present will return. Only those who have the strength of will and strength of arm will survive the Rite of Passage and return alive. May the gods guide your steps and watch over your souls lest Silthanus swallow you whole. Blessings to Grimnar to each of you!” The thane finished, and with the final words the six youths turned towards the Mount Tereged and the uncharted waters of savagery they were about to be thrust into