Prologue

“A marvel indeed, there's no denying,” said Orla, her eyes sweeping over the village. Ivy draped over the wooden doorways of the longhouses, and fir branches curled in garlands along the eaves. The last rays of the northern sun crowned the ice-capped peaks of the Tindrheim, casting a golden hue over the vale.

Svend nodded in agreement, though his thoughts strayed far from the festivities. He would partake in the feasting, the rhythmic pulse of the drums, and the laughter of his people. But it was not the promise of the evening's celebrations that gave rise to his heartbeat; it was what came after—the culling of the wolves. He hoped it would be his first.

“Watch yourself, lad,” said Eirik. Svend winced from the grating voice. The Elveid strode past him, carrying a hefty bundle of branches for the Solvuur, the last light of the longest night.

“Yes, my lord Veid,” said Svend with a nod.

The huntmaster was a hard man. He was no stranger to the grim duty of the culling. Their people held a grudging respect for the beasts—pack animals, loyal to their own. But in the dead of winter, when the cold winds howled and the wolves preyed upon their livestock, the grizzly task needed done. The Elveid had led many such hunts, draped in a cloak fashioned from a dozen pelts. Svend wore no such shroud; his furs were given, not earned. His spear had not yet seen battle.

With the last wreath hung and the final timber set ablaze, the boy ceased his musings to marvel at the beauty of his home. Skyrholdt, nestled in a serene grove of yews and pines, was a haven. Cradled on three sides by the mighty ranges of the Tindrheim and kissed by the distant northern sea, the village lay safe and secluded within the Vale of Winter.

The Veids began their rituals, lighting tallow candles whose flames conjured flickering shadows on the snows. Svend danced and chanted rhythmically with his kinsmen around the Solvuur, a column of flame reaching towards the sky, its eager hands grasping for the stars.

Exhausted, he sat down amongst his shield-mates. “I remember my first hunt,” said Viggo mockingly, sitting down beside him. Viggo was an older boy, with a handsome face and hair as dark as a moonless night. His wolf's pelt cloak was as white and beautiful as the snows. "Nearly jumped out of me skin when the manticore came in the night."

"Manticore?" Svend asked, growing uneasy.

"Oh yes, with tufted ears and piercing eyes. A deep black creature, hungry and fierce."

Svend glanced at Eirik, now resting beside them. "Viggo, enough. You're frightening the poor boy."

"Don't listen to his tales, Svend," said Orla to his left. "No such creature prowls these woods, or any forest in our country. Mountain cats, mayhaps. But they won't trouble you. Not with the wolves about. They don't like the competition."

Svend dropped his shoulders.

"No, manticores and mountain cats don't give me sleepless nights. But this war might," Orla said, turning her head towards the huntmaster. "Have you heard the talk, Eirik?"

"Aye."

"And?"

"And nothing. The heartlanders can lock their antlers as they like. Makes no difference to us."

"It might," said Viggo, "if the rebels declare for one banner. They'd have a chance, Eirik. Our people will have to choose a side, ere long. The fighting draws near—they say he's taken the port city."

"What, Baile Castillien?" asked Svend. "I've heard the tales. They say the city is massive—"

"Yes, this upstart has made quite the name for himself," said the Elveid. "This Eamon of Dale." He spat in the snow. "A green pup—a boy playing at a man's game. I'll never fight for him."

"The Skaldyr may not share in your dislike, Eirik," said Orla, lowering her voice. "The Stjörnmoot will weigh the proposals of war, if you ask it."

"To hell with that. Our people have cause enough to bleed."

"If it comes to war, I'll fight," said Svend, seizing his chance. "Talk is the Crownguard fight like proper soldiers, easy to anticipate. I do not fear them."

The Elveid rose from his seat. "Fear?" His eyes were dark now. "You know nothing of fear, lad." Eirik turned his head, revealing fading scars running along the length of his neck and cheek. "Are you so eager for the fight? Look, then, upon the spoils! Fear is not what drives men away from battle, boy. Fear seduces men into the jaws of death, pitting brother against brother, singing sweet songs of glory. But there's a price, and the debt comes due. If not for the dead, then for their kinsmen." His tone softened. "Our people long for the taste of blood. Do not desire to go so blindly into the night."

The circle fell silent, farmer and Veid alike, avoiding the elder's gaze. The Solvuur crackled softly, the lone sound in the silence. The huntmaster's words were as the knife's edge, sharp and perilous to the tribe's ears. The Elveid scanned the circle, seeking any challenge. When none came, he sat. Quiet murmurs and chants filled the air. Svend dared to test his luck again.

“Take me for the culling this year,” he said.

The Elveid sighed and shook his head in dismissal. The firelight lit his face aglow, revealing lines of age etched deeply into his rough skin. Eirik said nothing, but his eyes passed a silent verdict.

Svend’s blood grew hot. “I’m ready, Eirik. You'll be glad for my spear, I swear it,” he pleaded, his voice rising. The huntmaster sat silently for a moment, gazing deep into the flames.

"Have you ever tasted wolf, boy?” Eirik asked at last.

The question surprised him. "No, Veid," said he.

"It's lean. Gamey. Tougher than venison—needs a longer cook over the fire. Hardy meat from a hardy beast." He rose then, taking Svend's hand, turning it palm up. The Elveid traced a thumb over the smooth surface. "Soft hands for a tender boy."

Svend pulled away, his face flushing with a mix of anger and shame.

He was no huntmaster, but he would not brook such insults. He rose, then turned from his shield-mates and made for the woods. Tears stung his eyes, but he fought them back as he went. “You didn’t have to be cruel,” he heard Orla say as the firelight faded behind him.

The forest had oft been his refuge. The river was his ally, nestled roughly a thousand paces from the village borders. There, amidst the soft rustle of the trees and the quiet trickle of water over stones, his blood was sure to cool.

My thrust is as swift as Viggo's, he thought. And my aim as true. The tracker had been Svend's age, if not younger, when the huntmaster had first chosen him for the culling. He'll regret this, the stubborn old ram, Svend assured himself as he walked.

Snow began to fall as he made his way through the forest. Slowly at first, then in thick curtains, cloaking the world in white. He could scarcely see ahead, his vision obscured by the relentless downfall. The cold bit at his face and hands, piercing through his furs.

He trudged through the powder. At last, he reached the familiar bend in the path where the river lay. Svend did not hear its soothing song. The river was frozen solid, its surface a sheet of unyielding ice. No gentle trickle, no calming flow. There was only silence. He sank to the riverbank in frustration, the chill of the frozen ground seeping through his furs as the flurries frosted the conifers.

And then, falling through the snow-blind curtain of the world, he saw it.

A falling star—a gem of white-hot flame, drifting gently like a feather through the air. It was bright, a shining beacon in the dark. He watched wordlessly as the star fell upon the riverbank at his feet, transforming before his very eyes. The star, once alight, faded now until it was black as onyx.

Removing his glove, he reached out and picked up the stone, its surface warm against his chilled skin. He turned it over in his hand, his eyes lost within symbols etched into the rock that seemed to emerge from deep within. A language. The stone shimmered, then changed as he tipped his palm from side to side. First a dark obsidian, then bright and lucent, a glowing violet crystal. The steady beat of the snow faded into a deafening silence.

And from the stillness, he heard a voice.

Like thunder it was, deep and bellowing. He swung his head from side to side, searching for his kinsmen; he was alone. He looked down at the stone in his hand, pulsing steadily now with an unnatural light. He fell deep into a trance. He could not make out the words echoing in his head, yet he somehow understood clearly their meaning. He felt power as he had never known, and his heart was filled with terrible purpose. He closed his eyes, and his mind was fraught with visions of conquest. A lone hill, and he standing atop it. With helmet in hand, he called out to the sea of cavalry, stamping upon the grass in the endless valley below.

The rush of running water brought him back. He did not know how long the visions had taken him, but the snowfall had stopped. Where the star had fallen upon the riverbank, the snow had melted, and a luminous pool now formed in its place. Water from the pool had dripped onto the frozen river and melted the ice, leaving a long stretch of the stream unfrozen. His eyes traced the current downhill, and his blood turned cold.

A pack of wolves, some seven or eight in number, gathered around the glowing water. He held his breath, but needlessly. They paid no attention to him. The beasts lapped at the glowing water with a ravenous fervor. He stowed the star in the pouch at his belt and backed away slowly, into the trees.

"Svend?" he heard Eirik calling from the wood. The fool of an old man!

One of the wolves, the largest of the beasts, raised its head, the violet water dripping from its maw. Svend backed away slowly, but the snap of a branch betrayed his retreat. The beast rushed toward him, and instinct took him.

He flew from the riverbank, his legs bounding through the forest with a speed born of sheer terror. The conifers blurred past him, their needles whipping and scratching at his face and arms, tearing at his furs. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound of his own frantic breaths loud in his ears. A stray root caught his ankle, and he fell face-first into the snow. He tasted blood in his mouth.

The padding of paws on the snow drew nearer, and he prepared for the worst, turning on his back to lay eyes on his foe. He cursed his own stupidity that he would forget to bring his spear. A warrior is never without his weapon, Eirik would chastise him. But that didn't matter now.

The beast was near, and Svend could barely make out a ghostly white shadow, gliding towards him in the darkness. "Svend! Stay down!" said Eirik. Svend looked back; with his iron longsword drawn, the Elveid stretched ten feet tall. He stepped over Svend and held his enemy's gaze.

The largest of the wolves, a monstrous beast, bared its jagged teeth at the man. “Come then!” said the huntmaster, his voice echoing through the forest. “And taste the iron of Eirik Wolfsbane!”

The beast growled, poised to lunge, but stopped suddenly with a whimper. Its body writhed violently, and it buried its head beneath a shaking paw. When it rose again, the gates of hell had opened.

By some felcraft, the creature now bore three heads, each with amethyst eyes that burned with wrath. It bared its teeth once more, each like the hanging spires of the Tindrheim's caverns. It was one of Viggo’s fables made flesh, a ghastly image unlike any Svend had ever seen.

He turned and crawled through the snow, wincing from the pain now throbbing in his ankle. Eirik was right, he thought. He had not known fear. When at last he pulled himself behind a tree, he looked back to watch the sight unfold.

With a guttural roar, the three-headed beast lunged. Eirik did not flinch. He stepped forward to meet the attack, sword in hand. The huntmaster was swift, but age had slowed him. One of the creature's heads clamped onto his sword. The Eldveid screamed in fury as he wrestled to free his weapon from the beast's maw, its two remaining heads gnashing at him.

At last, the huntmaster abandoned his blade, releasing the weapon and stumbling backward into the snow. The wolf tossed the sword aside and lunged again. The Eldveid scrambled to rise, but the beast caught his cape with a paw, and Eirik fell to the ground. He would not rise again. His wolf's pelt cloak, which had seen a dozen victories, now marked his defeat. He rolled on his back, a hand raised to shield his face as the hellspawn ripped at his throat, his blood pooling on the snow as the beast's fangs found purchase.

Svend’s mind whirled as the creature tore into Eirik. His thoughts fixed on the falling star, tucked safely in the pouch at his belt. He reached his hand, its naked knuckles now blue with frost, into the pouch and ran his thumb over the strange object, mouthing a silent prayer for the huntmaster.

The voice answered his prayer with another booming bellow in his head, and his visions were renewed. With his waking eyes, Svend saw a hammer crash down upon an anvil, forging a sword of a foreign metal that shone with the light of the stars. The voice whispered the metal's name. In the tongue of his people, Svend understood the word to be lunarite, yet he had never heard it before. It was both command and revelation.

The vision ceased, and desperation seized the boy. His eyes darted frantically until they alighted upon a fallen branch, nearly the length of a spear. It was just out of reach. Svend crawled to the branch and grasped it, shuddering in pain as he rose from the ground and put weight on his ankle. His mouth began to speak, as though by its own will. The words poured out of him, unbidden, flowing as if borne by an unseen current.

He felt his arm tremble under the weight of the branch, growing heavier now. The earthy bark turned ivory, a shaft of white stone, pale in the moonlight. Emerging from nothing, as though a wisp of smoke, the spearhead appeared, its radiant tip crowning the shaft, adorned with sharp wings. The weapon was beautiful, wrought from stone and metal that were not of the natural world.

Limping from behind the tree, Svend summoned what courage remained to him. "To me, cur!" he cried to the beast. One of its three heads looked up at him, Eirik's blood mingling with the violet ichor that congealed at the corners of its maw. "Get away from him, or I'll claim my first pelt this night!"

The creature's eyes bore into him. It must have decided his threats were empty. With a snarling roar, it charged full-tilt. Svend gripped the pale white shaft of his spear, bending his knees in preparation. The wolf leapt through the air, and he closed his eyes, thrusting with all his might. The full weight of the beast came crashing down on him, driving him into the snow. His head hit the frosted ground, and the world went black.

When he awoke, his chest felt heavy, pinned beneath the massive beast. His teeth chattered violently as the chill seeped into his bones. The creature lay sprawled across him, its six eyes now lifeless and vacant. His spear, the gift from the star, was plunged deep into the beast's chest. Summoning his remaining strength, he heaved the creature off him and pulled himself from underneath its weight.

His vision was unfocused as he rose, swaying from side to side. He ripped the spear from the beast's chest, then turned to look at the lifeless body of the huntmaster. His eyes fell to the cloak beneath Eirik's mangled form, now caked in blood and muck. Willing his legs forward, he knelt and tore at the strap securing the mantle to its wearer. He clutched the cloak in his fist and stood, raising it against the light of the moon. He looked at Eirik a final time, and felt nothing.

When he returned to the village borders, the Solvuur was burning low, silhouetting the gaunt faces of his kinsmen gathered at the gates. Svend limped into view, starstone spear in hand, the Elveid's cloak draped around his shoulders.

His knees buckled as he reached the others, and Orla caught his free hand. She turned her eyes to the Elveid's cloak on his back, still bloodied. "Eirik?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Svend met her gaze, but he gave no answer. He released her hand, limping forward. The sea of Skaldyr parted before him as he made his way to the longhouse of the Stjörnmoot, each step heavy and uneven.

Upon reaching the council’s seat, he felt the stone in his pouch grow hot, and his mouth began to move again. The air crackled with energy as the longhouse transformed. His people watched in wordless fear as the wooden frame of the council's seat changed to pure marble, as pale as the spear he labored to raise. The building stretched high into the godsrealm, its white stone gleaming in the moonlight. The thatched roof faded away, replaced now with a round dome, a gleaming azure glass ceiling.

He turned to face his people, leaning on the spear to raise himself tall. The Skaldyr stood huddled in silence. Orla was the first to kneel, then Viggo.

Svend looked on coldly as the village bowed to the new Elveid.