The deepening purple water of the fjord mirrored the rosy-gold of the sunset as Thoryn stood alone on the dock listening —to the seawater slapping the shoreline, the more distant drop and splash of the waterfalls, and the even farther off murmurous hurry of the streams. He supposed the voyage had been a success —except for the loss of Ragnarr and Beornwold. The gods distinguished between the dead, between warriors killed in battle who were sent to Valholl as Odin's chosen host, and the unworthy who died in bed and were consigned to Hel. But how was a mere jarl to measure the gain of gold over the loss of life? Or losses of a different sort, such as in the case of Sweyn? The last of the loot had been carried up to the hall, and Thoryn had seen the Blood Wing taken out and moored by a cable around a boulder in deeper water. He now shouldered his sea chest and started the climb he didn't want to stop, but Inga intercepted him. When she saw the bundle in her arms, he felt and odd regret.
