The valley stretched below in an endless swath of white, broken only by the stone huts, byres, sheds, and pens of the Brædan village. The stillness, the snow and ice, the cold, the full moon—alone, any of these factors would challenge the hardiest war-band. Together, they added up to one conclusion. He’d chosen an evil night for a raid. These factors could be overcome by courage, skill, self-discipline, and luck. The first three, Badulf’s men owned in abundance. He hoped luck wouldn’t prove to be in short supply. For the past fortnight, a host of omens had fueled Badulf’s foreboding: a rope coiled like a striking snake, a raven-shaped puddle of spilled ale, a cloud piercing the heart of the moon like a spear, the sky blackened by an enormous flock of crows, a pack of starving dogs devouring each other in bloody desperation. Badulf pulled his cloak tighter about him, a thin shield against the cold. Nothing could shield him from his dread. For his men’s sake, he buried his feelings behind a brave mask.
