Such a racket could only mean one thing: the dragonships had returned. Uttering a little cry of her own, Edda hiked up her skirts and ran for the shore as though she were a girl and not a woman married. As she neared the waters, she saw the prow of Valgard’s ship, the Odinsvolk, not carved as a traditional dragon as the rest, but rather as a mighty, snarling wolf. Valgard’s first great deed had been slaying a mankilling wolf at the tender age of 8. He had done much else since—Valgard Thorson’s name was sung throughout the land as a great hero—but people still told the tale of Valgard and the wolf in the hushed tones reserved for legend. Edda dropped the hem of her skirt as she neared the crowd welcoming their warriors home. It wouldn’t do for a woman of high standing to be seen so undignified, she thought, with a soft snort to herself. No matter that all she truly wanted at this moment was to throw herself into Valgard’s arms. “And for you, little Sveni, your man Harald has brought you back wine so sweet that even his face will be a pleasure to look upon once you drink of it!”
