The dawn over the fjord was cool and smelled of salt. Ylva, the eleven-year-old daughter of a sailor, was polishing her oar. The long house throbbed with footsteps, shields hung like silent suns. The clan's knarr, the "Silver Seal", was waiting on the pier. Fog licked the dragon's bow carving and hid the waves. Einar arrived with a piece of wood, inscribed with runes. "I found this by the stones," he whispered. The letters formed a warning about the shore and singing. Ylva ran her finger over the mark and felt a tingling sensation. Then the raven descended on the railing, carrying a leather thong. To its leg was pinned a copper ring with a wave engraved on it. Under the thong was a knot with the same rune as on the board. "This is Uncle Bjorn's birthmark," whispered Ylva, until her heart trembled. The uncle had disappeared in a winter storm, without any news. "Maybe he left a trail," said Einar, looking out over the milky water. They slid down to the deck of the "Silver Seal" and listened. The fog thickened like wool; the fjord was suddenly silent. Somewhere beneath them an even, deep pulse killed, like a drum. The water below the bow flashed a pale blue light with a mark. The mark looked like a rune, but it was alive and flowing. The dragon's head on the prow creaked, as if taking a breath. The cum twitched and, without touching, loosened over the beam. The raven cawed warningly and snatched the thong with a rune. The light under the fjord moved towards the boat, fast and straight. "Hold the oar," hissed Ylva as the knarr pushed away from the platform alone. A shadow emerged from the mist on the cliff, raising a bone horn. A single sound thundered, and the mark on the water cracked like ice....