Dawn was spilling over the fjord like thick milk. Drakkar Blue Wolf whispered quietly in the tarred seams. The oars rested quietly, like dormant wings on a bench. Eira, eleven years old, clutched a rune stick in her hand. She had received it long ago from her grandmother, the wise healer of the village. There were signs carved on the stick that changed with the light. Today they shone brighter than usual and seemed to be waiting. Eira slipped between coils of rope and a bag of dried codfish. She wanted to set off, even though no one was waiting for her. Leif, her older cousin, stood at the helm and yawned. As the boat bounced, the water snorted like a panicked horse. "Hold still, runes," she whispered, tucking a stick under her coat. An amber disc fell out of her pocket and clattered against the planks. The mist drifted down from the mountains as fast as if it had legs. The world disappeared; only the rhythm of the drum and the breaths of the rowers remained. A stick suddenly warmed Eira's hand, like a small coal. New marks shone on the edge of the wood: Guardian of the Deep is watching. Eira crawled to the helm and tugged Leif by the sleeve. "Something's following us," she whispered, and the drakkar twitched as if it had been pinched. A long, dark shape moved just under the side. It wasn't a cod or a seal; the thing was breathing deeply. A sound came from the depths, like the blowing of a horn. Leif lifted the oar and Eira tightened her fingers on the runes. A streak of light tore through the fog and a shadow emerged over the ridge....