The wind off the western sea was thick with salt and smoke. The longships lay pulled upon the sand, their carved prows jutting like beasts’ heads toward the gray horizon. Beyond them, the Norse camp stirred—fires crackled, blades were sharpened, and the low murmur of prayers to Odin and Thor mingled with the distant cries of gulls.

Astrid Bjornsdottir sat apart from the others, crouched by a fire where a bear skull hung from a spearpoint. The smoke curled around her as she dragged her whetstone along the edge of her Dane axe. Her bearhide hood was drawn low, her eyes reflecting the flames.