Bjorn Frostfang wanted a ship he had never seen. Generations ago, raiders stole his clan's greatest longship, and no one alive knew where it lay. He kept the old stories instead. He recited them each night to his spotted cow, whose hide shifted color as she chewed. The stories told of a proud vessel and a black night, but never once named the water it drifted to. Tonight he traced the carvings on his hall's door, the wolves that flanked the great entrance. His grandfather swore those wolves guarded a secret. Bjorn had run his hands over them a hundred times. He found only wood. He needed a witness, not a song. Only one man had lived long enough to remember more than stories. Bjorn had avoided him for years. He found the giant outside the far longhouse, splitting logs with one hand. Hunit Gored Eye was the largest man in the clan, and the meanest. A scar sealed one eye shut. Bjorn's father had called him a liar and a thief. Bjorn had believed it his whole life. "Come to beg," Hunit said. He did not turn around. "Your father never begged. He just spat." "I need what you know about the stolen ship," Bjorn said. His jaw tightened. "You sailed with the men who chased it." Hunit set down his axe. He looked Bjorn over with his one good eye. "The stories say it vanished. The stories lie. It didn't vanish. It ran aground." Bjorn stepped closer. His pet trailed behind him, spots flickering blue to green in the firelight. "Where." "North of the drift ice, past the last fishing grounds." Hunit tapped his own chest. "I saw the mast from a hunting boat, ten winters back. Broken, but standing." He smiled without warmth. "I never told your father. He didn't ask nicely." Bjorn's heart pounded. The ship existed. It had a place. "Take me there." "No." Hunit picked the axe back up. "That water belongs to another clan now. They pulled their halls onto that shore. They'll gut any man who lands there uninvited." He swung, and a log split clean. "Your ship sits on their beach. Go get it." Bjorn stood still. For the first time, the hunt had a direction. The old song had become a map. But the map ended on a hostile shore, guarded by strangers who would not welcome him. He scratched his cow's shifting flank and stared north into the dark. He had wanted to know where the ship drifted. Now he did. He almost wished he had kept the stories instead.