Ragnor Deathmarker wanted an army of rune-marked warriors sworn to him alone, and tonight he had come to the old stone hall to win his first. Twelve of them waited under the vaulted arches, scarred men and women whose skin bore the same glowing runes as his own. He needed them. But not one would meet his cold blue eyes. They stared at the stranger standing across the hall from him. The stranger was a big man with a hatchet through his belt and a burn scar covering half his jaw. Ragnor knew the face. He had given the man that scar years ago, the night Ragnor killed his brother in a raid gone wrong. "Blood debt," the burned man said. His voice filled the hall. "You spilled my kin. No warrior here will stand beside a man who runs from that." Ragnor felt the twelve watching. They would not follow an oath-breaker. In the north, a feud left unsettled marked a man as a coward. His whole plan died right here unless he answered it. "Then we settle it," Ragnor said. "You and me. Now." The warriors backed against the carved walls, clearing the stone floor. Ragnor pulled off his cloak. The runes across his chest and arms burned brighter, their power waking to his will. The burned man charged. His hatchet came down hard. Ragnor caught the blow on his forearm, and a rune there flared white, turning the edge aside. Steel scraped bone anyway. Ragnor grunted and drove his fist into the burned jaw. They grappled. The bigger man was strong, and he forced Ragnor to one knee. His hands found Ragnor's throat. Ragnor could not breathe. He pressed his palm flat against the man's chest and spoke a single word. The rune under his hand tore open with cold light. The burned man flew back and struck the base of a stone pillar. His hatchet skidded away across the floor. Ragnor rose. He walked to the fallen man and lifted the hatchet. The twelve went silent. He could end the feud with one stroke. Instead he turned the blade and offered the handle. "Your brother died in a fair fight," Ragnor said. "So did you, almost. The debt is paid in blood tonight. Take my hand, or take the axe. Choose." The burned man stared up at him. Slow, he reached past the axe and gripped Ragnor's wrist. He let Ragnor pull him to his feet. "Paid," he said. The word carried through the hall. The twelve warriors came forward then. One by one they touched their marked hands to Ragnor's. But as the burned man rose, he leaned close and spoke low, for Ragnor alone. "My brother carried something before you killed him. A wolf marked like your skin. It answers only to blood of our line, and now it hunts you." Outside the hall, far off across the dark hills, a howl rose. Deep and wrong, it did not sound like any wolf. Ragnor's runes went cold.