Wide lidless eyes grew glassy as the head sagged upon the briny soapstone. Bjørn’s axe felt heavy from the burden of green slime that so easily bled from these awful mermaids of Hel. A storm had ripped him from the leidang, away from the spoils of Írland, into the mists and down to the cold stone of Niflheim. His ship was broken, but his axe had yet to break upon the scaled bodies that surged from the tide pools. Ahead, a ruptured city rose from the churning waters to the roiling clouds. With hunger, he walked to its shattered gate.