CHAPTER ONE
Testosterone made her do it...
She had no one to blame but herself.
Joy Nelson, a seemingly intelligent woman with a master's
degree in psychology, about to start a doctorate program at
Yale, had made some dumb choices in her life, mostly
because she had spent way too much of her twenty-six years
competing with her three older brothers, or doing
incredibly stupid things after being egged on by The Three
Muska-dopes, as she'd called them.
But this one beat the cake.
And it broke her heart thinking about why she'd done it.
Here she was in mud up to her eyeballs on San Clemente
Island, one grueling year into her training program to
become a female Navy Seal. And doesn't that fall into the
category of "What was I thinking?"
It all began when she was about twelve years old and well
on her way to her eventual five-foot-ten, towering over all
her classmates. What girl in the throes of puberty wants
to have boys looking up at her, making tall jokes? Not to
mention three older jock brothers, Matt, Jerry, and Tom,
who were not shy about their observations, even when they
had gone on to be an Air Force pilot, Wall Street hot shot
broker, and NFL football player, respectively.
Also, it hadn't helped that she had curly, red hair.
Bright curly, red hair. Think Orphan Annie but not so cute.
"I dare you" had been a common refrain around their house.
And "I double-dog dare you" had been the worst challenge of
all to a little girl trying to keep up with three young
Rambos.
"I dare you to climb that tree," her oldest brother Matt
had challenged her. "The one outside the principal's
office."
The jerks had even taken pictures of that incident and
loved to bring them out on the most embarrassing
occasions. Her hanging from the limb, Barbie underpants
exposed, with Mister Clemmons yelling up at her.
"I dare you to try this hair toner," Jerry had suggested
one day. "My girlfriend says it will give you gold
highlights."
Her hair had turned green. There were photos of that
disaster, too.
"If you want to lose your butt," Tom had suggested. Who
knew I even had a butt then? "Why not try competitive
weight lifting...you know, body building? I double-dog
dare you."
She did, and in the process gained some manly shoulders and
lost most of her breasts. No kidding! No boobs. But she
still had a butt.
They were still laughing over that one.
Well, two of them were.
While her brothers had excelled in sports from elementary
school through college, she'd felt compelled to do the
same. Therefore, she'd been an All-American tennis player,
softball pitcher, basketball forward, and marathon runner.
For every trophy they won, she earned two. She didn't have
to be a psychologist to understand the subliminal dynamic
that had been going on there.
Despite all the teasing, and competition, they had been the
best brothers in the world. In fact, they pretty much
raised her, even before their dad, an Army lifer, died when
she was eighteen. Their mother had passed years earlier of
cancer when Joy had been only eight.
Matt especially had been her anchor, filling in when their
father had been away on duty billets around the world.
Matt had been the one who'd explained menstruation to her
and purchased her first pads. He'd been the one whose
shoulder she cried on after being dumped by her first
boyfriend. He'd been the one who told her about birth
control and warned her about fast boys and their smooth
lines, from experience, no doubt. He was the one she
called first with good news, or bad.
But she was getting ahead of herself.
Fast forward to her twenty-fifth year and the day which
changed her life forever. And, yes, it was related to her
brothers.
*****
Oh, brother, where art thou?...
She was an intern at The Meadows, a psychiatric clinic in
rural Pennsylvania, about to finish up her last group
therapy session of the day. With her master's thesis
completed and approved at nearby Penn State, she would be
moving to New Haven in two weeks for doctoral studies at
Yale.
The group today was one labeled "Self Esteem: Only You Can
Determine Your Worth." Although the facility included
adults and children as young as five, on both an in-patient
and out-patient basis, those here today were all young
teenagers...three girls and one boy.
"So, Cindy, tell us how you've done this week."
Cindy, a fifteen-year-old recovering anorexic, replied, "I
gained two pounds."
"Well, that's good news." Joy applauded, encouraging the
others to follow suit. "But you don't appear happy."
"I'm getting fat." Cindy sank down into her folding chair
as only a teenager could and pressed out her lower lip,
sulkily.
If only she could see herself as others did. Little more
than a skeleton.
"What's your total weight, honey?"
Cindy's gaunt face bloomed pink. Reluctantly, she
admitted, "Ninety eight pounds." When she'd been admitted
two months ago, she'd been dying at an alarming eighty
pounds.
"You know you can't be discharged until you're up to a
hundred and ten? You're five-foot-seven, for goodness
sake. Even at that weight, you'll still be slim."
"I'll look like a pig," she disagreed.
"Remember my promise. If you get up to one hundred and two
before I leave in two weeks, I'll bring a make-up
consultant in here to show you just how beautiful you are.
I've seen her case of samples. Wow!"
Her face brightened. Was there ever a teenage girl who
didn't love make-up?
"I think you look good," Andy Barlow said from Cindy's
other side. They were sitting in a small circle in her
office.
Cindy flashed him a glare of disgust.
Which of course embarrassed Andy, who was one screwed-up
sixteen-year-old. The product of sexual and physical abuse
from a young age, he was addicted to cocaine and into
tattoos covering most of his body.
"Cindy! You know better than that," Joy chided.
"I'm sorry," Cindy told Andy.
But, of course, the damage was done. Andy got up abruptly,
knocking over his chair, and rushed from the room.
"I'm sorry," Cindy repeated to the rest of them, tears
brimming in her eyes.
Joy brought the other two girls into the discussion then.
Alicia, a high school sophomore who continued to blame
herself for being gang-raped at a party, and Larise who was
failing academically in senior high, despite having a very
high I.Q., no doubt due to some undisclosed home issues.
She'd been caught cutting herself on more than one occasion.
Joy was concluding the counseling session when she glanced
up and saw two of her brothers standing in the doorway.
"Jerry? Tom? What's up? You told me you couldn't make it
for graduation."
After the girls left the room, giggling at the sight of the
good-looking visitors, they came in, shutting the door
behind them, each giving her a big hug and a kiss.
She smiled, not having seen them in person for months.
Her brothers did not smile back.
"What? What's happened?" Fear suddenly riddled her body.
Light-headed, she leaned against a chair. "It's Matt,
isn't it?"
Jerry nodded and tried to take her hand.
She shoved the hand away.
"Tell me. Is he dead?" Oh, God! Please don't let him be
dead.
"No," Tom said. "He's not dead."
But he said it in a way that was not hopeful.
A sob escaped her throat before she even knew the details.
She knew, she just knew it was going to be bad.
"His plane was shot down over Afghanistan. Chuck Wiley,
his co-pilot, died on impact. Matt was taken prisoner.
He..." Jerry's voice broke, and his hazel eyes misted over
with tears. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen
any of her brothers cry.
Tom was in just as bad shape, she soon realized.
"And?"
"The pictures...Al-Quaida has him, and Al-Jazeera is
showing pictures. Oh, honey, they're bad." Jerry opened
his arms and she went into them.
She didn't ask for details. Her imagination was providing
enough.
"They want us in D.C....in case there's news," Tom told her
a short time later. "We already went to your apartment and
packed a bag for you."
Later that night they got the news. Captain Matthew Nelson
was dead.
Immediately Joy, screaming hysterically, was given a
sedative which knocked her out. Just before she
surrendered to unconsciousness, she wondered how she was
ever going to face a world without her big brother. How?
In the middle of the night, she awakened, disoriented. She
was in one of the two bedrooms in their hotel suite. Her
brothers must be asleep, finally. She'd heard
conversations and doors opening and closing for hours as
she'd awakened, then went back to sleep, over and over
throughout the day and evening.
Groggily, she made her way to the bathroom where she rinsed
out her mouth and took two Aspirin. Slowly, she walked
into the living room, which was empty.
As if drawn by a magnet, she made her way to a laptop
sitting on the coffee table. Logging on, she came to the
main news page of AOL. And there it was, an announcement
of Matt's death. A team of Navy SEALs had apparently gone
in to rescue him, but they'd been too late.
The picture she saw broke her heart. Amidst a handful of
armed men, crouched in a firing position...Navy SEALs, she
assumed...was one particular SEAL carrying her brother. He
wore a BDU uniform, and his face was cammied up, but
through the black paint could be seen a single tear track
stemming from haunted blue eyes.
She would never forget that poignant image.
And it would change her life forever.
*****
I double-dog dare you...
For the next two months, Joy succumbed to a mind-numbing
grief, giving up her slot at Yale, rarely leaving her bed
before noon. And she became obsessed with the picture of
the Navy SEAL carrying her brother.
As a psychologist, she recognized all the signals. The
grieving process was taking over her life. Academically,
she was well acquainted with all the counseling steps
necessary for her to begin healing, but emotionally she was
still not ready. Her brothers were probably just as grief-
stricken, but they were back to work and managing to handle
the stress. At least on the outside.
"What are you two doing here...again?" she asked when there
was a knock on the door late one night."
"We're here to intervene...I mean, we're gonna do an
intervention," Tom said.
"Whew!" She waved a hand in front of her face. "Just how
much booze did you consume before coming up with this lame
idea."
"It's a kickass idea," Jerry disagreed, blowing a equal
waft of liquor breath her way.
Turns out their goofball version of an intervention
involved Vodka Stingers, photo albums, and Matt's hokey
collection of Country music CDs.
"I want to meet him," she told her brothers when they came
to her apartment to perform their own
"Who?" Jerry slurred.
"That SEAL," she replied, taking out a computer print out
of the TV photo.
Toby Keith was belting out "How Do You Like Me Now?" while
Jerry and Tom studied the picture.
"Remember how Matt used to sing along with that song?" Tom
reminded them.
"That, and `Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy'," Jerry added.
"Yoo hoo! Earth to bozos," Joy said, waving the picture in
front of her brothers. "I want to meet him."
"I don't know, squirt," Jerry said. That's what her
brothers had always called her. Some oxymoron! "The SEALs
don't like any publicity."
She shrugged. "I need to ask him some questions...and to
thank him."
"It's not necessary. He was already given some medal,"
Jerry said.
"I don't care. You want me to straighten out? Fine. Set
up a meeting so I can meet the guy, dammit." She turned to
Tom. "You know people who know people, Mr. Important
Football Player. You can do it. I dare you."
Tom said something Important Football Players should not, a
clear sign to Joy that she had won this challenge.
*****
Anchors Away, my dear, or some such nonsense...
One week later, she, Jerry and Tom were sitting in
Commander MacLean's office at the Naval Special Warfare
training command center in Coronado, California.
Apparently some high mucky muck in the Navy was a football
fan, and Tom was one of his favorite players. The admiral
had pulled some strings.
"This is highly irregular," the commander was continuing to
argue, even after he'd sent for Lt. Luke Avenil, better
known as Slick. Joy had learned on one of her Internet
searches that all of the SEALs had nicknames, some more
colorful than others, like Whiz, Shark, Easy, or
Spider. "SEALs operate as teams," the commander continued
to complain. "No individual is responsible for the success
or failure of a mission."
"I know that. It's just that I need to put a face and a
voice to my brother's rescuer," she started to explain.
"With all due respect, ma'am, there was no rescue, just a
recovery."
She bristled. "His body wasn't left behind. As far as I'm
concerned, that's a rescue. In any case, I was saying, I
need to meet the man who carried my brother out of that
hellhole. It will give me some closure."
"No offense, Ms. Nelson, but giving civilians closure, or
any other psychobabble, is not my responsibility."
There was a sharp rap on the door.
"Enter," the commander snapped.
In came a good looking, dark-haired man in his mid to late
thirties, wearing a camouflage uniform and heavy lace-up
boots, his Navy SEAL trident pin, known as a Budweiser,
gleaming on his shirt, along with a bunch of stripes and
badges that probably had some significance. His dark hair
was cut military short in a style known as a high and
tight, and he was very buff. He stood at attention
until "At ease!" was barked out by his superior officer.
"Lt. Avenil, these folks have asked to meet with you.
Jerry and Tom Nelson, and their sister, Joy Nelson," the
commander said.
Lt. Avenil shook hands with her brothers, his eyes
flickering for a second at seeing the famous Tom Nelson.
While they were standing, she remained seated in front of
the desk.
"The young man you rescued in Afghanistan was their
brother."
Lt. Avenil's eyes connected with hers. The same haunted
blue eyes she recognized from the picture. She couldn't
help herself. She rose, walked over, and hugged him,
whispering against his ear, "Thank you."
She could tell by the stiffness of his body, as well as his
flushed face, that her gratitude embarrassed her. But then
his arms wrapped around her waist, his hands giving a quick
soothing caress of her back, as if to show he understood.
"It's my job," Lt. Avenil said.
After that, the commander excused himself and allowed them
time to visit more casually. They all sat down, and the
men pulled their chairs closer to her.
He told them everything about the mission, from the moment
they were called up, which he referred to as "boots off the
ground," and on their way to the "insertion point" in the
Middle East. They "put down" a half dozens "tangos" to get
into the stronghold...tango was the Navy SEAL term for
terrorist...but her brother had been dead on their
arrival. Lt. Avenil was able to tell them that Matt had
been clutching a cross on a gold chain.
Joy choked up again. She'd given him that as a gift last
Christmas.
Before they left, she asked Lt. Avenil, "Why do you do
this?"
He seemed taken aback by her question, but then he
replied, "There are a lot of bad people in the world, and
if I can eliminate even one of them, then I've made a
difference."
"A lot of men signed up after 9/11, didn't they?" Jerry
remarked.
Lt. Avenil nodded. "There were SEALs before 9/11, of
course, but the need is greater today because..."
"...because terrorism is growing," Tom finished for him.
"Bigtime," Lt. Avenil agreed.
"I wish there was something I could do to make up for
Matt's life." She laughed, then kidded, "Too bad the SEALs
don't take women."
"The SEALs don't, but the WEALS do," Commander MacLean
inserted as he re-entered the office, then went on to
explain that Women on Earth, Air, Land, and Sea was a
female version of SEALs. "There have always been female
military attached to the SEAL teams, but now they work with
SEALs as equal partners."
"I don't know...women soldiers?" Jerry said.
She punched him in the arm. Jerry enjoyed goading her
feminist leanings, and he had old-fashioned protective
emotions about the female species.
"For a long time the military, all branches, resisted
having women soldiers. A lot of them still, do. Myself
included," Commander MacLean admitted. "Researchers tell
us that a woman of twenty has the lung power of a man of
fifty. And they're not as strong, generally speaking. But
mostly it's a nightmare trying to manage a sexy young
sailorette in a base full of horny men."
Tom and Jerry chuckled.
"But they're here, right?" she argued. "Women in the
military?"
"Yep, and they've proven most of the naysayers wrong."
"Yourself included?" she inquired sweetly.
"Definitely." His somber face relaxed into a grin. "You'd
have to meet my wife Madrene to know why that was a politic
answer."
"C'mon. I'll take you to the grinder where one of the
WEALS classes is working out today," Lt. Avenil
offered. "BUD/S, the latest SEAL training class, is just
about finished."
They gave their thanks and said good-bye to the commander.
"BUD/S?" Tom asked as they followed Lt. Avenil down the
corridor.
"Basic Underwater Demolition/Seals," the lieutenant
explained as they exited the building. "In the old days,
SEALs were primarily in the water; in fact, they called
them frogmen, or webfoot warriors. They're everywhere
today, though...air, land, sea, but they kept the name."
The grinder was an asphalt area surrounded by several low
buildings, almost like the exercise yard of a
penitentiary. In the distance could be seen huge gray Navy
warships lined near the Naval Amphibious Base at the other
end of Coronado. To one side was the cold blue Pacific
Ocean which shimmered under the early morning sun, which
would be relentless by afternoon. She could also see the
red-tiled roof of the famous Hotel Del Coronado where she
and her brother would be having lunch before heading back
home.
After spending a half hour watching two dozen women getting
the most incredible workout on everything from climbing a
high cargo net to gazillions of sit-ups, Jerry remarked to
Lt. Avenil, "These women look especially fit. Are they,
like, super dooper athletes? You know, wonder women with
supersonic parts?"
Lt. Avenil laughed. "Nah. They have to be in good shape,
of course. SEAL candidates do, too. But the program will
hone them into the types of bodies they need. And, no,
that doesn't mean muscle-bound masculine females. Don't
tell anyone I said so, but some of them are pretty hot."
Her brothers looking at her in a funny way.
She recognized the look.
"Oh, no!" she exclaimed.
"I dare you," Jerry said.
"I double dog dare you," Tom added. "Think of all the fun."
Ha, ha, ha.
"And, really, I bet there would be tons of opportunities
for you to use your psychology skills." Tom was on a roll,
or so he thought.
"The commander's sister is a Navy doctor assigned to the
teams here in Coronado," Lt. Avenil added.
"A Navy SEAL psychologist...I mean, Navy WEALS
psychologist. Wow!" Tom batted his sinfully long dark
lashes at her. "Wouldn't that be weally great?"
"Just super."
"You could psychobabble the enemy to death."
"Tom, you are so not funny."
"It would be a breeze for you," Jerry promised, barely able
to stifle his smile. "You're in great shape...except for
your butt."
He ducked when she tried to whack him a good one.
So, that's how, a year later, she was here on San Clemente
Island with a group of equally braindead WEALS wannabees.
You could say hers was a classic case of "Private Benjamin"
meets "Stripes." At the moment, they were engaged in
survival training. The goal was to evade the enemy...i.e.,
Navy Seal instructors with sadist personalities and
testosterone oozing out the yee haw. Her hiding place was
under a slight ledge over an almost dry stream bed...i.e.
mud. The mosquitos were the size of moth balls, the mud
smelled, and she was pretty sure that was a spider in the
long braid she had tucked under her cap.
Just then, Master Chief Justin LeBlanc, a Cajun Seal better
known as Cage, leaned over the ledge above her and
drawled, "Peek-a-boo, darlin'," just before shooting her
with a big yellow paintball.
In the butt.
CHAPTER TWO
955 A.D., Trelleborg, men will be boys, always...
Brandr Igorsson stood with hundreds of his Jomsviking
comrades-in-arms surveying the ritual initiation of six men
into the brotherhood.
"Keep an eye on my brother Frode," his best friend Torkel
said, his chin raised with pride. "Only sixteen, but there
is no more fearless youthling in all the Norselands."
"Like you were, Tork?" Brandr grinned. He and Tork had
joined the elite band of far-famed warriors, together, more
than ten years past. In truth, they had been fighting men
for closer to twenty years, since their selfsame thirteenth
birthing day. In more battles than he could count, they
had fought side by side, watching each other's backs.
"Just like," Tork agreed, humility never being one of his
virtues.
Horns of ale were raised as a wave of shouting erupted
around them...cheers of encouragement and hoots of
ridicule. A large neck-ring of turf had been cut from the
ground in such a way that two of the sides were still
intact. In various places underneath stood sharp spear
heads. Those men about to swear fealty to the Jomsviking
brotherhood were in the process of crawling from one end to
the other beneath the grassy blanket, their blood mixing
with the Trelleborg dirt.
When they had all completed this task, they dropped to
their knees, Frode included, grinning with self-
satisfaction for having survived, despite blood dripping
from their arms and backs, their faces marked with grass
and dirt stains. Egill the Fearless, their leader, strode
toward them with a stern glower on his bearded face and
demanded the oaths of loyalty, not just to him as chieftain
but to their fellow warriors. Each promised to avenge all
other Jomsvikings as a brother. None must ever give voice
to fear. No man could be absent from Trelleborg for more
than three days without permission. No women could be
brought into the all-male, monastic style garrison.
Plunder would be shared by all in the warrior community.
The fortress, which could house twelve hundred men, sat on
the west coast of Sjaelland, between Kattegat and the
Baltic Sea, atop an enormous circular earthworks, with high
double timbered ramparts filled with earth which were
manned at all times. The stronghold was divided into
quadrants by two roads that criss-crossed, leading to four
openings, with gates which could be dropped in an instant
if they were attacked by foemen. Below lay the palisaded
harbor town where ale and wenches were available aplenty,
for a coin.
Tork picked up a wooden bucket of water and dumped it over
his brother's head.
"Hey!" Frode shook his head like a shaggy dog.
They were better able now to examine the boy's extensive
injuries, which had been Tork's intention. A deep slice on
his shoulder, cutting through the leather tunic and flesh.
Several cuts on his legs and a vicious wound on one forearm.
Tork touched the latter and said, "This one might need
stitches."
"Nay." Frode gave his wound an admiring glance, then
grinned. "Methinks it will make a great scar to attract
the maidens."
Laughing, the three of them made for the seaside opening.
The youthling chattered the whole time, even though in most
ways he was a man now. That fact was proven when he teased
them, "Let us go down to the village and celebrate. Mayhap
I can find a wench or two to swive, whilst you two ugly
brutes may have my leavings."
Tork reached out to punch his brother, but he ducked and
Tork's fist met only air.
'Twas then that Brandr noticed the longship entering the
harbor far below. Oh, there were dozens and dozens of
longships and knarrs and barges already anchored and
portaged, but none carried this particular flag. A white
bear rampant against a black background edged in red. It
was Brandr's family crest.
As they got closer, the hairs stood out on the back of his
neck with every creak of the oarlocks, and he exchanged a
worried look with Tork, both sensing that something must be
amiss.
They soon found out.
It was his younger brothers Erland and Arnis, sixteen and
twenty years old. How odd! And they were in charge of a
longship...one of the many family longships, but this one
manned by a shiphird, or sea army, of a mere thirty men.
Even more odd! And a scraggly band they were, too. Beyond
odd! Alarming!
On anchoring, then jumping onto the wharf planking, his
brothers hugged him in greeting, then nodded at Tork and
Frode, whom they had met as visitors at Bear's Lair on many
an occasion.
The first thing Erland did was complain to Brandr, "Frode
has become a Jomsviking? You told me I was too young."
"You are too young." In Brandr's experience, some males
were men at sixteen, whilst others did not mature 'til much
later. Erland was of the latter type.
Arnis thumped his brother on the shoulder, causing Erland
to stumble. "Lackwit! Dost forget why we are here?" Then
he turned to Brandr with a grim expression on his
face. "We bring bad news, Jarl Igorsson."
Jarl? "What? Me?" he nigh squawked. Those standing hairs
on his neck were now waving a warning to him. There could
be only one way that the Odal right of jarldom would pass
to him. Through his father and three older brothers.
Which was impossible.
It had to be.
Arnis put a hand on his arm in sympathy.
Sympathy?
"They are all gone."
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to digest what
Arnis was saying. "All?"
Both Erland and Arnis nodded.
"The Sigurdssons came in the night," Erland
explained. "Killed and maimed everyone in sight. Father,
his wives and concubines, your mother, our brothers Vidar,
Bjarn and Sveinn. Our sisters Maeva and Gerda are dead,
along with their babes. Housecarls, cotters, everyone
slaughtered. Arnora and Kelda survived, no doubt because
they were too old to be of any use." Arnora was Vidar's
mother, and Kelda was the longtime cook at Bear's
Lair. "In truth, hardly anyone was spared by the
whoresons, except Liv who was amongst a handful of women
taken captive."
Tork and Frode gasped with horror. A soft cry of pain
escaped Brandr's lips which soon thinned with fury. The
Sigurdssons and Igorssons are done each other great scathe
over the years, but naught like this.
His sister Liv was only thirteen years old. It broke his
heart to think of what horrors the impish girling must be
experiencing at this very moment. Last time he heard, she
had not even had her first monthly flux.
It hardened his heart to know of the blood which had been
spilled and all the more blood he would now be compelled to
spill. There would be a virtual flood of sword dew. "And
you two...how did you escape?"
"We were off to Birka, trading furs for winter goods,"
Arnis told him.
Bear's Lair was a remote northerly estate, rocky and cold,
not conducive to farming. But bears abounded, huge brown
creatures, and up near the Arctic region, the prized white
bears. "Two days late, we were," Arnis continued, his voice
raspy with emotion, his blue eyes glazed in remembrance of
the horrors he must have seen. "Not that our presence
would have made a difference. We learned from the few
survivors that Sigurd came with a hird of two hundred
strong."
"How many men are left?" Tork interjected. His good friend
would be returning with him, Brandr knew, without his
asking for help.
"Three dozen able-bodied, another three dozen injured but
will recover, the gods willing, and another dozen crippled
for life."
"Hrafnasueltir!" he exclaimed and spat on the
ground. "Raven starver, that is what Sigurd is. A
coward. Less than a nithing."
Tork took Frode by the elbow and led him back toward the
fortress. "Looks like you will be blooded in battle sooner
than expected, brother. Let us see how many Jomsviking
warriors will join us in this good and noble cause."
Brandr would not be surprised if a worthy hird would be at
the ready within the hour to travel back with him to his
estate, or what was left of it.
How could his life have changed so, in a matter of
minutes? This had been a good life for him, a middle son.
He had been contented. Well, no more.
Taking out Flesh Biter, his favorite pattern-welded
broadsword, tears welling in his eyes for the first time
since he was a baby, Brandr stabbed the weapon into the
ground with a roar of fury and proclaimed with a loud cry
to the high heavens, "This I swear afore Thor and all the
gods. We will be avenged!" His throat clogged for a
moment before he repeated hoarsely, "We will be avenged!"
The howl that followed was like that of a crazed wolf.
That was the day Brandr Igorsson turned berserker.