The Chief of this particular clan, Thorvald, led a group of five men across the pebbly beach. Each was in full armor and weapons. They were red headed Sigurd; taciturn until the berserker fury came upon him. A master of axe, the tall man two, each with one blade, balanced for throwing. Next to him walked the twins by his sister, Harald and Nils; both men were swordsmen of the utmost ability. Their names were feared in England and Ireland and when they were out on Viking, entire villages trembled. Olaf, bearer of a large, broad bladed spear and a two handed sword strapped across his back, hair gone white, was still able to beat any man but Thorvald. The last was no warrior. Face tattooed, his wiry body hidden in wolf fur, a bag of runes clinking at his leathern belt, this man’s eyes were a step short of madness. Hair worn long and loose, it streamed behind him in the cool air, like an obsidian wave. He followed the others but in a zigzag pattern laid out for him by Odin, the chief of their gods. This man was Wulf as had been his father and his father’s father for as long as this clan had existed. He spoke to the gods through the runes and he had predicted this day.

Thorvald stopped before the boat. The moans were floating up from the deck of the battered ship. The others stopped in their tracks when Thorvald held up a hand.

"It is indeed Larsen’s ship. I recognize the rune work on the sides. But look at the condition!" Thorvalds voice lowered. "Could this be the work of the Christians?"

Wulf laughed a long, low sound. "Nay, my Chieftain! The Christians are too frightened of Dragon ships to do such an ill deed!"

Sigurd lifted one of his axes and with a nod from Thorvald, pulled himself onto the boat. What he saw froze him in his tracks. Sigurd had gone Viking many times, had seen much carnage and death. But this was beyond his knowledge. The deck of the ship was covered in clots of dried blood. Limbs, obviously hacked off, lay hither and yon. Broken spears and arrows were everywhere. Signs of a fire covered half the benches on the port side. Sigurd heard the moan again and turned. There, chained to the main mast, one arm gone, one side of his face torn, stood Sven Larsen. He moaned and cried and tried to free himself by thrashing. Sigurd turned and called down, "Thorvald, I think you should see this."

Silently Thorvald and the others came aboard the damaged ship. The Chieftain of the clan’s eyes narrowed. Kneeling for a moment he gasped. The bones on the deck… some of them had been chewed by human teeth!

Wulf slid past Sigurd and stared at Larsen. "This one is no longer the man you knew, my Chieftain. His spirit is gone. All that is left is hunger."

Thorvald moved closer only to be stopped by Wulf. "No! No closer. A bite or a scratch from this creature and you will be damned! Damned!" Wulf’s eyes clouded over and he said, "So the spirit of my father’s father told me. This creature is evil, pure and simple."

Sigurd stared at the drooling, moaning thing. "Can it be killed?"

Wulf turned an odd light in his eyes, a smile on his lips. "Oh aye, it can be killed! But only in two ways; the head can be smashed or the entire body burned. These are the only ways!"

Wulf saw doubt in their eyes. "You do not believe me? Take your blade Sigurd, mighty warrior! Chop off its arm! Chop off its legs! It will still moan and screech for your life, for your flesh!"

Thorvald slid his sword from his scabbard and with a quick motion brought the blade up and down. It split Larsen’s head from crown to teeth. Instantly the body fell limp, destroyed.

Thorvald licked his lips. "Harald, Nils. Go back to the village. Bring skins of oil. We are going to burn this ship and what’s on it to ash. Then we will speak Wulf; of how to stop this horror."

As they turned to leave the ship, there was another moan. This wasn’t one of pain, but of weariness and fright. The men turned; their blades and axes coming up. Thorvald’s eyes narrowed. "It sounds like its coming from below deck."

Wolf sniffed the air. "Whoever it is, they are injured. We have to find him!"

"Caution," screeched Wulf, dancing backwards from the warriors, keeping a keen eye on them as they advanced.

Thorvald and Sigurd moved toward the aft end of the ship, taking care to stay away from the dead Larsen. Wulf hung back a bit, clutching at his bag of runes while chanting in a low voice. It was Sigurd who saw the fingers sticking up, crusted in dried blood, from between the deck planks.

"Here!" Sigurd cried. Using one of his axe blades he pried up a length of planking and tossed it aside like matchwood. There, lying in his own filth and blood lay Larsen’s youngest son, Snorri. Sigurd began to bring up his blade when Wulf darted in front of him. "Nay, stay your blade, warrior. This man still lives… for now."

Eyes glazed with hunger and fear, Snorri made a feeble gesture to get out of the bottom of the boat. Thorvald sheathed his sword. "Sigurd, take the lad to Balti, tell her to care for him. Wulf and I will follow shortly." As Sigurd lifted the man like a babe, Thorvald turned to Wulf. "What did you mean, he’ll live for now?"

Wulf’s odd eyes, not quite grey, green or blue, shifted in the afternoon sunlight. "I had hoped never to see this happen in our time, my Chieftain. But the boy Snorri is doomed. He won’t see another dawn."