Dawn was spilling over the fjord like milk. The smoke from the long hut smelled of tar and juniper. Edda, the twelve-year-old daughter of a carpenter, stroked her hand over a freshly hewn oar. She wanted to one day stand on the dragon's prow and lead an expedition. "Not yet," - muttered Leif, her cousin, only a year older. Then a horn blew from the empty island of Hrafnholm. One long, two short. No guard there was watching. The signal was out of this night. On the pier lay a pack wrapped in wolf fur. Inside shone a disc of whale bone, threaded with a thong. In the centre someone had carved the mark of a raven and the Raido rune. Next to it rested a black feather. "This is from the Ice Raven saga," whispered Edda. - "It shows the secret currents." Leif looked nervously around the water. "The Jarl has sailed away. We shouldn't." Edda slid the puck around his neck. It shuddered and turned gently, as if to indicate fog. A chill was coming in from the fjord, the wind was quieting, white strands of mist were rising. They got into a small boat and bounced away from the shore. The oars sloshed with rhythm and the echoing horn sailed ahead of them. The fog hugged them so tightly that the cliffs disappeared. The horn spun faster and suddenly stopped to the north. Something huge flashed under the boat, inaudible as a shadow. The boat rocked once, then a second, and silence fell again. The veil of mist tore for a moment. Just ahead of them drifted a long dragon-headed ship, frosted as if it were winter. The shields on its deck were silent, yet the horn sounded again. A raven swooped down and sat on their bow, holding another feather in its beak. The dragon's lips seemed to move, and the deck slowly turned towards them.