At the end of the fjord lay the village of Skard, smelling of tar and salt. After the night storm, the waves had calmed down and seagulls circled quietly. Runa, the blacksmith's eleven-year-old daughter, ran along the shore. Her father's drakkar stood at the dock; the oars gleamed from fresh oil. Today they were to check the ice in Ice Bay. Instead of ice, Runa first found a box in the tangled seaweed. She called out to her cousin. Einar came running over, holding a rope knife, and lifted the lid. Inside lay a metal hammer with engraved runes and a leather thong. It was icy, but it trembled as if something was alive inside it. The runes touched the marks. They arranged themselves into an arrow, sharper than ice. The arrow pointed deep into the bay, through the milky, creaking ice. - 'If it's a trap, the jarl will stick us with a punishment,' muttered Einar. - 'Or he will reward us,' replied Runa, and stepped onto the ice of the bay. The ice sang in a low tone; the smell of tar and smoke came from the shore. The hammer suddenly warmed her hand, as if it recognised the way. As she knelt, the runes lit up with a dull light. A line appeared below the surface, then another, like a map drawn by fire. The lines led to a dark stain trapped in the ice. The spot shimmered, as if someone had lifted an eyelid there. The ice cracked right in front of them and something emerged slowly, quieter than a breath. The chill raised the hairs on the back of Runa's neck. A green glare shimmered in the crack, as if on fresh copper. Einar took a step back, but the ice crackled once more. The hammer trembled harder, ripped from her fingers and leapt into the dark crevice.