“I am Bjorn Bjornsson,” said the young man Set had initially mistaken for a particularly large bear. “This is Arne Arnesson, and this little shit is Njal. Just Njal. Say hello to Set, dwarf-fucker!”

Bjorn and “just Njal” fell to the ground in their third scrap since Set met them five minutes prior. Arne, a small and slight man with boyish features and an unearthly pale complexion, paid them no notice. He appeared to be examining some pattern in the sky, although Set was unable to pick out anything other than an ordinary flock of birds.

He turned to the scuffle transpiring not three yards to his left and watched as Bjorn pinned Njal to the floor, securing his third consecutive victory without breaking a sweat. Njal gnashed at his assailant’s arm viciously but might as well have been trying to chew through granite with rotten dentures. Bjorn’s forearms could easily be mistaken for tree trunks. If tree trunks had muscles and an ungodly amount of hair.

“Just so you know, Set, Njal’s mother is a giantess, a descendant of the legendary jotnar,” Bjorn said while smothering the now-feral Njal with a single palm. “But instead of siring this bastard with her betrothed, she sneaked off and had an affair with a dwarf, which explains why this little scrapper forgot all about his growth spurt until it was too late. Hahaha! A dwarf-giant! I wonder if his pecker comes from the spear or distaff side?”

After his meeting with Rune, Set had no idea what to expect from the three prodigies the jarl had spoken so highly of. If he had been given a thousand guesses to save his life, he would have died. And with ten thousand more, the result wouldn’t have been much different.

The three young men had been brought into the chamber before Set had time to fully consider the implications of Rune’s eyepatch. Apparently, Bjorn was simply unable to resist meeting the young warrior from Emain Macha, whom, amid capricious bouts of praise and threats, he called “his new best friend” and “a guaranteed dead man, no doubt about it.” Arne did not say a word, instead opting to stare at — or perhaps through — Set until the latter felt not just naked, but wholly stripped of his identity. Njal tried to clasp Set’s elbow as a sign of respect but was thumped on the head by Bjorn, who said, “Is it a giant’s elbow or a dwarf’s elbow? Hahaha!” Set had since learned that Bjorn had precisely one joke, of which he did not tire and probably never would.

Rune did not stay to observe the introductions. He left without a word and, Set later realised, without anyone actually seeing him leave. One second he was there, the next he wasn’t. Although he would never admit it, Set was secretly relieved that their conversation had ended where it had. The One-Eyed was an enigma who made him deeply, oppressively uncomfortable. He would count himself lucky if they never crossed paths again.

Now, however, Set was at a loss. The missive for Emain Macha remained on the table, and he was aware that he was obliged to deliver it. But could he just leave? Walk out the front door as if he hadn’t been imprisoned in a sky cell for five days? “Thanks, lads. It’s been great getting to know you, but I’m off. All the best to Rune.” For all he knew, an attempt to exit the castle might still be considered an attempt to escape.

He had barely kept his head. He didn’t want to lose it now.

“Trouble,” murmured Arne softly, his voice barely more audible than a whisper. “In the south. We must to Emain Macha.”

Bjorn rose to his feet and picked Njal up as if he weighed little more than an emaciated child, as opposed to the literal half-giant he was. Njal, meanwhile, appeared to have been placated somewhat, although he still leered at Bjorn with daggers in his eyes whenever the latter wasn’t looking — which happened to be quite often given that Bjorn could be distracted by just about anything.

It made sense to Set that the man could have his attention diverted by an attractive serving maid or a military drill. But when Bjorn interrupted Arne for the fifth time after noticing a snail with “a very pretty shell,” Set began to wonder whether he had been paired with the best of the Norse youth or the most moronic.

They were getting nowhere. And they had places to be.

“Bjorn,” Set said, measuring his words carefully to avoid upsetting a man near twice his size and thrice his weight. “It would seem that Arne has something to say. Can we return to the snail talk another time?”

At first, Set thought his lungs had evacuated his chest. Bjorn had clearly lost his temper and decided to put an end to his days of breathing. He soon realised that the Norseman had simply tried to pat him on the back as one might do when congratulating a dear friend.

The problem was that a pat from Bjorn carried the force of a hurricane. The man could topple a mountain by flicking it like a snot.

“I’ll hold you to that, little pup,” Bjorn said, readying his arm for a follow-up pat before Set cringed and retreated. “I like me a good snail. Nice to look at and nicer to eat. Like cows without the smell.”

Set composed himself and whirred around to glare at Bjorn. He was fed up.

“And who are you calling ‘little pup,’ eh? What gives you the right? Tell me, Bjorn Bjornsson, because my curiosity is insatiable. Just who do you think you are?”

Bjorn fixed his gaze on Set and allowed the smirk to disappear from his face. He looked so much bigger when he wasn’t smiling.

So much more frightening.

“It barks,” he drawled, holding his jaw to the side as he pressed his tongue against the bottom of his incisors. “Well, the little pup can bark after all. But tell me, Set of Emain Macha. Does it bite?”

“Lads!” roared Njal, moving between them and placing a hand on each of their chests — or, perhaps more accurately, Set’s chest and Bjorn’s stomach. “Let’s take it easy, yeah? Listen, Set. Bjorn loves a joke. He’s been calling me ‘dwarf-fucker' for ten years, despite the obvious fact that it was my mother, and not I, who had a child with a dwarf. I am the child. Ignoring yet another obvious fact that I don’t have a womb, how could I have myself?”

Set stifled a laugh. He hadn’t been able to form an impression of Njal while he was getting clattered by Bjorn, but he appeared to be reasonable. And quite funny.

“And Bjorn,” Njal continued. “For once in your life, could you give it a rest? You know Set is basically royalty in Emain Macha and you ought to address him as such. If Kveldulf heard about this — ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bjorn interjected, waving a hand like a boulder and almost pulverising the nearby Arne in the process. “Point taken. I apologise for calling you ‘little pup,’ Set. Where have my manners disappeared to? Naturally, I ought to call you the ‘Prince of Pups.’”

For a split second, Set saw red. And then all of the other colours returned.

“Not a bad ring to it,” he chanced, sounding the words out as they came to him. “I reared a pup as a child, you know. It could get through full plate to rip a man’s throat out now.”

“Ha!” boomed Bjorn. “I should like to see that. Maybe when we’re better mates we can test it on some bandits. Or better yet, one of those Imperial bastards.”

Bjorn topped off his response with a snarl that, for a moment, gave Set cause to believe that he truly was looking at a bear and not a man. Realising that the onus was now on him to solidify Njal’s attempt at consolation, he wrenched his face into the nastiest grimace he could manage.

Bjorn looked ecstatic.

“And now,” Njal said, looking quite pleased with himself as he said it. “Arne, take it away.”

If Arne knew what he was supposed to take away, he displayed no signs of possessing that knowledge. His gaze was locked on the sky above them, at which point Set realised that he somewhat resembled Jarl Rune. Not physically, of course — Arne was all skin and bones, with eyes of such a pale blue that they were almost grey. The wind could knock him over. Bjorn could probably punch him to dust.

But his expression. That, Set now knew, linked him to Rune somehow. Not many people could demonstrate such intensity without concentrated effort. Arne wore it — as Rune did — like it was an integral part of his face, as if he had been born staring into the depths of hell and had been patiently observing them ever since.

“There is trouble in the south,” Arne said gently, as if talking to himself. “Many people have already been lost. We must to Emain Macha. We will leave now. Yes?”

Bjorn and Njal nodded in agreement. Njal patted Arne on the shoulder and whispered something Set could not make out in his ear. Arne appeared unfazed.

“What trouble?” Set demanded. “What is happening in the south?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Njal, adjusting the sheath on his belt. “If Arne says there’s trouble, there’s trouble. But it’s not for us to sort out. We have our own mission. Right?”

“Right,” answered Bjorn. “We do what Arne says, Set. That’s how it is with us. Have you got everything?”

Set wanted to say that, considering his imprisonment, “everything” in his case amounted to exactly “nothing.” But weariness had caught his scent and was now openly stalking him. Arne was odd and Bjorn was a pain in the arse, but Njal seemed to have a head on his shoulders. If Njal was on board, so was he.

“Yes,” Set eventually said. “I have everything I need. I’ll just grab the missive and we can be off.”

“Excellent,” said Njal. “Oh, and Set? If you’re travelling with us you ought to know a few things. But we can fill you in on the road.”

Bjorn smiled, all teeth and mischief. Arne did not avert his gaze from the sky until they left Rune’s balcony and chamber, at which point he became so small and silent that he might not have existed at all.

They returned to the greenhouse and made their way out into the main courtyard. The guards stationed by the gate let them through without a word, after which Set was once more out in the world.

But he was not free. Not yet.

Four mares awaited the small company outside the castle walls. Njal helped Arne up onto his mount as Bjorn examined his critically, perhaps wondering whether he might crush every bone and organ in its body into a stew of dust and guts the moment he sat on it. To Set’s surprise, Bjorn sprung lithely onto the steed’s back and assumed a practiced riding position that didn’t appear to bother the mare in the slightest.

Makes sense, Set thought to himself, clambering onto his own horse with slight difficulty as the weight of the previous five days made milk of his muscles. He may be an idiot, but he’s still one of Rune’s charges. He must have at least some idea what he’s doing.

Once Njal had mounted his horse, the four young warriors set off at a canter due northwest. The first few minutes passed in silence, although it was soon shattered by Bjorn’s singing.

In ordinary circumstances Set might have scolded him and demanded that he shut up. They were on the highway and they didn’t need to attract unwanted attention. But Bjorn’s voice was deep and soothing, like the lingering foam of a wave that has kissed the cliff and bid it farewell. Set couldn’t understand the words, but he could intuit their meaning.

It was a song about love. About loss. About death.

“Bjorn,” Njal said once his companion had finished singing. “I know you have a lovely voice, and I appreciate you sharing that with us. But we’re a good few miles out from the castle now. It’s time.”

Suddenly, all three Norsemen brought their horses to a halt. Set jerked at his own reins to follow suit. His mare was clumsier than theirs and only stopped trotting ten yards beyond them.

Or perhaps Set was just a lousier rider. But he preferred to blame the horse.

The company dismounted and allowed their mares to graze in the grassy knolls lining either side of the highway. Njal whispered something in Bjorn’s ear, causing Set to realise that he was sick to death of all this secrecy.

They were travelling as one company now. Whispers were for village gossips and the elderly, not warriors sharing a common cause. He decided that it was high time they straightened some things out.

“Look,” said Set in a low but firm voice. When all three Norsemen looked at him in unison, he realised with horror that he hadn’t yet thought through what exactly he wanted to say.

“I’ve had enough of these secrets,” he chanced. “I don’t expect that we’ll all be best friends by tomorrow, but for now we are companions. You can’t keep whispering behind my back. From now on, everything must be stated openly for all to hear. Otherwise I’m riding off and you can find your own way to Emain Macha.”

Bjorn and Njal exchanged a glance that could have meant anything. Meanwhile, Arne was hunched over next to a crow with whom he appeared to be having a conversation.

First he says nothing, now he’s talking to birds, thought Set. How have I ended up with these madmen?

His thoughts were interrupted by Njal, who strode over and clasped Set’s shoulder with one hand. He locked eyes with him and smiled. It was gentle. Kind. Reassuring.

“That’s what we were just discussing, young wolf,” said Njal. Set blushed instantly — the only people who called him that were Lugh, Emer, and some of the rowdier children from Emain Macha. He liked the sound of it coming from someone else’s mouth. “We have no desire to keep anything from you, although we appreciate the threats all the same. Nothing quite says ‘fellowship’ like giving your companions an ultimatum every five minutes, eh?”

It was clear that Njal was speaking in jest, but that did not make Set feel any better. He had behaved like a spoiled brat.

And he was beginning to realise he was one.

“It will be easier to show you,” said Njal, graciously ignoring the fact that Set had gone more red than a shepherd’s ideal sunset. “It actually hasn’t got much to do with me. I’ll let Bjorn and Arne take it from here.”

Bjorn drew a handful of something Set couldn’t identify from a small satchel attached to his belt and shoved it in his mouth. Before Set knew what was happening, the bear was upon him, pinning his arms to the floor and salivating over his face.

“So what do you reckon?” asked the bear in the voice of Bjorn. “Bet you never could have guessed this when you demanded to know who I thought I was. Has that insatiable curiosity of yours been sated yet? Boo!”

A hawk alighted on Bjorn’s head and peered down at Set with eyes of such a pale blue that they were almost grey.

“The hawk..?” Set stammered.

“Arne,” Njal confirmed with a nod. “Most people think he’s a bit loopy when they see him watching the sky or chatting with crows. Makes a bit more sense now, eh?”

Set couldn’t believe his eyes. Not two minutes prior he had been surrounded by three Norsemen. Now he was in the company of a half-giant and a bear wearing a hawk as a hat.

“But how..?” Set asked, still unable to articulate his thoughts using anything beyond vaguely inquisitorial monosyllables. “They… changed..?”

“I am Bjorn Bjornsson,” said the bear. “The firstborn son of my family has been given this name for generations. We are what you might call berserkers. In other words, men who can take on the form of a bear. With a little help from drugs, that is.”

“I am Arne Arnesson,” said the hawk. It retained Arne’s gentle tone, but vibrated with an additional trill. “I come from a family of shapeshifters. No drugs needed.”

Set realised that this was the most normal Arne had sounded since he met him. Before he could make rhyme or reason of that observation, the hawk interrupted him.

“I feel more comfortable in this form,” said Arne casually, as if he were talking about wearing a brighter shade of blue instead of metamorphosing into a literal bird. “I would remain a hawk forever if I could. But Rune has forbidden it. He is concerned that I might lose myself in this body. I am only permitted to change when it is strictly necessary.”

With that, the bird hopped off of the bear’s head and Arne once more appeared in front of Set. His face had more colour and his eyes displayed more life. He smiled, turned on his heel, and wandered back over to the crows he had been conversing with earlier.

Bjorn had also resumed his regular form, although rather than looking rejuvenated he appeared to be tired and irritable.

“Still don’t know what they can talk to him about that we can’t,” he muttered, sulking. “Stealing food? Shitting on people’s heads?”

“Leave him be,” said Njal. “Rune’s right, you know. The more he transforms, the more like them he becomes. Don’t be too hard on him.”

(Writer’s note: The following text has been added on July 20. The chapter up until this point was written during a previous session.)

“Mind to whom you condescend,” retorted Bjorn. “Arne is more than a brother to me. I know his troubles better than anyone. Which is why the sadness I carry exacts such a toll.”

The berserker collapsed onto a nearby log with a thud. Njal was with him in an instant, proffering an arm to the deflated warrior. Bjorn clasped it eagerly around the elbow and grunted his appreciation, while Set looked on and noted his rapidly developing respect for the trio. Misfits and outcasts all, they at least had one another to depend on, and there was something quietly beautiful about that.

But it was a beauty of which he did not form a part. Set turned from his provisional companions and readied his horse to resume the journey, adjusting the saddlebags and stroking her muzzle. Despite her clumsiness, the mare was growing on him. She was the only member of the company who had yet to make him feel like an outsider.

As he rearranged her bit, he realised that the three Norsemen were already mounted and geared to proceed. He climbed onto the saddle and wordlessly urged the mare forward, lamenting the transience of that one tender moment that had now been and gone, fleeting as the raindrop that collides with the ocean. He rode on in silence, head bowed and shrouded in a mental fog that dulled the senses. Left him alone and listless. Free.

“Set!”

The voice sliced through the fog like a blade through butter. Set snapped to attention, wrenched from his reverie. Bjorn stood beside him, and it was only then that Set saw it was he who held the reins, having brought the mare to a halt without the warrior from Emain Macha noticing that he had stopped moving. Stopped floating.

“Dismount,” ordered Bjorn. While his tone was commanding, it was neither loud nor harsh. Rather it expressed urgency and unease.

The first detail Set marked was that they were nearing Emain Macha. Clearly his dissociation had not been quite as momentary as he had surmised. He felt conflicted and slightly hurt. True enough, he was almost home and would soon know the comforts he had missed over the past few weeks. But it was evident that the Norsemen had ignored him for a significant period of time. Had they done so out of respect for the boundaries he had erected? Were they sympathetic to his obvious alienation? Or were they simply fed up with him?

It pained him to admit that, had they acted like he had up to that point, he knew all too well which case would be more likely. Long had he put up with brats at court. So long that he had become blind to the signs that he failed to see in himself.

The second detail he observed was a dolmen lying west of the road.

It had been desecrated.

The capstone had been sliced cleanly in half, causing the sides to fall inward and collapse the pillars beneath them. What had previously been an ancient, sacred tomb was now a pile of rubble. But most striking of all was the body that lay upon the stones.

“A woman,” said Bjorn.

Set hesitated. Then corrected him.

“Not just a woman. A witch.”