When he reached the top, he halted in amazement.
A ship rested on black rock, tilted over. On the rotted white sail, there was the remnants of a dragon's head worked in red. From the prow, with its upreared serpent's neck and gaping jaws and forked tongue, to the stern where a broken rudder lay across the rock, it was every inch a Viking ship. A few shields still hung on the wooden sides. The mast, splintered, stood at a dangerous angle from the sloping deck.
Thor went up the rudder-stick and clambered over the side.
A skeleton lay near the helm, a vest of rusted-through chain-mail pooled on the white bones. A little in front of what had been a hand, lay a great axe.
Thor grinned, seeing that axe. He reached for the ivory haft, lifted and swung it around his head.
He staggered.
The pain was unbearable, there in his side. He reached down, felt in his pocket. His fingers closed on the ruby.
With a curse, he flung the jewel from him. His palm still stung from its icy coldness. The ruby hit the deck and bounded across the ancient planks. It rolled to a stop near a shield.
Thor stared at it.