Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(73)

Aelfhild whooped for Arinbjorn along with the others.

“Arinbjorn took the troll horde—the buried gold and silver!—but not for himself. He spread it around to his people, and was loved by all. He lived on many years to raise a toast with his sons and his sons’ sons!”

“Well put, Onund,” said Eyvind when the cheering had died down.

The skald took a bow before settling back into his blanket. There were smiles around the campfire once more.

But the wheels turned as they always did.

Aelfhild found herself thinking of a neglected tomb in a forgotten hole. She thought of nameless bones and walls that guarded mere foundations. That took some of the glimmer from the story, and she saw her thoughts mirrored in eyes around the campfire. Will they remember us? Remember me? It was a hard question to avoid.

“Servants do not get tombs.”

She realized she had spoken the thought aloud.

“You are a hard one to cheer up, girl,” muttered Kolbrun. The shield-maiden rolled onto her side and put her back to the fire.

“Kings do. And Queens,” said Ceolwen. She stared into the heart of the fire, oblivious to the baleful stales directed her way from all sides.

The girl would always be a royal. Even without a crown, there was no curing her of that upbringing. Still, Aelfhild was taken aback by the callous comment.

“Such gloom!” Eyvind called. “Why waste your worries on what sort of tomb you will have? You will not care much when it comes time to lie in it. Live, and let your deeds be your mark on the world!”

Rolf grunted; evidently the grey-beard agreed.

“That is what Arinbjorn would tell you, if he could,” Eyvind said. “Now sleep, we have a ways yet to row and this talking helps no one.”





40

A strong wind blew up from the west for several days and slowed the ship’s progress. They rowed but could make little headway against the force of the waves, and tacking against such a wind proved slow and fruitless work. The crew labored hard for little return and came ashore exhausted each night.

Unsympathetic to sore arms and tired backs, Eyvind had Aelfhild and Ceolwen practice their axe work every evening before turning in. Each of the Thrym had advice to give, and each a different style. Kolbrun fought defensively, always deliberate and measured in her movements; Rolf was wild and aggressive, his blows unpredictable. One warrior gripped his axe in just such a way, another differently, while one placed his feet closer together, another further apart.

At first Aelfhild found the mess of conflicting instruction overwhelming, but she soon realized that the Thrym were merely trying to give her a range of choices. There was no single path, and tactics that suited one warrior might cost another his life. It would be up to her to find what fit.

She tried them all, ducking and shuffling and swinging until her limbs turned to lead and could move no more. Then she would flop down on her blanket and snore until roused to stand watch.

They woke one morning to find good fortune had delivered them a southeasterly wind. Rolf set a westward course under billowing sails, and the crew took their ease.

The first clouds did not appear until midday. They began as distant dots along the horizon to the south and east.

Aelfhild noticed the Thrym starting to stir. Kolbrun went back to confer with Rolf. They pointed toward the storm front, and whispered back and forth.

The clouds were bruised purple-grey, but Aelfhild saw little to worry about. Unn-marr had passed through ice floes and cinder storms, and a little rain would be no more than a break from the tedium of sailing. She remembered how her companions had brushed off the squall on their first day together, and felt no fear.

But the wind grew and the sky darkened. Lightning lanced through pregnant thunderheads along the storm line, though the thunder was still just a murmur in the distance.

When Geir leapt to the prow to scan the shore for a landing place, Aelfhild began to fret.

They were well out to sea and the wind was against them. The coastline was different here than near the Grimbergs; limestone pillars and islets rose to block easy passage to the narrow beaches beyond.

White froth appeared atop the waves as the gale whipped higher, and the deck rocked wildly beneath their feet.

Eyvind and Rolf came to a decision in the stern and turned the ship out to sea. They rode the breakers away from the storm, but even Aelfhild with her limited seamanship could see that outrunning it was not a possibility.

“Lash down the oars and chests,” Rolf bellowed. “Stow the sail and set lines for running off.”

A few of the words Aelfhild did not recognize. She knelt beside Kolbrun as they fastened ropes through slats in the hull.

“What is running off?”

“We cannot row and the wind will break the mast clean off with sails. So we float bare and let the storm carry us along.”

“And the ropes?”

“We toss them over if we need to slow. Too fast, and we plow into the wave in front of us. Too slow, and we fall into the one behind.”

Neither choice sounded good. Aelfhild’s throat felt suddenly narrow, and she swallowed hard.

“But Eyvind knows what to do?”

Kolbrun looked up at her. There was no hint of jest in her eyes. “Anyone can hold the oar and pray. Now is the time for praying.”

They pulled the cloth awning up around the mast and huddled beneath it. Eyvind and Rolf stood at the steering board, watching the waves.