People of the Longhouse (38 page)

“I’m well aware of that, Your Grace.”

“Are you, Uhtred? Well, let’s be certain we understand the same things. When Sweyn the Forkbeard last attacked England, he attributed all of his triumphs to his Prophetess. He said it was her Seidur witchery that allowed him to ravage and burn anywhere he pleased, until no naval or land force dared to stand against him. He became so powerful that wherever his army marched, people threw down their weapons and fell to their knees to pledge allegiance to him. If we have King Sweyn Fork-beard’s renowned Prophetess on our side, it will terrify Cnut and my father. Perhaps even into submission.”

Edmund—the man who would be king—softly added, “I
must
have her.”

He strode for the door and exited with his plain brown cape swaying about his long legs.

Uhtred exhaled the breath he’d been holding. Great Odin, he knew far better than Edmund what was at stake. If the Prophetess had been here thirteen years ago, King Aethelred’s slaughter of the Danelaw would have failed and many members of Uhtred’s family—and Gunnar’s family—would be alive today.

Uhtred stared at the empty doorway for a few moments, remembering loved ones long gone, then grabbed his hat from the peg on the wall and followed Edmund into the luminous twilight.

Three

Hafvilla

D
arkness veiled the misty sea.

Gunnar the Skoggangur hung on to the prow scroll of
Thor’s Dragon
with one hand while he extended the whale-oil lamp with his other hand, trying to see the icebergs that floated like white mountains through the glistening arctic fog.

Gunnar would not tell his crew or passengers, but he had no idea where they were, or even what direction they were headed. For all he knew, they could be sailing out into the midst of the vast southern ocean where there was no land, just water that went on forever to the edges of the earth. And doom.

He shook wet blond hair out of his eyes and expelled a shaky breath. How could he, the great navigator, have gotten so lost? Each day he took readings with his sunstone and shadow compass and aimed the vessel accordingly. West. Due west.

Gunnar squinted into the lamp-lit fog, trying to fathom what he’d done wrong.

Sunstones, crystals of feldspar, could be held up even on foggy days and would tell a man the location of the sun, for the stone flared brighter when moved over the face of Sol. Or Gunnar could usually orient himself with his shadow compass. The compass was a disk of wood with notches cut around the edge, and a hole in the middle for the sighting pin. To keep it level, the compass floated in a bowl of water. The arc of shadow cast by the pin would be measured against the notches. On a westerly course, a shadow that was too long would indicate the ship had veered too far north, or a shadow arc too short meant he was too far south.

Gunnar had done everything he could to keep them on course. What had happened?

The ship rocked beneath him, riding the black swells. They should have made landfall in Vinland eight days ago. Instead, he’d been wallowing in this unnatural fog for twelve days. Had the other seven ships of colonists made it? Or were they also suffering
hafvilla,
the curse of being lost at sea?

Lightning flickered through the mist, then the low roll of thunder echoed. Gunnar noted that the swells had started coming closer together. Somewhere out there, a storm raged. They must be right on the edge of it.

His fourteen oarsmen knew it, too. They mumbled darkly to one another and tugged to tighten the ropes around their waists. The ropes tied them to the mast to keep them from being swept overboard if the seas grew rough. The scent of their fear sweat almost overpowered the sea’s salty fragrance.

Gunnar turned and called to his tiller, “Bjarni, what do you see out there?”

From the aft steerbord side, Bjarni called back, “Not one thing, Godi!”

“We barely missed that last iceberg. Best keep your eyes wide open.”

“Yes, Godi.”

Through the misty halo of lamplight, he could just barely see Bjarni. The twenty-six-year-old redhead appeared as only a vaguely darker splotch on the right side of the ship toward the rear. As the tiller, Bjarni was in charge of the rudder, the big oar fixed to the hull and moved by rotating the attached arm. It required a quick-witted man who was willing to pit his strength against the storm and defy it. Bjarni the Deep-minded was the only man Gunnar trusted there.

The groans of struggling oarsmen filled the air. They were all tired beyond any—

“Ice!” someone yelled.

Gunnar saw the massive white mountain slide out of the mist right in front of them.
“Laddebord, Bjarni! Laddebord!”

The ship veered sharply left, and the iceberg slipped away into the foggy darkness like a glistening phantom.

Gunnar wiped his eyes on his sheepskin sleeve. Spray ran from his protruding forehead, and filled the deep wrinkles of his face. Gods, he’d been a fool to agree to this secret mission for Edmund. The man was no more competent to rule England than his father, King Aethelred. Worse, King Cnut was just biding his time, waiting for the civil war in England to weaken both sides, before he sailed in with his army and reconquered England once and for all…. But Edmund was the best chance Gunnar’s relatives had. Maybe their only chance.

Gunnar sucked in a deep breath and held it for a moment. Horrifying images flickered behind his eyes. The leaders of the Danelaw had already begun preparing for the inevitable moment when armies would come marching in, hence their alliance with Edmund. In exchange for food, weapons, and soldiers, Edmund vowed to use his army to protect the Danelaw from all attackers—be they from Aethelred or Cnut, or some currently unknown opportunist.

Gunnar wasn’t sure Edmund could even protect his own hide, let alone the hides of others. Edmund must feel the same way.

And so … the Prophetess.
Vethild the Darkness-Rider.

Gunnar expelled a shaky breath. This business of hunting legends gave him a stomachache. No one really knew what had happened to her after the St. Brice Day Massacre. Some said she’d been murdered by her enemy, and chief rival, Thorlak. Others claimed she’d been kidnapped and hauled off in chains to a mythical place called Hvitramannaland, the Land of the White Men. The Angles called it Albania-Land. Vethild’s husband, Avaldamon, spent years trying to find her. In the process, he himself had vanished, never to be heard from again.

Were Gunnar a superstitious man, he’d suspect Vethild was responsible for their current situation. She’d reputedly been a master of the weather, creating massive storms with the wave of hand, or whirlpools that swallowed entire fleets. Was she trying to stop him from finding her? Or was she driving
Thor’s Dragon
toward her like a whipped stallion? Gunnar liked neither possibility.

He shook off the premonition. Gods, a man couldn’t afford to think like that. It was unnerving.

Gunnar tightened his hold on the prow scroll when waves suddenly slapped the bow.
Thor’s Dragon
rode up on a big swell, then plunged down the other side.

Gunnar shouted, “Steer into that wave, Bjarni! It seems the storm is upon us.”

One of the young oarsmen, Kiran the Kristni, roared, “Rolf, you oaf, stop chopping at the water and pull!”

“Shout your mouth, blasphemer, or I’ll use my oar to gut you! If we sink, it’s because you’re aboard, you anchorite bastard!”

A massive wave tossed
Thor’s Dragon
skyward. Gunnar grinned in senseless euphoria. Rolf the Cod-biter was pretty worthless, but Kiran had proven himself a true asset, despite the fact that Rolf was right. Kiran, a big black-haired sixteen-year-old, was a devotee of the Monk’s Tester, Lord of the Peak’s Pane, whom he called the Christ. If Gunnar had any wits, he’d publicly condemn Kiran as a blasphemer, and thereby ease the worries of both his crew and the colonists, most of whom did not take kindly to having an Anchorite aboard. They were afraid of Anchorites, and for good reason.

Just a few short years ago, the entire country of Iceland had been ordered to be baptized. Those who’d refused to convert had packed up and sailed for Greenland. But then Eirikr the Red’s own wife and son had become Anchorite missionaries. Those who held fast to their Seidur faith were afraid the same thing was about to happen in Greenland. They’d had no choice but to flee.

Every time something had gone wrong on this voyage, it had been blamed it on Kiran. The colonists, in fact, had urged Gunnar to throw him overboard.

The fools.

They needed Kiran. Gunnar had purchased Kiran and a Skraeling boy, Elrik, along with a girl named Kapusa, from a Hebrides merchant who claimed the Skraeling children had come from Vinland. Kiran was fluent in the Skraeling tongue, and he—

“Dear God, pull!” Kiran roared.

A sudden gust of wind ripped the lamp from Gunnar’s hand and slammed him back against the prow, filling his lungs with so much air that he could not exhale. Strangling on wind, he watched helplessly as
Thor’s Dragon
wallowed broadside and a huge wave swelled far above Gunnar’s head.
Great Thor …

Too late Gunnar managed to turn his head sideways, gulp air, and yell, “Bjarni! Steerbord!”

The wave overcurled the ship. Gunnar stared straight up into it, watching thunderbolts flicker through the roof of foaming water. As the ship drove deeper, the weight of the wave crushed the air from his lungs. Gunnar’s evil deeds, every one of them, flashed before his eyes.

When he emerged from the water, Gunnar gulped air and yelled, “Keep her to the steerbord, boys, or we’re going down!”

Bjarni steered the ship left into a massive wave that tossed them high into the air. As
Thor’s Dragon
ascended the wall of water, Gunnar wrapped both arms around the prow and hugged it to his breast. The ship crested the wave and hurtled down the other side into a boiling trough of foam. For a terrifying instant, Gunnar thought he was a lost soul. The bow plunged into the water. Gunnar held his breath until the ship lunged up again; then he shook soaked blond hair away from his face and shouted, “Steerbord, Bjarni!”

Gunnar rode the ship down as it dove into the next black trough. The descent felt weightless. When they hit bottom, the mast let out an agonized groan. Gunnar spun to look at the oaken timber. They’d lowered the sodden sail hours ago. It lay rolled and tied to the base of the mast, but it had shifted, and was now pointing toward the hold, funneling all the water on the deck…4.

Gods, help me; how much water has flooded into the hold?

The
Dragon
had a second deck and enough trusses that it could withstand heavy seas, plus the extra deck provided shelter for their cattle, goats, cargo, and thralls, not to mention the twenty colonists who must be green and heaving by now.

He shouted, “Sokkolf? Grab hold of your tether rope and pull yourself back to the mast, then untie and get below! See how much water had flooded into the hold. Organize bailers if need be!”

“Yes, Godi!”

Sokkolf, a muscular twenty-year-old, pulled his oar into the ship, secured it, and tugged himself along the rope on his belly.

Gunnar watched him disappear into the hold.

A few moments later,
Thor’s Dragon
shot straight upward, rising so high that Gunnar could see above the fog and out across the rain-lashed ocean where lightning danced. As the ship crested the wave, the
Dragon
’s bow upended and stood almost over her stern. She seemed to hang in midair before plummeting into the yawning valley below.

Gunnar blinked at the darkness. Without the lamp, he seemed to see more clearly. At least he could distinguish the black water from the foaming crests of the waves.

A few instants later, a halo of lamplight swelled from the hold, and the fog glistened like gold dust when Thyra emerged. Tall for her fifteen years, long ivory hair whipped around her narrow shoulders. The girl was Thorlak’s apprentice, studying Seidur magic at his feet, and for that reason alone Gunnar did not trust her.

As she lifted her lamp to study the violent sea, Gunnar could see the freckles that sprinkled her fair-skinned face. She wore a long white tunic sewn with the black image of Sleipnir, the eight-legged horse that Odin rode on his spirit travels to other worlds. A Seidur sword hung upon Thyrac’s hip. He’d heard tales that she could change herself into different kinds of dogs, wolves, or foxes and use her new form to spy upon others, or to tear them to pieces with fangs and claws. He didn’t believe it, but it didn’t pay to be too skeptical about such things.

“Thyra!” Gunnar shouted against the wind. “Get below. It’s too dangerous on deck!”

She held her lamp higher, saw Gunnar lashed to the prow, and smiled. Her teeth were etched with black runes. “I’ve come to do battle with Thor, Godi.”

Thor was the god of storms, and the fates of sailors.

“We don’t need your help. Get below!”

Gunnar’s stomach lurched as
Thor’s Dragon
plowed into the next wave, the prow cutting so deep that Gunnar found himself submerged in the black water for a full three seconds. Just before the bow swung upward, he heard a sudden thunderous crack and, through the wall of water, glimpsed the mast tilt. It wobbled for an instant, as though fighting to stand straight again, then the timber let out an earsplitting shriek and toppled to the steerbord, flinging the rolled sail up like child’s toy, then unfurling it across the deck.

Three oarsmen dove overboard before they were crushed. He could see them dangling by the ropes around their waists. Two men had vanished. Were they trapped beneath the timber or heap of woolen sail?

When the torrent of water receded from the deck, Thyra laughed.

Gunner couldn’t see her behind the tangled pile of rigging and sail. Frightened, he waited until
Thor’s Dragon
surged upward again, then he tore loose from his lashings and careened across the slippery deck toward the broken mast. He had to cut the ropes and shove the cracked timber overboard before the weight capsized them. Just as the ship crested the monstrous wave, Gunnar grabbed hold of the sail and held on as the steep descent began.