ONE
Light from the rotund moon reflected off the ocean on the outboard side, allowing them to keep the longship oriented. Land was the darkness on the other side of the karvi, the sleek and narrow longship. It was closer than the ship’s captain preferred, but Kjallak Arvidson had overridden his concerns. If they were too exposed on the water, they might be sighted by the Danish marauders they knew were somewhere behind them—a veritable fleet of four longships. There were only a dozen men on the karvi—less than a third of the number the boat could comfortably hold—and they could not afford to get caught. The karvi had a very shallow draft; it could hug a shoreline safely. If they were spotted, they could beach the boat easily too, and head inland.
Of course, in that case, their journey would take longer, which was why Kjallak had risked taking to the sea.
His men dozed on their benches, their oars raised and locked. Kjallak sat in the stern, staring out at the moon-dappled water. Beside him, Halldor, his second, leaned against the raised tail of the ship, snoring occasionally.
The wind was behind them, and it pushed gently against their sail. There was a current too, and the combination of wind and water propelled the boat at a steady pace. It felt like a good omen.
Kjallak had risked sailing at night in order to make up for the time they had lost a few days ago when a northern storm had driven them aground. They were expected in Visby and were already overdue.
A tremor ran through the hull of the karvi, and Halldor stirred beside him. Kjallak stared ahead, peering through the dim night, but he saw nothing beyond the pale planks of the longship. He heard the captain’s voice, calling out to the lookout in the prow of the boat, and he winced slightly when a small light sputtered to life. The lookout had lit a lantern, and he cringed at the idea that they were making themselves so visible on the open water.
He stood and walked carefully down the center of the boat. Around him, the men started stirring on their benches, shaken out of their nocturnal stupors by the tremors.
“What is your man doing?” he hissed at the captain when he reached the forward benches. “We can be seen.”
The captain held up a hand, all his attention devoted to listening to the night and the ocean. Kjallak held his tongue and listened as well, trying to hear what the captain was hearing. He felt the stern of the boat drift outboard slightly.
“Oars,” the captain shouted suddenly, startling Kjallak. “Get them in the water!” The captain leaped up, darting for the rack midship where the oars and poles were stored. “Outboard side,” the captain commanded.
The boat shook again, the tremor much stronger this time, and Kjallak staggered, falling back against the nearby bench. The karvi groaned beneath him as it came to a complete stop in the water. The lookout was shouting something, waving his lantern down near the railing.
The men got their oars in the water, and they pulled frantically. They had no rhythm; each was pulling out of time and tempo with the man next to him. The captain shouted at them to get it right.
The boat spun slowly around its bow, turning until the stern was pointing at the moon. The captain finally got the sailors organized, and the boat struggled free of whatever had seized it. As the prow swung around, redirected by the sailors and their oars, the narrow karvi listed to the inboard side.
“Some of her seams are done up; we need to put in to shore,” the captain said, stomping over to Kjallak. His mouth was turned down as if there was something more he wanted to say, but he only shook his head and shoved past Kjallak. “Raise your lantern, boy,” he called to the lookout. “We need to see where we’re going before we all drown.”
“It is ill luck,” a voice said behind Kjallak, and he turned to look up at his second, who seemed unconcerned about the listing angle of the boat.
“Aye,” Kjallak said. “We’ve had our share of it.”
“It will turn,” Halldor said simply.
Kjallak was used to his second’s taciturn—and yet seemingly endless—optimism, but he didn’t have the same temperament. “I hope so,” Kjallak sighed, wishing—for neither the first nor the last time—that he and Halldor weren’t so dissimilar. “It’ll take two or three days to re-peg and tar the hull. If we’re lucky and there’s a hold nearby, we might be able to get some horses and go overland.”
“Add a day to your reckoning,” Halldor said, shaking his head. “Tomorrow is the equinox. There will be a bl?t and feasting. If we arrive at a hold, we will be guests, and there will be no avoiding it.”
Kjallak frowned. Another delay, he thought. Was this entire journey cursed?