I scowl at him, widening my stance to keep my footing as the longship rolls into a trough. The black sails are full, lightening the load on the oarsmen and pulling us along at a ferocious speed. The collision of bow and wave jars my bones, but the last thing I want is to fall on my face in front of Chieftain Lars, who is squinting into the distance as if he can already see the Kupari peninsula. Both his arms carry over fifty parallel silver notches, from shoulders to the tip of his middle fingers. He has five on each cheek, too, beneath his eyes and above the edge of his beard. The marks of a true warrior.
Someday, I think. With those marks, no one would dare question whether I belong.
But today I will settle for holding my own. “If you can manage that many kills today without getting killed yourself, Sander, I’ll be happy to cut you.”
Sander leans down as if he wants to emphasize the difference in our heights, to remind me of the relative smallness of my body. My heart quickens, not with fear, but with triumph. He, like so many other men, doesn’t realize how dangerous it is to give up the advantage of reach, to put himself within my strike range. It would be so easy to pull the knife from the sheath on my forearm and jam it into his exposed throat. He of all people should know better. Instead, he merely looks amused. “I’ll do the same for you, Ansa, unless you’re afraid I’ll slice too deep. Your skin seems rather thin.”
I laugh. “And yours is as succulent as lamb, if I recall correctly.” Quick as a darting fish, I reach up and flick the base of his ear, where the smooth, soft drop of his lobe once hung.
Until I bit it off.
He grimaces, and his fingers close over the handle of the ax at his side. Thyra steps between us and elbows him. “What did you think you were going to get in return for goading her? Isn’t the result always the same?”
He rolls his eyes. Thyra stands up straighter. “Either focus on what’s coming or take another turn at the oars.” She cuts her gaze to me as a gust off the lake blows her short light brown hair away from her forehead. “You too. Maybe take a breath before attacking.” Her lips twitch. “For once.”
I force the corners of mine downward, though all I want to do is smile when she looks at me. “Oh, I’m focused—on getting as many kill marks as I can.”
“Is that really all you think about?”
“No, of course not. I think about the copper and silver I’ll plunder too.” I think about having so much that I will never want again.
“Those people have no idea what’s coming for them,” she mutters. “But there are rumors of a—”
I hold up my hand. “No matter what’s waiting for us, I’m ready.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“You doubt me?” My gaze drops to the lean curve of her upper arm, where she bears three marks, one of which is rightfully mine. A forbidden gift to protect her; a secret that binds us.
She shifts so I can’t see the marks on her skin, but her blue eyes are warm as she says, “I never doubt you, Ansa. Only fate and all mortal-made plans.”
So like her. “Don’t let him hear you say that,” I murmur, nodding at Chieftain Lars’s back. Thyra glances up at her father. Our chieftain is now in low conversation with Einar and Cyrill, his war counselors. Their cloaked shoulders are so broad that they block my view of the carved wolf head that juts from the prow of this mighty vessel. Ours is the lead, but the others, nearly one hundred fifty in all, sprawl behind us on either side like a massive flock of lethal birds. With a crew and a half on each, enough for all of us to have a break from the oars for part of the journey, we are a force of more than four thousand, tribes gathered from all parts of the north and united under Lars. Nowhere in this world is there a more dominant or deadly army, and we will cut through any Kupari resistance like wolves in a fat herd of sheep.
Not for the first time, I am confused as to why Thyra does not take more pride in all of this.
She will be chieftain one day. The only other rightful claimant to the chair—Lars’s brother Nisse—was banished in shame this past winter. Thyra is our future.
She sees my frustration, I think. Something defiant and bold flares behind her eyes. “I wish us nothing but blood and victory,” she says, her voice taking on a commanding edge that I envy and crave at the same time.
“Blood and victory,” I repeat.
“They call us Soturi, I hear,” she says. “Cyrill told me it means ‘warrior’ in their language.”
I suppose Cyrill would know. He has a Kupari slave in his household. “That’s nice. I’m happy to hear it doesn’t mean ‘dung eaters.’?”
She gives me a half smile, and I stare at her face. She’s a few inches taller than me, but on my tiptoes I can match our heights and bring us close. After she pushed me away the one time I tried, though, I won’t do it again.
I so want to do it again.
“Skiff ahead!” shouts our lookout, his voice nearly lost in the wind as he calls down from his perch high on the mast.