I stomp at the ground, savagely crushing the past beneath the heel of my boot.
The mood in and around the sprawling camp is hard to read. People load horses and their own backs with all the things they own, all the things we’ve plundered and captured in our raids over the years. Some of the andeners have fled with their families—several shelters are empty, the fires cold. They must have snuck along the shore, avoiding the well-worn paths Jaspar and his warriors were guarding. They were willing to risk the bite of the north to avoid what awaits us in Vasterut, and I have a feeling Jaspar will be furious. Thyra will feel the loss too—those who left might have supported her over Nisse. Though our andeners may not be fighters, all of them have valuable skills—weapon forging and repair, food preparation and storage, breeding and child rearing, weaving and mending, wound stitching and healing. They know what warriors need, and how to keep us battle ready. We protect them and provide for them, and in return they keep us whole.
Now we are shattered. A broken people facing many choices with no good options. Our only chance lies with Thyra.
I thread my way past some of the older warriors who were meant to lead our second wave, those who called Edvin their commander. My stomach drops as I pass Aksel in hushed conversation with Preben, whose long beard is the color of wet iron, and Bertel, whose hair has gone white over the last few years, in contrast with his dark brown skin. Neither of the older men notices me, but Aksel tosses me a look as cold as the Torden in new spring, and I look away. I have no time for conversation or confrontation—once we leave, we’ll be stretched over at least a mile along the perimeter of the lake, hiking leagues to get to the southern shore. I might not have another chance to get the information I want.
When I reach Cyrill’s shelter, I find his andener, Gry, bundling her children into as many layers as they can possibly wear—she means them to carry all their clothing on their backs. Her thin blond hair hangs in a lank braid as she kneels in front of her youngest, a rosy-cheeked boy named Ebbe who Cyrill used to carry around camp on his broad shoulders. She glances over as I lean against the door frame. “No, you can’t have any of Cyrill’s blades,” she says sharply. “Heard you were taking them from the shelters of the dead yesterday.”
“I have all I need.”
“Good. Because we don’t.” Her face crumples and she turns away.
There’s a heavy cold in my chest that isn’t caused by my curse. “Cyrill was a great warrior, Gry. I’m sorry he was lost.”
She sniffles and shoos Ebbe off to play with his older sister, who is killing time with a game of jackstraws using sharpened twigs. “Not as sorry as I am,” she says in a choked voice.
“We will make sure your family is provided for.”
“I know. And I believe in Chieftain Thyra, no matter what the others say. But”—she gives me a pained look—“I miss Cyrill’s laugh. I miss how he made me laugh.”
I rub my chest. “He made me laugh even as he lay wounded. He was in good spirits until the end, Gry.”
“You were with him?” She swipes the sleeve of her gown across her face.
“He cursed the fact that he was stuck with a bunch of baby warriors.”
Her chuckle is raspy with grief. “Thank you for that.”
I glance around. “Where is your slave?”
“Hulda? I sent her to gather kindling. Why?”
I shrug. “Just hoping she hadn’t run away. Many have.” I take a step backward, already knowing where I’m headed next. “If you or your children need anything on this journey, find me. All right?”
She gives me a flickering smile. “Thank you, Ansa.” She looks away. “Cyrill always spoke highly of you. Said you were among the fiercest he’d trained.”
My throat hurts as I say, “I will live up to that; I promise.”
I jog to the other side of camp, the edge of the great forest. It used to lean right over the shore, but over the years as we built our longships, it shrank back and back and back, leaving only a muddy field of stumps. A few andeners, slaves, and children pick their way along, hunting twigs and leaves to stoke morning fires for the meal before we depart. I spot Hulda by herself at the far edge of the field, right at the forest’s new edge, dropping handfuls of short twigs and splintered wood into a cloth bag. Her weathered brow furrows as she sees me approaching, and she backtracks into the woods as I draw near. “Cyrill’s!” she says in a shrill voice.
She’s afraid I’m going to claim her as plunder.
I put my hands up. “No. I don’t want you.”
Her eyes narrow. She’s healthy and stout, with hair the same color as mine. The same as the witch queen’s. “I need to ask you something. About the witch.” I wish I could take back the word as she scowls. “I mean, the . . . Valtera?”
She gives me a quizzical look.
I try again. “The Valia?”
“Valtia?” she asks, leaning forward to look into my eyes.