“Probably a fishing vessel,” calls Einar, the braids of his beard swinging as he turns to Lars. “It could warn them we’re coming.” He glances over and winks at me, and I grin—he’s been like a father to me, and he’s the only one I will claim. My real father was not strong enough to protect me, and on bad nights my dreams are haunted by his vacant eyes and bleeding body. He is always deaf to my screams.
“Do we know the size of their militia?” Cyrill asks, pulling me from unwelcome memory. “None of our raiders have encountered them.”
“Whatever they have, they can’t match us. A warning won’t matter,” Lars rumbles.
Thyra frowns, and I bump her with my shoulder. “It won’t,” I say. “Think of the stories from Vasterut.”
She rolls her eyes. “And I’m sure tales of Nisse’s easy conquest were not exaggerated in any way.”
I bite my lip. Nisse now occupies the throne of Vasterut after his takeover of the southern city-state just before the spring. Though I meant only to offer confidence, mentioning him was probably a mistake. There are rumors he was plotting to assassinate Lars, since he could never best him in the fight circle. Thyra knows more, but she refuses to talk to me about it. One morning we simply woke up to find that Nisse had fled in the night, banished from the tribe. Lars allowed him to leave with those loyal to him, perhaps because he couldn’t bring himself to slaughter his younger brother, perhaps to prevent us all from killing each other. With so many tribal groups gathered and sides to take, it would have been costly. Nearly one in five left with Nisse, including his only son, Jaspar. There’s a pit in my stomach every time I think of him, though I haven’t uttered his name in months. We all assumed he and all the rest of them were walking to their deaths in the dead of winter, so when news of Nisse’s easily won victory and riches reached us, it was as good as a challenge for Lars.
Winter is coming once again, and Lars has told us we will spend it warm and fat and rich.
“Have you heard the stories of the witch queen of the Kupari?” Thyra asks quietly, moving close and raising goose bumps with the soft puff of her breath in my ear.
I shake off the tingles. “You doubt stories from Vasterut, but you’re willing to believe those wild tales?”
Her tanned cheeks go ruddy. “I didn’t say I believed them.”
“Good.” We’ve all heard stories about the source of the Kupari wealth and supposed strength. Not an arsenal, not an army—a witch. “But if she tries to use her stinking, evil craft on us, she’ll end up with her head on the end of Lars’s spear.”
Thyra gives a curt nod. “She might anyway. The suspicion of witchcraft is enough.”
“That little boat is definitely running,” says Cyrill with a laugh. Standing at the front next to Lars and Einar, he leans on his spear, and its deadly-sharp tip gleams like a beacon. “I think it’s going to be hard for us to sneak in unnoticed.”
He gestures grandly at the warships in formation behind us, and the warriors all around me guffaw. So do I, louder than the rest. My blood sings as I feel their strength, the simple aliveness of us. I am so proud to be among these men and women. I wasn’t born a Krigere, and I have spent the last several years trying to make people forget that. What should matter is my spirit, my willingness to fight. We all bleed red, as Lars always says, and I trust that he means it.
Thyra is smiling, but not laughing like the rest of us. And I can’t help it—I grab her shoulders and shake her a little. “Come on!” I say, still chuckling. “Don’t tell me you’re not lusting to stick your blade into one of their fat merchants. Easiest kill marks you’ll ever earn.”
“Are those the only things that make a warrior?” she says under her breath.
Annoyance spikes through me, and I grab for the hilt of her dagger. Her fingers close over my wrist, hard. “Careful,” she says in a rough voice. “Not here. Not now.” There is something like a plea in her eyes.
It makes me want to push her. I want to replace that plea with fire. Thyra is not an eager fighter like I am, but when she commits, she is a thing of absolute, cutting beauty, and I hunger for the sight. I reach for her weapon with my other hand, and she catches that one too, right as I grasp the hilt. She presses my wrist to her side just as Sander leans over to watch.
“Well, you told Ansa to focus,” he says with a sly glint in his eye. “And her focus is never better than when it’s on you, Thyra.”
With a near-frantic glance at her father, Thyra shoves me away so abruptly that I nearly stumble onto the front row of oars.
My cheeks burning, I right myself. “Say that again and I’ll gut you, Sander.”
He starts to step around Thyra to get to me. “Go ahead and try, you scrawny little—”
“Enough,” roars Lars, turning on us like a bison ready to charge. “Dorte, Keld—take a break. Let these two cubs burn off some of their bloodlust on the oars.”
Einar gives me an exasperated look. “Can you at least try not to kill someone until we make it ashore?” he asks, though he looks like he’s about to laugh.