“All in,” roars Sander. “Blood and victory!”
“Blood and victory,” echo the others, though I hear the cracks and strain of their cries. As I push myself up, I see several of our oarsmen and warriors are gone, carried overboard by the wave that put out the fire. Our burned bow rises as we’re rolled by yet another. Thyra’s fingers curl into my tunic for balance as she sits up on her knees and yells for everyone to give it all they’ve got. We’ll be swamped if we don’t. I need to get back to my bench, but I don’t want to leave her alone up here. If the black water rising above us is our death, I want to go down with her in my arms.
We manage to make it over the crest of the wave and slide heavy and chaotic down into the next trough. Before we do, though, I catch a glimpse of the witch. “We aren’t far,” I call out to Thyra as needles of ice begin to rain down, slicing at our skin. I shield my face as our oarsmen battle the Torden, each back hunched as ice pricks at their flesh. Our beleaguered crew carries us up and over two more behemoth waves, the frigid water pushing at us from all sides.
And then we crest another wave, and she’s right there. The witch queen watches us calmly, waiting in her little boat, on her tiny patch of smooth water. She’s only twenty yards away, if that.
Thyra twists away from me and draws her dagger. She stumbles forward and cocks her arm back just as the witch queen’s pale eyes meet mine. The witch’s head tilts suddenly, as if in cold curiosity. Her eyes narrow. I feel her gaze inside me, a hand grasping for my heart, fingers slipping on smooth, pulsing muscle. The water around us suddenly calms, though the storm still rages behind us, all our ships caught in the jaws of the mighty lake.
Thyra gets her feet under her, preparing to hurl her dagger. She is devastatingly accurate at this distance, but I feel a flutter of uncertainty, like the wind has whispered a warning in my ear.
The witch’s eyes slip from mine to hers. And in that moment, I know what will happen. As Thyra’s body tenses for the throw, I hook my arm around her waist and fling us into the narrow space between rowing benches, just as a bolt of lightning slams into the deck where she’d been standing. A strange metallic scent fills the air and the prow begins to burn anew.
“Stay down,” I snap, grabbing the dagger from her hand.
Thyra is struggling beneath me. “How dare you!” she screams. “This kill is mine.”
I shove her against the planks beneath us. “She took your father only minutes ago, along with his war counselors. If she strikes you down too, we’ll have no chieftain at all. Stay alive and lead!”
I bend over her as the waves begin to toss us again. My lips graze her cheek. “Besides,” I say, “I’m a much better swimmer.”
“What?” yelps Thyra.
Before she can stop me, I wrench myself up and stagger back toward the burning bow. Through the smoke, the witch’s face shines white and fearless. Her eyes are like chips of ice. Raw hatred for her burns inside me, hotter than the flames eating our ship. Witchcraft is an abomination—unnatural and evil—and she is clearly steeped in it. If I can’t kill her, she’ll kill all of us. If my death is the price of victory, I’ll happily pay it.
Just as we slide into a trough, I rip my cloak from my neck, clench Thyra’s dagger in my hand, and dive off the side of the ship, praying I clear its hull. I hear my name called just before the water closes in around me, shocking me with the cold. My lungs beg for air as my body tumbles in the dark, swirling deep. Panic washes over me. I can’t find the sky. My fingers clutch the dagger, and I flail, desperate to fight my way back to air. A flash of lightning below my feet tells me I’m upside-down, and I buck and kick for the green, flickering vortex above me. My face bursts to the surface and I gasp, frantically kicking to stay afloat. My weapons—knives in my boots and strapped to my arms—aren’t heavy, but the collective weight of them and my clothes is pulling at me. But I’m close enough to the witch that the waves aren’t massive, not like they are deeper inside the storm.
As I try to get my bearings, a wave hits our ship from the portside, causing it to falter. From here, I can see the damage, the broken mast and burned, shredded sail, the charred bow, the prow gone, half the oars either washed away or dangling useless next to empty rowing benches, all the shields stripped from the sides by the hungry Torden. Thyra’s clinging to my bench and screaming orders, still trying to get our crew to ram the witch, but they can’t control it. They’re at the mercy of the gale and the waves. Right there, so close to me and yet out of reach. Fury warms my chilled bones, and I stroke hard to bring myself around again, to get the enemy in sight.