It was early in the year yet, time enough for another raid across the North Atlantic to winter over again, or a short summer trip to the unprotected shores of Frisia. Ragnvald was glad to be going home, though. His sister, Svanhild, and the rest of his family waited beyond the foothills of the Keel, as did his intended, Hilda Hrolfsdatter. He had won a pair of copper brooches for Hilda, worked by the Norse smiths of Dublin. The Norse king there had given them to Ragnvald as a reward for leading a daring raid against an Irish village. They would look well on Hilda, with her height and reddish hair. In time, she would oversee the hall he planned to build on the site where his father’s hall had burned. Ragnvald would be an experienced warrior by then, as thick with muscle as Ulfarr, and wear his wealth on his belt and armbands. Hilda would give him tall children, boys he would teach to fight.
Ragnvald planned to claim her at the ting this summer, when the families of the Sogn district gathered. His family had an understanding with hers, though they had not yet gone through the betrothal ceremony. He had proved himself raiding, won wealth to buy more thralls to work on the farm at Ardal. Now that he was twenty, and counted a man, he could marry Hilda and his stepfather would have no more reason to withhold his birthright, his father’s land, from him.
Over the winter he had also found a silver necklace that would suit Svanhild perfectly. She would laugh and pretend not to like it—what use had she for silver when she spent her days tending cows?—but her eyes would sparkle and she would wear it every day.
Solvi called Ragnvald and the pilot’s son to him. He touched the thick gold band circling his arm, forged by Dublin goldsmiths, set with carnelian and lapis. A king’s adornment. If he meant that for a gift, he was a generous lord indeed.
“I have rings enough for both of you, but I’d rather see one of you fall,” said Solvi. He grinned at the pilot’s son, seeming not to see Ragnvald. Well, Solvi would notice Ragnvald after this race, Ragnvald would make sure of that. “Whichever of you returns to the stern fastest gets the ring. Ragnvald, you take starboard.” Now his eyes met Ragnvald’s. A breeze shivered Ragnvald’s skin. He preferred larboard, and Solvi knew it. He had sensed this odd shift between them many times on this voyage; one moment Solvi seemed to value him, giving him advice and praise, and the next forgot he existed. In that way, he was like Ragnvald’s stepfather, Olaf. With Olaf it meant that Ragnvald must simply try harder to gain his notice, be perfect at every deed. He was not sure what it meant with Solvi.
Ragnvald rolled his shoulders and shook out his legs, which had grown stiff from sitting. He climbed over the side and glared a challenge at the pilot’s son across the ship. Oar-dancing required shifting his balance, always on the verge of falling before catching himself again, another oar ready to slide away beneath his feet. He must trust his body and the rhythm of the sweeps, pay attention to the variations between one man’s pull and the next, as one oar cut deeply into the water and another slipped shallowly in the trough of a wave. Agni, the pilot’s son, was smaller and fleeter than Ragnvald. He had grown up on ships, and would be tough to beat.
Solvi roared their start, and Ragnvald began. He would not have to touch every oar this time, now that he had the feel for it. He leapt in time with the strokes, letting the movement pitch him forward. The wind picked up, making the ship move stiffly over growing swells.
Ragnvald reached the bow again, ahead of the pilot’s son. He turned back and had almost reached the steering oar when Solvi called out, “That’s enough.”
Ragnvald put a hand out toward the ship’s gunwale, preparing to swing himself back onto the deck, so he could help with the heavy wool sail. Solvi would need every pair of hands to lash it into place and turn it against the wind.
“Not you,” said Solvi. He stood quite close to Ragnvald now. The words were meant for him alone. The oars that rowers had been holding disappeared from beneath Ragnvald’s feet. The water he had danced over so surely a moment earlier sucked at his legs and drew him in. Cold water seeped up his britches. He clung to the planking of the gunwale and looked at the men wielding these oars. Those who met his eyes quickly turned their faces away.
“Help me up,” said Ragnvald. He could not quite believe that Solvi meant to put him overboard. “Help me,” he called again, to the only friend he could still rely upon. “Egil, help me.” Egil looked confused for a moment and started forward. Solvi’s men put their shoulders together, blocking him at the narrow end of the boat.
The wooden edge of the gunwale dug into Ragnvald’s arms where he clung. He was still scrambling to find footing when he saw Solvi reach toward the dagger at his belt.
“I had rather not,” said Solvi, “but—”
“What?” Ragnvald cried. “Wait, don’t do this—pull me up.” Solvi’s face was set and hard, all good nature fled. Ragnvald froze as Solvi drew his dagger from its sheath and thrust it toward Ragnvald’s throat. Ragnvald angled his chin down to avoid Solvi’s stroke, and the blade bit into his cheek.
The pain broke his paralysis. Blood pounded in his temples. Egil was not going to break through the wall of Solvi’s warriors and help him. At least Ragnvald still had his sword—he was so used to wearing it now that he had kept it belted on for balance during the race. He let go of the ship with one hand and grabbed for it, but could not get the blade free, not at this angle. He took hold of the gunwale again and swung himself behind the stern post, trapping his sword between his body and the ship.
Solvi grabbed Ragnvald’s wrist and tried to haul him up for another blow, while Ragnvald’s feet churned, still looking for a place to stand. Solvi grunted and brought his dagger down again as Ragnvald went limp, hoping he was heavy enough that Solvi could not hold him and get in a killing stroke. He kicked against the side of the ship, now desperate to drive himself out of Solvi’s reach. Solvi leaned forward, clinging to Ragnvald, half his body out over the gunwale. Solvi managed another shallow cut on Ragnvald’s throat and then let go rather than be pulled overboard as well.
Ragnvald gasped when the icy water hit his face. He inhaled and choked. The saltwater stung his wounds, but distantly, the pain from them weaker than the searing knives of cold in his limbs and the shock of Solvi’s betrayal. The fjord’s current ran swiftly here, and would carry him away from Solvi’s ship if he let it. He stayed unmoving, head hardly breaking the surface, and counted through a hundred heartbeats before lifting his head and opening his eyes.
The current bore him almost under the oars of the next ship in the convoy. Laughter sounded from it, as it had from Solvi’s ship. Ragnvald raised his head and pulled a sodden arm out of the water. He had marched into battle with these men, held a shoreline fort over a long, cruel winter with them, and shared women with them after the hot flush of battle. They should help him.