“For fishermen, you are not very good at catching fish,” Orka had remarked.
“We fish the fjords and deep seas,” Mord had snapped. “Our nets are too big for this river. Not even a river, more like a stream.”
They had left the river they had fled Fellur upon, for fear of Jarl Sigrún sending larger, faster snekkes in search of them, and so were now using a tapestry of smaller rivers and streams that threaded the land like veins.
Orka had just shrugged at Mord’s response, and now Mord was building a basket-trap to set in the river once they made camp for the night, in the hope that they would rise to a basket of fresh fish to fry and break their fast with.
The water ahead was white-foamed, cutting through a steep-sloped spur of land, rocks breaching the flow like the knuckles of a giant’s fist. Orka had felt the struggle against the current growing in the fibres of her back and shoulders, but the realisation had not registered properly.
They were approaching rapids.
“We should set ashore,” Orka said, “and walk around these rapids.”
“Why walk when we can row through it,” Mord called out behind them.
Orka looked around. They were into their second day of hard rowing since escaping Fellur, the land shifting around them, leaving the cliffs and waterfalls of the fjord behind them and moving into a land of rolling hills and dense woodland. As the day had passed, the river they were rowing upon had quickened, the currents tugging at them as the banks had closed in and steepened. Now hills rose all around, the river cutting through sharp slopes dotted with holly and purple heather, the sky a cloudless, searing blue. The hiss and roar of water churning around rocks in the water drowned out all else, sounding like shattered crystals, a sweet, ice-touched music. All looked calm, the world empty and peaceful, but something gnawed at Orka, a tickling on the nape of her neck, like the prickle of frost’s first morning touch.
They were close to the first rocks, and Mord was right, with some care they could navigate their way among the white-foaming boulders.
Orka saw something poking from behind a boulder, sharp and jagged. It looked like the shattered, rotting strake of a boat’s hull.
The roar of water grew louder, something lurking deep within it, the hint of a tinkling melody that reminded Orka of better days, like a sun-kissed scent or the memory that a birdsong can evoke. The music was a gentle but insistent hand that tugged her into memories of the past, of spring sunshine and Thorkel’s voice and Breca’s laughter.
The boat bucked beneath them.
Orka looked at Lif and saw he was staring ahead, a smile touching his lips, frozen in mid-stroke of his oar. Orka shook her head, trying to rid the music that was spreading through her body, muting all else like a fog.
A boulder reared close, hidden by a swell in their course. Orka slapped Lif and dragged on her oar. Lif started and stared wide-eyed, tugging on his own oar. They swerved around the boulder, the hull scraping against granite, and then they were past it, a plume of white foam exploding around their prow. Orka glanced down, the river water clear and pure, and she glimpsed something on the shingle bed. The glint of bone.
“Row for shore,” she cried, heaving on her oar.
“What’s happening?” Lif called to her.
“N?CKEN,” Orka yelled.
Something smashed into the keel with a crunch and the boat rocked, the prow lifted clear of the river, Orka and Lif hurled from the oar-bench. A shout sounded from behind them and Orka twisted to see Mord’s boots as he disappeared over the side with a splash and gurgle. The prow of the boat crashed back into the water, slamming into a boulder and rolling, water pouring in. Orka staggered to her feet, ripped her oar free of the hole and rammed it into the river, pushing away from rocks, then scraping on the bottom, shoving them towards the bank. Behind her she heard the truncated screams of Mord as he rose above and slipped below the water. A snatched glance and she saw the hint of something below him, a shadow beneath the foaming water, and a thick, green-flecked arm wrapped around Mord’s throat.
“Here,” Orka shouted, thrusting her oar at Lif, “get the boat to shore. Do not get into the water.”
“What are you doing?” Lif said as he took the oar, standing and setting his feet.
She drew a seax and leaped over the side.
The water was cold as ice, snatching her breath away. She resisted the involuntary urge to gasp, kicking with her legs and swimming beneath the surface. Her head cleared, the lulling melody abruptly gone, and she saw a greenish shadow ahead, dense as oil, wrapping around a thrashing Mord. Orka kicked harder, swerved around a boulder and then she was upon them. Air bubbled from Mord’s mouth as the shape of a man dragged him beneath the water. A hate-filled face, hair floating like clumps of rotting reeds, dark eyes glinting like jade, his mouth and jaw distended, too big for his face, rows of needle-long teeth gnashing. He had long fingers that were wrapped around Mord’s throat, thick arms slick with green slime, his body a striated shadow amid the oil that seemed to coil and curl around him like smoke. Mord was thrashing in the water, beating upon the creature to no effect.