“Clear the deck!” Eirik shouted over the roaring wind. “Secure the sail!” As Gunnhild watched, he scooped up Hnoss and Gersemi, dumped both yowling felines into a ship box, and slid it to the closest man to stow beneath the deck.
The hird knew exactly who was doing what without Eirik delegating further. The tent came down, boards came up, and boxes and oars went below. Some men checked the rigging while others tied up the sail.
“And you two,” Eirik bellowed at the women as he grabbed a stack of buckets and tossed one to Arinbjorn and the other to Thorolf, “stay down, and stay to the center—we have to stabilize the ship!”
Gunnhild and Oddny scurried to obey, splaying themselves flat on their bellies on the wet boards, crushing their bags beneath them. Gunnhild never risked stowing her haversack belowdecks, as it contained her staff and henbane and all the tools of her trade, and at sea it seemed wise to keep it on her person in case a crisis arose; Oddny, likewise, always had her bag of healing supplies slung around her shoulders.
One by one the men completed their tasks and hit the deck as well.
“We just have to ride it out!” Svein said as he threw himself down beside Oddny and Gunnhild.
“It came out of nowhere,” Gunnhild said, raising her head, searching the dark clouds. “The storm—”
“It’s been happening all summer,” Svein said grimly.
The ship rocked and a wave of freezing water hit them, stealing the breath from Gunnhild’s lungs as she and Oddny clung to each other for dear life. She lifted her head again to see Eirik, Arinbjorn, and Thorolf bailing water, and watched as Thorolf lost his footing and almost went overboard when the ship rocked the other way, but Eirik grabbed him by the collar and flung him back onto the deck.
“Get down!” Gunnhild shrieked at them. “What are you doing?!”
“Trying not to drown!” Arinbjorn yelled as he flung a bucketful of water over the side of the ship, at the same time Eirik said, “You don’t give the orders!”
But the three men couldn’t bail fast enough, and more water flooded the deck as the ship cut through the choppy waves. Several shields came loose from where they’d been secured on the gunnel. She didn’t know how much more the ship could take.
“。 . . been happening all summer . . .”
Gunnhild lifted her head and searched the darkened sky until she found it: the eagle. Soaring in a circle overhead, each wing tip seeming to summon black clouds from nowhere.
Katla.
Gunnhild clamped a hand down on Oddny’s arm and pointed up.
“That’s the witch who killed Heid!” Gunnhild yelled. “Katla—she works for King Halfdan! She made the fog in your fjord!”
Oddny’s eyes widened. “She’s causing the storm? What do we do?”
Gunnhild raised herself to all fours and dug frantically in her witching bag. Oddny grabbed her elbow and hooked a leg around her knee to keep her from sliding off the deck, Svein bracing her from the other side. Gunnhild pulled out her staff and a small leather canteen waterproofed with beeswax—she’d filled the canteen with water and stuffed it with henbane before the ship had set sail. Once she had the objects in her hands, she flipped over onto her side.
“What are you doing?” Halldor shouted. He’d appeared on Oddny’s other side and looked just as confused as Svein did.
“Saving our lives!” Gunnhild popped the waxed linen stopper from the leather canteen and turned to Oddny. “I need you to sing for me!”
Oddny’s eyes went, if possible, even wider. “If Vigdis, Ulfrun, and I weren’t strong enough to defend against them with the warding songs, how could you possibly think I could protect you on my own?”
Gunnhild grimaced. She hadn’t tried to send out her mind as a bird since Heid’s death, fearful that the witches were stalking her steps in the waking world just as they seemed to be doing in the void. For all she knew, the moment she left her body, Thorbjorg’s fox would appear out of nowhere and have itself a swallow for supper.
But she had to try.
“If things go badly, pull me back,” Gunnhild said.
“Pull you back?” Oddny echoed, incredulous.
“You can see the threads.” Gunnhild turned and grabbed her shoulder as they lay there on their sides in the cold water of the deck. “Oddny—you can still see the threads, can’t you?”
Oddny was panicking, tears mixing with the salt water soaking her face and hair as another wave crashed over the side of the ship. “Yes—but—”
“If you see any other animals—like a fox—pull me back. Do you understand?” Gunnhild said. “There are worse things than drowning. If they manage to sever my thread, I die, and I die slowly. Oddny, do you understand me?”
Oddny nodded feverishly.
Gunnhild tried to keep a clear head, though she thought she might vomit. Several of the men, seasoned sailors though they were, had become sick as they clung to the deck for dear life. The wind had not abated. Another wave knocked Arinbjorn’s feet from under him, but he clung to a rope, his bailing bucket washed out to sea; the same wave almost wrested Gunnhild from Oddny’s grasp, but Svein’s arm clamped down hard around Gunnhild’s waist and held her tightly as the ship continued to rock.
“Whatever you’re going to do,” Svein shouted, “do it fast!”
Halldor grabbed on to Oddny in the same way, bracing her. Over her friend’s shoulder, Gunnhild could see that the man’s face was set in determination.
“We’ll keep you both safe as long as we can,” said Halldor. “Go!”
Gunnhild downed the cold tea, shoved the canteen into her bag, and rolled onto her back with her staff in hand. The tea tasted worse than usual but was no less effective. The last thing she felt was Svein and Oddny hanging on to her before Oddny began to sing, her mouth next to Gunnhild’s ear, her high, soft voice rising above the whipping of the wind, grounding Gunnhild, making her feel as though she were safe and warm and surrounded by light and not trapped on a ship during a bizarre storm.
And the moment Gunnhild started to mime spinning and chant the spell to stop the storm, the swallow soared from her chest and up into the maelstrom, and she heard sounds of disbelief from Svein and Halldor and the others who’d been watching. Oddny’s breath hitched for just a moment, but her song didn’t falter, nor did Gunnhild’s body cease its whispered incantations.
Gunnhild beat her wings against the wind—so strong that it would have sent an ordinary bird flailing into the water—and anger burned in her as she rose. But there was relief there, too, relief that she was still able to travel this way. That even if no spirits came to her in the dark place, she still had this skill. And she was going to make the most of it.
She caught one of the winds and spread her wings, let it carry her up above and behind the eagle. Katla was so focused on her work that she didn’t notice the much smaller bird until Gunnhild dove down and slammed into her, knocking her off balance.
The eagle squawked and listed to the side. The unexpected blow had been enough to disrupt Katla’s spell, for wherever Katla’s body was, it was chanting, the same as Gunnhild’s. The darkness in the sky faded slightly, the waves beneath them calming just enough that the ship stopped taking on water.