The swallow and the eagle faced each other, beating their wings in the air, hovering high above the ship on either side.
Gunnhild noticed something interesting then: The eagle seemed to be flagging. Katla must be exhausted from a summer of harrying the hird. Leaving one’s body for extended periods of time took its toll, and when Katla came to bother them, her bird would have to fly from wherever her body was. And if the other witch had stretched herself too thin, her fatigue would be to Gunnhild’s advantage.
I hope someone is singing for you, wherever you are, Gunnhild snarled. Because you’re going to need all the protection you can get.
I could say the same for you, came Katla’s gravelly voice in response. You don’t have the old woman here to watch your back anymore.
Thanks to you, Gunnhild said, and dove for her again.
They were a tangle of feathers and wings, snapping beaks, flashing claws—and then Gunnhild, the smaller and more agile of the two, shoved her tiny foot at the eagle’s eye and felt something squish beneath her talons as she curled them.
The wind instantly died down, the waves sank back into the sea and the water went still, and the dark clouds began to clear. Shouts of surprise greeted her ears from the ship.
But Katla’s agonized cry echoed in Gunnhild’s head as the eagle veered backward, flailing in anguish as though wanting to touch the ruin of her eye but finding herself without hands to do it.
That was for Heid, Gunnhild said viciously. The eagle ignored her, still screeching in pain. She imagined Katla, wherever she was, bleeding from a similar wound. If she did have women singing for her wherever her body was, Gunnhild could not imagine what it must look like to them.
Before Gunnhild could land another blow, the eagle tucked its wings to it sides and dropped like a stone. Blood and fluid streamed from its eye as its plummeted toward the surface of the water.
You’ll pay for this, Katla said, and the pain in her voice made the threat all the more chilling as the eagle disappeared into the sea.
Gunnhild felt a yank, then another, then another; she was being tugged down. She turned and saw that her body lay on the deck of the ship where she’d left it, and the men were on their feet, looking up at her.
And Oddny—Oddny was no longer singing. She was standing, pulling on Gunnhild’s thread as frantically as a starving person hauling up a fishing line, Halldor holding her around the waist to keep her steady as her feet slid on the slippery deck.
“There’s something in the water!” Oddny cried.
Gunnhild felt a trill of fear as she remembered. The raid—the third witch, in the water, the one she hadn’t known, hadn’t seen—
Katla hadn’t been alone after all.
She dove back for her body.
And at the exact moment her swallow form buried itself in her chest and she released her staff, a wave slammed into the side of the ship and sent her hurtling over the gunnel and into the dark water.
Her eyes snapped open as the cold hit her, and she struggled for a moment before regaining her bearings: She was underwater and sinking fast, her heavy wool kaftan and sea-cloak weighing her down. Her fingers and toes had already been going numb on deck, but now, in the frigid water, she had no feeling in them at all.
But as her stiff, clumsy fingers struggled to unfasten the penannular brooch holding her sea-cloak in place, something bit down hard on her ankle with razor-sharp teeth and pulled.
Gunnhild screamed, the sound coming out of her mouth as a torrent of bubbles. Whatever had bitten her was hauling her downward and the pain was excruciating, and when she tried to twist her leg and free herself, the creature only dug its teeth in deeper. She screamed again and tried to jerk her foot away. She felt something tear.
A splash far above her, but she didn’t look up. Instead she looked down and saw, through the deepening gloom, a pair of human eyes staring up at her from the face of the seal that was attempting to drag her down to her watery grave. Nine more pairs of huge, reflective eyes lurked in the darkness far below: Ran’s daughters waited to escort her to their mother’s hall.
Her vision darkened at the edges. Even the pain of the seal’s bite had started to dim.
Just as everything went black, she felt movement in the water beside her—swift, like a kick or a punch—and heard a wet, bubbling, animal cry of pain from below, and those vicious little teeth released her ankle, and someone was hauling her up.
She hit a hard surface and threw up a stream of salty water onto the deck of the ship.
Oddny’s arms were around her in an instant. “Gunna, oh, Gunna, oh gods—can we get them something dry?”
Vaguely Gunnhild heard Arinbjorn give orders. But why him? Where was Eirik? Everything was blurry. She guzzled down a few gasps of air before sitting up. The bite mark on her ankle was bleeding and Oddny was already fussing over it, digging around in her own sodden haversack for some poultice and a bandage.
Teeth chattering, Gunnhild wiped the water from her eyes and blinked a few times before her vision came into focus.
Beside her was Eirik, soaked and shivering as he clambered to his feet. And when he looked down at her, his usual piercing gaze was clouded with weariness and concern.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Gunnhild’s jaw dropped. He was the one who—who—？
No. This can’t be. I can’t owe him.
She dragged herself to a standing position despite Oddny’s outrage, and she stumbled on her mangled ankle as pain shot up her leg. She ignored it and demanded, “Why did you do that?”
Eirik stared at her as though she were speaking a different language. “Because you were drowning?”
“I didn’t ask for your help. I had things well in hand.”
His eyes hardened to ice. “I think what you meant to say was ‘Thank you, Eirik, for saving my life.’？”
“I could have handled it myself.”
“I doubt that. You were practically dead when I kicked that seal in the face.”
“I was not! I was saving my strength for one last attempt to free myself—”
He drew back in mock offense. “Well, then, forgive me for not waiting until your last gasp to intervene—”
“You are not forgiven! I don’t need your help—”
“I still haven’t heard a ‘thank you’—”
“Stop. For the love of all the gods, stop,” Arinbjorn said as he forced himself between them, hands up. “Gunnhild. Thank you. You saved all our lives. Eirik. Thank you for saving Gunnhild’s life. You’re even, and we can all go on to fight another day.”
“Is that what you’re so worried about?” Eirik peered at her around Arinbjorn. “Keeping score?”
Gunnhild sniffed and looked away as he stepped close to her.
“I’m going to ask you, in earnest, to get rid of that mind-set by the time we’re married,” he said, with an intensity in his voice that made her less keen to meet his eyes. “Or we’ll both be miserable for the rest of our lives.”
“Or as long as our marriage lasts,” Gunnhild said under her breath. Her anger had fizzled out and now all she felt was cold and wet and miserable. Her ankle burned. Oddny had given up trying to tend it and stood beside her, waiting, exasperated.