Thyra carries this ferocity somewhere inside her; I know she must. She’ll be a magnificent chieftain one day if she can summon it. My heart squeezes as she runs her hand along the hair at the back of her head. I cut it myself, just a few days ago, and she returned the favor. We’d let it grow a bit in the summer months, when the air grew too hot to ride out to raid, when we snuck away mornings and found a pretty spot among the dunes to tussle and eat the salted meat and biscuits we’d stolen from camp. In those moments, alone, no eyes on us, Thyra would touch me, just a hand on my back, or a brush of her fingertips to move my hair out of my eyes. Unnecessary, unbidden, but so, so wanted. She gave me hope. She made me wish.
Until I tried to make that wish reality.
I’m still trying to figure out if she pushed me away because she doesn’t feel the way I do, or if she simply wishes she didn’t. I think about it way too much, in fact. Especially because it’s pointless.
We can’t be together. We’re both warriors now, but we are not the same status. I was a raid prize three times over, passed from one victor to another. I have no idea where I came from, only the memory of flames and blood. My history is so violent that some say it explains the red mark on my right calf, shaped like a burst of flame. I don’t deny it. I usually add that it also explains how I survived—I am made of fire and blood myself, and it is why I fight so well. I have scrapped and killed for my place in this tribe, because without one, I have nothing. I am nothing.
Thyra, on the other hand . . . she is the daughter of a great chieftain, bred for war. She needs an andener as a mate, one who will keep her blades sharp, her fire stoked, her stomach full, her wounds bound, her bed warm.
One of us would have to lay down her weapons so the other could fight. It is forbidden and foolish to do otherwise—no warrior can survive without an andener to support him or her, and both of us must choose one soon to establish our own households now that we’ve reached our seventeenth year. Sander already did—a raid prize like me, taken from deep in the north. He was still able to win the heart of Thyra’s sister, Hilma. He hasn’t been the same since she died near the end of the winter season, taking their unborn son with her.
As for me, I’ve fought too hard for my status to give it up, but the thought of Thyra’s skin against mine, of taking care of her and having her take care of me, makes it tempting. My heart skips as I glance over my shoulder yet again to find her looking at me, as if she felt the stroke of my thoughts.
“Three more skiffs ahead!” shouts the lookout. “Coming this way!”
“Are you certain?” Chieftain Lars calls. “Coming toward us?”
“Moving quickly!”
Still rowing, I turn as far around as the motion of the oar will allow. The water is piercing blue beneath the clear sky and bright autumn sun, and it’s possible to make out a few specks on the horizon. I even think I can see the distant shadow of land several miles behind it.
“Closer now,” calls the lookout. “Definitely approaching fast.”
“Odd,” says Einar. “They’re coming against the wind.”
“Maybe it’s their navy,” Dorte suggests, drawing a laugh from the rest of us. I check to see if Thyra’s joining in, if for once she’ll shed her seriousness and just enjoy herself.
She flinches and wipes her face, then looks up at the sky.
“Did a bird get you?” I grin at her, hoping to ease the tension between us.
Her brow is furrowed as she turns toward me. “Raindrop.”
The oarsman in front of me tilts his head to the cloudless expanse above us. “Not sure how you came to that.”
I tense as I feel a drop on my cheek, and another on my arm. A shadow passes over the boat, like a hand closing around the sun.
“What is that?” the lookout says, his voice cracking with alarm.
“All oars rest!” shouts Lars. I turn around and face forward as he peers at the sky.
We halt our rowing, our ship still cutting through the waves, blown by a sudden, fierce gust of wind that fills our sail nearly to bursting. Behind and around us, I hear captains in other boats calling for their oarsmen to lift their oars from the water and wait. In the space of a few minutes, the sky has changed color, from blue to purple to a faint green, and now clouds are bursting from nothing, swirling with the wind around a dark center. “What’s happening?” I whisper.
“Freak storm,” mutters a warrior behind me. “Bad luck.”
“Skiffs still approaching fast,” our lookout shouts.
I squint ahead to see the three silhouettes much closer than they were before—impossibly, they seem to have covered at least a mile in the last few minutes. The prow of the lead boat is grandly decorated, a column of copper that shimmers as lightning flashes within the clouds above. I don’t understand—is this their navy? Just three tiny skiffs? And—
A deafening crash makes me yelp as rain lashes at my face. Thyra grabs her father’s arm to stay upright. Our boat roils with a sudden wave, followed by another.
I blink rain out of my eyes—the foreign skiffs are even closer now, and I gape at the one in front. The copper column isn’t a prow decoration, I realize. It’s a woman, skin white as winter, hair as red as my own. Her dress billows in shimmery folds behind her as she raises her arms.
It’s the last thing I see before the lightning stabs down from the sky like a Krigere blade, slicing the world apart.
CHAPTER TWO
I am thrown from my bench as our lookout’s scream is silenced. The sail explodes into flame, a flare of orange heat above me. Warriors shout in fear while our ship is tossed by violent waves. I claw my way back to my position, knowing by the grunts around me that others are doing the same. My head is pounding and my ears are ringing.
As the white glare clears from my vision, I stare. Not at the chaos all around me, but at the woman in the skiff. She stands serenely at the prow, a coppery crown on her equally coppery hair. Her vessel and the other two accompanying it are floating on a patch of completely calm water, in a clear ray of sunlight in the distance. I swipe rain and bits of ice from my face, unable to comprehend the sight.
When my hands fall to my lap, she’s still there. Arms upraised, looking up at the sky as if it were a dear comrade. On one of her wrists is a thick copper cuff that glints red in the sunbeam.
“It’s her!” shouts Einar, his voice strained as he clings to a rigging. Bits of fire from the burning sail rain down around him, mingling with icy rain. “The witch queen!”
“Starboard oars row!” howls Lars. “We’ll give her a Krigere welcome, storm or no.”
I spin in my seat and plunge my oar into the water, along with all the oarsmen on my side of the boat. We’re not completely together, but our efforts are enough to bring the ship around, so that its bow meets the waves head on. We’re perhaps a hundred yards from the witch and her peaceful patch of the Torden, but the waves are pushing us back.
“She’s doing this,” Cyrill shouts. “She’s calling down the storm! Look at her!”
I crane my neck, as does nearly everyone else on the ship. How could a person cause a storm? And yet there she stands in her circle of sunlight, untouched by the gale, the arm graced by that copper-crimson cuff aimed at the sky. She’s slowly twirling her fingertip—while the clouds above match the motion.
“All oars, row!” Lars bellows.
“You’re going to ram her?” Thyra asks, shrill and shaken.
I close my eyes at the sound of her voice. She’s right behind me. I could reach back and touch her, but I keep rowing, letting out a war cry that is answered by all my fellow oarsmen. Love for our chieftain beats fierce and proud inside me. No matter what happens, he fights. We will follow him into eternity. Nothing can stop us.
“We’ll crush her,” Lars shouts. “Row! R—”
His powerful voice is silenced by a sickening crack, a wave of heat, and a shuddering convulsion that throws me onto the oarsman in front of me. Thunder crashes around us as lightning b
rightens the sky, and I turn to the piercing sound of Thyra shrieking for her father.
The entire bow of our ship is on fire, the carved wolf engulfed, a blackened mass slumped over in the inferno.
It’s Lars.
Thyra’s back is pressed to my bench. Her blue eyes are wide, reflecting the flames devouring her father. Einar and Cyrill are sprawled in front of her, dazed and singed.
For a moment, there is a kind of hush, warrior cries smothered by a stunned realization that our chieftain is gone. My hands move on their own, reaching. My fingers skim along the soft, chilled skin at Thyra’s throat, my fingertips slipping beneath the edge of her collar, offering strength. Comfort. Her palms cover the backs of my hands, pressing my flesh to hers for a moment. But only a moment.
I feel the instant she transforms. Her muscles tense, and heat flashes across her skin. She squeezes my hands and pushes them away as she shoves herself to her feet and turns to all of us. “You heard him,” she shouts as the flames of our ship rise high behind her, the smoke billowing into the sky. “Row!”
My adoration for her is like a blade through my heart. I whirl around and gouge the churning Torden with my oar. But a massive wave hits my back a moment later, water to my chest that nearly pulls me from the bench. Dorte screams as she’s washed over the side and into the seething lake. Steam hisses as the fire behind me is extinguished. Thyra stumbles forward and clings to me as the lake tries to take her, too, so I wrap my arm over hers and try to row with one hand. I’m not strong enough, though, and the handle hits my chest. It knocks us both backward as the wave recedes, and I end up on the deck next to Thyra.
There’s no one up here but us. Einar and Cyrill have also been washed away. A roar to my left draws my gaze to a massive waterspout shooting up from the deep, swamping two warships as it rises to lick the sky. The Torden is raging now, waves the size of large hills tossing our mighty ships as if they were toys. The hoarse cries of horror and fear drive the terrible truth home—this is an enemy we were not prepared to face.
“Row!” shrieks Thyra, still clinging to me. “If the witch controls the storm, we have to destroy her before she destroys us!”
“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.
There she is. Watching our defeat with a tiny smile on her face. She’s enjoying this.
I grit my teeth and swim as hard as I ever have. I can see the wall of light that separates the witch and her boats from our peril. Only a few yards away. Before she even knows I’m there, I will lunge up from the water and slice her legs. As she falls, I will plunge Thyra’s blade into her gut. Let’s see her make it rain when she’s drowning in her own blood.
These happy, savage thoughts drive me through the water, every muscle alight with determination. I am barely aware of the cold until a burst of warmth encloses me. The darkness peels back, and I am in her column of light. The water here is smooth, no waves to slow me down as I am coming at her flank. Her skiff is three strokes away, and she doesn’t see me.
A bald, black-clad man in one of the other skiffs shouts, “Valtia!”
I jerk around to see him raising his arm, his chubby finger pointing straight at me. My eyes water as the air around me warps with heat and the lake turns scalding. Hissing with pain and twisted up with confusion, I kick away, desperate again for the icy feel of the storm. This water is cooking me. I face the sky, my legs pumping.
The witch turns and looks down at me as I wriggle like a
speared fish. Her brow furrows. Her face is oddly cracked, the whiteness chipped away in places to reveal rosy skin beneath. The sight reminds me of my purpose, and I lunge for the hull of her skiff even as my flesh begins to blister. It doesn’t matter, as long as I take her down before I die.
My raw, red hand clutches at the bow of the skiff. With her copper-decorated arm still raised to the sky, the witch stares into my eyes. She doesn’t look scared. One corner of her mouth is still quirked up in a tiny, victorious smile, but I swear, there is a completely different kind of war within her pale blue gaze.
Another bald, black-robed man sitting at the stern lazily swishes his hand at me and speaks to the witch in the odd, trilling language I recognize as Kupari. He sounds undisturbed. Like I’m no threat, merely an inconvenience.
Hate is my fuel. My right hand raises the blade above the surface of the lake as I strain to escape the searing water, to heave myself into the boat and draw blood.
But the witch merely considers me as I struggle, looking pensive. “You’re wrong. She’s not a boy,” she says softly, almost to herself.
I am caught by the sound of her voice—and the fact that I understand what she said. Like her gaze before, her voice reaches inside me, and this time, I feel when it takes hold, when it squeezes. My chest is filled with a feeling I cannot name, so powerful that it robs me of my will. I cannot possibly kill her. I cannot harm a hair on her head. My mouth drops open and the dagger falls from my upraised fist.
The black-robed man barks at her, trilling words gone harsh and hateful, lips pulled back from his teeth. I think he’s telling her to kill me.
The witch looks over her shoulder at her dark companion. “I . . . can’t.” She sounds as puzzled as I feel.
He spits a few more words from between his bared teeth, and a ball of flame bursts from his palm.
I don’t have time to be surprised. The witch whirls around again, and before I can blink, she pushes her palm toward me. A cold wave rises beneath me, ripping me from the side of the skiff and bearing me upward, away from the boat. I catch one more glimpse of her pale face and the glimmer of her crimson-copper cuff before I am plunged back into the jaws of the storm. A bitter wave crashes over me, sending me tumbling head over feet, helpless and lost and sure of only one cruel thing.