Kaitlin Felix

Salt crust stung Gyda’s eyes. Beneath her feet, the oak hull of Sea-Wolf rocked. Gentle waves slapped against the sides and shreds of leftover storm cloud obscured the brightening horizon. Leaning against the sheer strake, she rubbed a calloused hand down her face. She had not slept.

Behind her, a crew of five women dozed in between benches and sea-chests. Gyda chose her crew carefully. Each of Rán’s Daughters, as she called them, brought strength to the ship. Over the trading seasons, they had more than proved their worth.

Astrid was the youngest, at twenty summers. Gyda found her wandering the streets of Dyflin. Next was the Irish Liadan, broad of shoulder and red of face. She spoke little, using her hands to communicate most often. Guðrun and Rúna came together and were as closely-bound as a married couple. They had run from their fathers and a life of wool-spinning and sail-stitching. Finally, there was Eir. She joined Sea-Wolf the previous summer when her husband died in a raid. With her skill in sailing and leadership, Eir ran Sea-Wolf almost as well as Gyda.

Gyda loved each of them in her way, but love made women soft, and softness did not ensure survival, especially on the sea-roads.

Turning from the cold water, Gyda stepped off the platform and weaved through the sleeping bodies. In the hold, a finger’s-length of seawater sloshed against the wooden crates and bundles of fur. Rope lashings creaked with crusted brine. Jarl Olavi’s cargo appeared intact.

It should have been an easy night, letting the wind push the knarr east and then south, towards al-Andalus and the Emirate of Córdoba. Yet they had scarcely left the Dyflin port when a howling storm rolled over to tear at the sail and whip salt in their faces. That fickle bitch of a goddess Rán had done her utmost to drag the ship down and steal the cargo along with their lives. But Gyda would rather eat the sparks from Thor’s own anvil before allowing the sea to steal anything else from her.

She returned to the prow, resting a hand against the long neck of the mounted beast above her. Great Fenrir, wolf of Ragnarök, faced the coming dawn with teeth bared in a fearsome snarl. Gyda swelled with pride. Sea-Wolf was a magnificent ship, and it was hers. However long it took to deliver this cargo, she would fight every storm, every sea monster, every water-logged god to do it.

Soft whispers and stirrings behind made her turn. “Good morning, Daughters,” she crowed. “Time to carve a scar into this whale-road! Move yourselves, get those brynja‘s scoured!”

The Daughters jumped at her orders, stowing their sleeping furs and grabbing bags of sand from the hold. Six mail-shirts clinked as the bags were thrown back and forth to scrub away new spots of rust.

The sun rose swift and strong, but no wind arrived with it to blow them south. In ever-growing irritation, Gyda barked her orders. Eir relayed them much more cheerfully, and the women went to it.

“Freya’s tits, Gyda, do you have to be so grumpy?” Eir chided her on the platform. She shook her brynja free of sand and pulled it over her head. “We’re barely awake. Not even Jarl Olavi would -”

“Olavi demanded this cargo be delivered within the week,” Gyda snapped. She pulled on her brynja to tighten the fit. “They had better row like their arses are tarred to that bench or by noon they will be!”

Eir rolled her eyes but lifted her oar and sat alongside Astrid.

Rúna, their navigator, took her place by the rudder. The anchor was drawn up. Gyda gave the signal. The oars dipped and Sea-Wolf sliced through the water like a serpent through grass.

The morning burned clear and fresh as it always does in early Autumn. The momentum of rowing whipped their hair and dried their salt-crusted clothes. By noon each of them blushed with a sun-glow.

Gyda smiled into the wind. Perhaps they would reach the coast of al-Andalus in a couple of days. She would be back in the Jarl’s hall in a few more, cargo-hold full of silks and silver dirhams for her trouble. Visions of how she would spend those coins danced in her mind.

“Rest,” she called from the platform. The women groaned, leaning on knees and against each other. Salted meat and hard bread were passed around, all washed down with Eir’s stash of good mead. Njörd sent a strong breeze soon after, and the sail was let out to catch it. Once again, Sea-Wolf skimmed along the water, faster than the shining fish alongside the hull.

Weeks ago, a secret trade agreement had been struck with the Emissary from Córdoba, a man name Ishraq. Jarl Olavi chose Gyda and her Daughters to deliver the first goods to al-Andalus to seal the agreement.

Gyda could hardly believe her good fortune. Two years of supplying Dyflin with trade had brought her little renown or silver. She wanted more. She wanted a reputation that put respect in men’s mouths. With this deal, Olavi would feed her ambition as much as he fed her coffers.

This was a test, though, and Gyda knew it. When news of the deal came out, it would cause no end of jealousy. The other tradesmen under Olavi would protest. Olavi’s own son Helgi would be the loudest of them. How Gyda handled her rivals would be the true measure of her competence. If she did well, the Jarl might trust her with even greater tasks.

Custom and tradition dictated diplomatic business fell to men. Even to men who fancied themselves sailors but couldn’t steer a fishing boat out of a harbor. Gyda’s own husband had been such a man.

Bitterness choked her. That man had put aside all ambition upon their arrival in Dyflin a few years ago. He took to a pathetic life of fishing and selling his catch for a trifle. Middle-aged and childless, Gyda was known in the muddy alleyways as the Fiskwif – Fishwife. Less than a half-year later her husband drowned in the river, leaving Gyda alone.

“Never trust a man’s ambition,” she whispered to the wind.

Something thumped against the hull.

Gyda leaned over the starboard strake, expecting a whale or a shark. Another thump came, louder this time, followed by a low groan.

“Someone is in the hold,” exclaimed Eir.

Behind a mountain of canvas-wrapped furs, walrus ivory, and crates of honey, a lump of linen squirmed. Dark blond hair popped out from one end, and the lump cursed.

“Weapons!” Gyda called.

The women pulled out hand axes and long knives. Gyda had a whaling spear, but it was lashed to the mast, too far to reach. She approached, drawing the seax at her waist.

“Whoever you are, you’re about to get a blade in your gut-rope,” she said. “Stand slowly or shit steel.”

The blond lump rose, bracing an arm against a crate.

“Ragnar,” the figure said with a stately rasp. “Brings you greetings from Jarl Olavi, may the gods grant him favor.” With a sudden lurch, he shoved Eir out of the way and puked loudly over the side.

When he was finished, the stranger turned and collapsed on a bench. Eir glared hard at him, mouth set in a tight line as she rubbed her sore elbow.

“Who are you?” Gyda demanded. She could see nothing of the man’s skin that wasn’t covered in bruises. His clothes were torn and smeared with blood.

He closed his eyes and turned his head to spit onto the deck. “Torn open again,” he muttered, probing the inside of his mouth with his tongue. “Damn.”

Gyda walked closer, fist tightening on her seax. “Answer me.”

He waved a hand. “I told you my name,” he said irritably. “Ragnar. Favored oath-man to Jarl Olavi Sharp-Spear and son of Grettir. I mean you no harm.”

“You mean me no harm?” She laughed. “You’re hardly fit to stand.”

Ragnar put his hands over his face. “Can you not do that please? I could do with some water, if you’d be so kind.”

When no one moved, he peered through his fingers. “I would drink the sea-water, but you know, not the wisest choice.”

Gyda stepped forward and put the edge of her blade to his throat. “You’ll get nothing until we get answers,” she said. “That would be a wise choice. Are you an outlaw? An oath-breaker?”

“You won’t get an answer from me until I rid my mouth of the taste of blood and puke,” he snapped.

Gyda tilted her head and smiled. “I see. Give him a drink, Daughters.”

Several pairs of hands grabbed him. Ragnar yelped as they tipped him over the strake. He dangled, fingers trailing in the water.

“Apologies for my rudeness,” he said blandly.

“I will ask once more,” Gyda said. “And if we don’t like your answer, I think Rán would appreciate a sacrifice and stop sending storms to sink us.” The women voiced their agreement.

“I told you already,” Ragnar said, voice croaking. “Surely you’ve seen me in Olavi’s hall. I’m rather popular.”

Eir touched Gyda’s arm, whispering something. She waved her away. “What are you doing here, Ragnar?”

“Haul me up first.”

A few of the women loosened their grip, dunking his forearms.

“Alright! I’ll tell you. Don’t drop me.”

Gyda rested on the strake. “Go on. Spin us a tale.”

“Lady,” Eir pressed. “I know him.”

“His face is familiar,” Gyda whispered back. “But I still want to know why he’s skulking around my ship like a rat.”

Ragnar eye-balled the waves. “I am on a special diplomatic assignment.”

“What assignment?”

“…It is of a delicate nature.”

Gyda nodded, hooming in her throat. “Drop him.”

“Please!” Ragnar kicked his legs against the women’s grip, trying to hook over the sheer strake. “You like gold, eh? I have gold. A marvelous treasure. Let me back in and I’ll show you.”

At that, Gyda paused to consider. With a roll of her eyes, she said, “Haul him up.”

Ragnar thumped onto the deck, soaked and stinking of fear-sweat. Liadan shoved a waterskin and a length of linen at him. He drank deeply, using the last of the water to swish his mouth out and spit over the side.

“Gods, I hate the sea,” he said.

Positioning a sea-chest in front of him, Gyda sat and leaned forward on splayed knees. “If you’re comfortable, Lord,” she said. “We’re all keen to hear this tale.”

Ragnar pulled the cloth around his shoulders and shivered. “You really would have given me to Rán, wouldn’t you?”

“I still might.”

He nodded, his face green. “As I said, I have a delicate diplomatic charge. I took passage on your ship, as your destination and mine are the same.”

“Really. And this did not warrant even the courtesy of a message?”

“It’s a rather new development.”

Gyda looked over her shoulder. “Does this sound like truth, Daughters?”

Several of the women shook their heads or scowled fiercely. Eir looked away, brow furrowing.

Gyda turned back and appraised the man. “Here I have a stowaway rat, covered in filth and blood. I’m still waiting for the explanation of this delicate matter.”

He blanched under her glare. “I was robbed on the way here,” he muttered. “The bak-rauf took my arm-rings, my sword, and my purse. I could not buy passage, so I hid on-board the night before you sailed, thinking that I would explain once you got underway. Only, there was the storm, and I slept through the morning.” He shrugged.

“What sort of warrior loses their weapon?”

“One in a great hurry.”

Gyda blew through her nose. His tale held truth, but his expression held something else. Something he could or would not share. The weave of this was yet to be untangled.

“You told me you had gold,” she said, changing tack.

Ragnar’s jaw clenched. He rose, and the pitch and roll of the ship made him stumble. The women broke apart to avoid being trampled.

Bending behind a stack of crates, He pulled out a small bundle wrapped in thick wool. As he unraveled it, a brief grimace crossed his face. Gyda took note of it before it smoothed away.

He cleared his throat. “I am also called Ragnar Goldmane.”

Stepping out of the hold and back onto the deck, he raised the object high to catch the red rays of the sinking sun.

Every eye went to it like a bee to a flower, including Gyda’s.

“That’s a torq fit for the ancient kings,” breathed Astrid.

“That isn’t a torq,” Guðrun replied, equally thunder-struck. “That’s a Roman treasure, surely.”

Ragnar lowered the gilded collar and fastened it around his neck, where it gleamed against his upper chest.

Like the mane of a lion, Gyda thought. She remembered the tales told around the hearth fire. Ishraq often shared elaborate stories of beasts from other parts of the world. His cousin Yusuf, a tall man who wore brightly dyed silks that made Gyda horribly envious, would add to these stories, embellishing them for the children who would shriek with terror and delight.

“That is a prize beyond worth,” Gyda said, nodding at the large ornament. “I see why you are so named.”

“It was a gift,” Ragnar said, touching the hammered gold lightly. “From one I dearly loved. A treasure that means more than my arm-rings or my sword.”

Gyda stood. “A gift, you say. And you would part with it? Just for passage on an old knarr crewed by forgotten women?”

Ragnar scowled. “I’ve heard of you, Gyda Fiskwif. Gyda the Grim, you are called in the streets of Dyflin. Leader of Rán’s Daughters, the swiftest and most reliable cargo-runners. Also the most silver-struck.”

Gyda hid her satisfaction. He had risen to her goading. Now to push a little more.

“What would you part with, then? Not this trinket, and certainly not the truth.”

Ragnar’s tongue scraped over his split lip. “I will not part with this treasure,” he said slowly. “But I can give you something nearly as good from al-Andalus. Slaves, or perhaps even a treasure like mine.”

“I doubt that.”

He shifted, turning to face the horizon. “I know you sail to make the first delivery of the trade deal struck with the Emir of Córdoba. I am here to ensure the deal holds.”

Blood rushed to Gyda’s head. “That agreement is secret! How do you know of this?”

“I know because I am – was – the Emissary’s bodyguard.”

“Was?”

“Ishraq is dead,” Ragnar said flatly. “Murdered. Your agreement with Abd al-Rahman is void.”

Curses and gasps flew around the ship. With a cry, Gyda lunged at Ragnar with her seax at his throat. He stumbled, half-falling against the mast-step.

“You lie,” she hissed. Her heart pounded. “That agreement was near impossible to forge. It took months of messages, a fortune in silver and goods. And more months of searching for an emissary willing to travel to Dyflin. Without Ishraq, there is no trade agreement.”

Ragnar stared, his expression lifeless.

“The trip is a waste,” Gyda whispered, the realization like a hammer strike.

Abd al-Rahman III was a powerful man, with immense wealth and influence. The news might have already reached his shores, carried by another ship leaving Dyflin before her. What would the Emir do when he learned of this offense? Would he burn Sea-Wolf when they reached port? Sell the Daughters as thralls? Kill them?

Gyda looked around her, into the faces of her women. Then she looked at him, at his torn and bloody clothing. At his bruises. At the fortune hanging around his neck. “You killed him,” she said. “You stole this collar and now you’re running away.”

Something dark passed over Ragnar’s face.

“Watch yourself, Gyda,” he said. He stood, pressing back against the mast. Blond hair fell into his face. “Ishraq was killed two days ago.” His voice thickened. “But not by me. It’s true, I failed in my duty. I go to al-Andalus to salvage my honor and remake the agreement with the Emir.”

“Your story reeks of falsehood.” She pressed the seax closer and a red line appeared on his skin. “You’re an oath-breaker. I should cut your throat and feed your corpse to the sharks. Or bring your head back to the Jarl. How would he reward me?” She grinned, all teeth. “With silks, or silver? Or maybe this trinket you wear so proudly.”

He glared at her, eyes like flint. Before he could speak, Rúna called out from the tiller.

“Sail!” She leaned over the side and pointed north-west. Every eye turned to see a ship behind them, obscured by the red smear of the setting sun.

“Not Franks,” Eir said. “We only just passed the coast of Cornwallum.”

Ragnar had gone very still under Gyda’s blade.

“Who are they, oath-breaker?” she hissed.

The muscles in his jaw bulged. “It’s Helgi,” he muttered. “He must be coming for me.”

She frowned. “Helgi? No, he’s in Jórvík with King Ragnall!”

“Ragnall is dead, not a month past. Helgi returned soon after. Look closer at that sail.”

Gyda pulled away and squinted. The ship was closing in fast. Across the billowing canvas, an image of two spears crossed over the head of a serpent caught the light.

“That is Helgi’s device,” she said. “The one he uses when he raids.”

The Daughters tensed, fingers touching amulets or weapons. Ragnar saw his opportunity and heaved. Gyda stumbled, nearly losing her grip on the seax.

“Helgi is the oath-breaker,” he cried, ripping the whaling spear from the mast and brandishing it. “I will not be given over to a straw-death at the hands of that coward.”

The women drew their weapons, but Gyda stayed them with a hand. “Threaten my Daughters and I will rip your gut-rope through your throat and make you choke on it. That will be a straw-death worthy of a liar.”

“I am no liar!” Sweat trickled down his face. “Just listen to me. I haven’t told you everything. He is a niðing and a coward. He will kill all of us.”

She paused. Helgi regulated the trade in Jórvík. With a reputation for bloodthirstiness and greed, his heavy taxing made it impossible for his merchants to make a profit. They never bought much from Gyda when she came to port, and so she disliked the man intensely.

Looking up at the sail above, Gyda reviewed her options. The sea-breeze filled the canvas. That sail had helped Sea-Wolf outrun other vessels more than once. Enemies and thieves were plentiful on the whale-road. Gyda kept her women well-armed. But in a sea-battle, when warriors made the shield-wall in the bellies of their dragonships and blood ran along the hulls like rivers, Rán’s Daughters were too few to fight.

“What will we do, Gyda,” asked Eir.

The Daughters watched her with fear on all their faces. Gyda cursed.

“Reef the sail, drop anchor, and bind him,” she ordered.

The spear clattered to the deck and Ragnar held his hands out. “You’re making a mistake. Please just let me explain.”

“I heard enough,” Gyda sneered. “Do it.”

Ragnar’s face crumpled as Astrid, sneaking up from behind, struck him over the head with a shieldboss taken from a crate. He fell unconscious to the deck.

“I don’t like this,” Eir said, staring at his prone form. “What if he speaks the truth?”

“We will know soon enough,” Gyda said, turning back to Helgi’s ship. “Pull out the good mead. We’re hosting a Jarl’s son.”

 

---

 

Helgi slammed a fist against the snake-head prow of his ship, growling and spitting curses that curled Gyda’s toes in her boots. She leaned against the strake, a cup of mead clenched in one hand.

To her right stood the Emissary’s cousin Yusuf. Tall and dark-skinned, he wore his silks and finery with confidence. A sword hung at his hip, the sheath inlaid with ivory and gold. Gyda eyed him warily, but he had yet to speak, contenting himself to watch.

“Give the whoreson over, woman,” Helgi growled. “You are sworn to Olavi, and I am his son.”

“I am sworn to no man,” she answered. “I serve because Olavi pays me. And because he protects me. Why should I listen to you?” She shrugged and drank.

Helgi was an ugly man, with a lean and callous face. His hair was unkempt, and his beard showed remnants of some recent feast. On his arm were three ill-fitting twists of polished silver, ornaments obviously not made for him. He also put off an aroma like the middens of Jórvík itself. He went on blustering, and she went on ignoring it.

The two ships were tethered together to keep from drifting with the current. Rán’s Daughters sat on benches among Helgi’s crew. Guðrun and Rúna huddled together, ignoring leering stares and comments from the men. Rúna held Guðrun’s hand and traced her fingers over the skin. She whispered something, and Guðrun smiled. Liadan sat next to them, watching everyone with narrowed eyes and clenched fists. Astrid snarled at any who tried speaking with her.

Eir, however, had volunteered to stay with Ragnar on Sea-Wolf. There had been a set to her face, a stiffness in her shoulders. ‘Hide him, Gyda. At least until we know what Helgi wants,’ she had said.

Gyda agreed with her. Better to wait and see what profit could be made.

Helgi talked until the moon rose. Gyda said little, happy to drink and swat his words away like midges on a fen. It wasn’t until his boasts turned to threats that she listened.

“My crew is larger than yours,” he said pompously. “Better armed. I should just take Ragnar and shove a sword in your belly. Then I’ll torch Sea-Wolf. Or maybe I’ll sell it and fill my coffers with the profit.”

She considered his shit-eating grin. “If you did that, you’ll have to explain to your father why his best chance for trade with the Emir in al-Andalus ended up drowned in Rán’s hall.”

Helgi’s smile dropped and he flushed. “He chose you?”

She took a drink. “You might be his son, goat-turd,” she said coolly. “But I am the one Olavi leans on to reach his ambitions. You’re just the silver-grubbing merchant from Jórvík with no influence of your own.”

Helgi spluttered. “I have influence!”

She gave him a placating smile. “I have no doubt.”

The sly smirk returned to his face. “What about a trade? This posturing gets us nowhere. A trade could be a tidy way to earn back what you’ve lost to my merchants over the years.”

Now there was a compelling idea. An icy wind whipped the reefed canvas, making Gyda shiver. They would need to untether the ships soon. She opened her mouth, but paused as her gaze fell on a glint of moonlight reflecting from Helgi’s twisted silver.

What about the Emissary? she thought. That was the hair in the soup of all this. Ragnar knew something. He was Gyda’s one bargaining chip, and she wasn’t about to give him up.

“Tell me, Helgi,” she said, hitching a hip against the strake. “Why do you want this rat so badly that you sailed this far to catch him? Why not try to outrun the news and get the agreement sealed yourself?”

Helgi choked and his face twisted. “I told my father the same. He was a fool to give it to you, Fiskwif.”

Yusuf made a noise in his throat.

She turned to him. “You haven’t said a word in all this, Lord. The Emissary was your cousin.”

Yusuf nodded, dark eyes glassy. “Ishraq was like my brother. His murder must not go unanswered. Your Jarl sent me to ensure Ragnar’s capture.”

“What proof is there of murder?”

Yusuf blinked. “Ragnar was found with the body. He was covered in blood.”

“That is hardly proof.”

“I am the one who found them,” Helgi growled. “I gave Ragnar a good beating, but he got the better of me and ran like a hare from a hound.”

Yusuf nodded. “We learned he hid on your ship only after you departed.”

“Did he tell you he stole a fortune in gold?” Helgi added, a gleam in his eye. “I’d wager he kept that to himself. A thief as well as a murderer. But I’ll get it back, by Thor.”

Gyda’s pulse jumped. Here was the missing thread, or the beginning of one.

“Ah, so this is about treasure!” She shook her head. “I should have known, Helgi. Do you even care about the trade deal? I bet Ragnar doesn’t matter so long as you get your grubby hands on a bit of shine.”

Yusuf turned an intent gaze on her, but before he could speak, Helgi stepped close to point a finger in her face.

“Give him up, or I will make certain you remember your place. You’ll get nothing but scraps from my father’s table. Then we’ll see who gets grubby.”

Gyda put a light touch to her seax on her waist. “Are you threatening me? That would be unwise.”

Helgi scoffed.

“Tell me, is the collar safe?” Yusuf said, leaning forward. “Does Ragnar still have it?”

She nodded, and he sagged with relief.

“I was not informed of its theft.” He cast a dark look at Helgi. “The collar is an heirloom, given to our family by the Emir’s grandfather, Abdullah ibn Muhammad. It is precious.”

“Ragnar told me it was a gift,” Gyda said, tilting her head. “From someone he dearly loved. This tale twists like a snake. Nothing fits.”

“A gift? Ishraq wouldn’t have…” Yusuf cut himself off, brows rising. Then he flushed deeply. “Ah,” he said softly. “I see.”

Like a hammer strike, Gyda knew what Ragnar had tried to tell her.

She shifted to Helgi. Her mouth was dry as bone. “I think I’ll keep this trinket. My payment for handing over your man.”

Helgi shoved Yusuf aside to grab her. “You’ll get nothing, woman!”

Her seax screeched from its sheath and he lurched back at the sight of steel.

Behind her, the Daughters also drew their weapons.

“Treachery!” cried Helgi.

“It’s over, snake,” Gyda declared. “Those are Ragnar’s arm-rings you wear, and that is his sword on your hip. I wager that you killed Ishraq and framed him.”

Yusuf drew his own sword, a cry of rage in his throat.

“Stop!” came a voice. Eir stepped onto the ship with Ragnar following behind her, his face like stone. He still wore the collar, and it reflected the light of the torches.

“Eir? What is this?” Gyda demanded.

“Lady,” Eir answered, dipping her head. She carried an axe in one hand. “I told you I know this man. He has told me his tale and I know he speaks true.” Her face was washed of color and tight with grief.

“Tell me,” Gyda said, softening.

“My husband knew him,” she began. “He and Bjarni swore their oaths to Olavi together ten years ago. They were shield brothers. They fought together, feasted at the same table. When Bjarni died, it was Ragnar who retrieved his axe from the battlefield and returned it to me.” She held the weapon up. “Ragnar is an honorable man.” She handed the axe to Ragnar. He took it, bowing.

“I accuse you, Helgi Olavisson, of murder,” Ragnar said, voice heavy with anger.

Helgi scoffed. “This is ridiculous. I should cut out your tongue.”

“You will let him speak,” Yusuf commanded

Ragnar nodded his thanks, then continued. “You murdered the Emissary and sought to pass blame. Ishraq told me you approached him with a bribe to turn the agreement to your own benefit. What son would steal from their own father?” He spat on the deck, then looked Helgi up and down, stopping at his hip and the blade hanging from it. “You also stole my arm-rings and my sword, you dung-rat. In the sight of the gods, I challenge you to holmgang.”

Helgi’s face split in a feral smile. “Make the square,” he said.

 

---

 

As the moon reached its zenith, the platform was cleared and spears laid down. Gyda watched Ragnar circle Helgi like a wolf. All he had to do was shove Helgi over the boundary, and the fight would be forfeit.

She stood just off the platform. Her Daughters stood among the crewmen. Yusuf also watched nearby, mouth and brow drawn into a scowl.

Helgi wore a helmet and a shield, both decorated with twining serpents. He gripped Ragnar’s stolen blade in a white-knuckled fist. Blood already dripped from a blow to his nose.

Ragnar bore no armor except for a shield. He also bled from fresh wounds.

“Kill him, Ragnar,” a Daughter yelled.

“Come on, Helgi,” cheered the men. Tension roiled across the ship like a wave.

With a cry, Ragnar rushed at Helgi, slamming against him with the shieldboss. “You killed Ishraq,” he growled, shoving hard. “And blamed me for it. You named me oath-breaker. Murderer. I name you niðing! Gutless and without honor.”

Helgi snarled and pushed back, angling to get the sword under the rim. Spittle flew from his mouth.

Ragnar broke off, turning quickly to strike with his axe. It clanged off the boss, and he raised his own shield to block the returning strike. “Helgi killed Ishraq in his bed,” he yelled, just as the sword took a chunk off the edge of his shield. “As he slept. Only a niðing kills a sleeping man!”

Helgi raged. They traded vicious blows, each of them a match for the other. The iron stink of blood and sweat filled the air.

Gyda’s pulse raced as she watched. Ragnar was growing tired, slowing with each heavy strike.

“Finish him, Ragnar,” she cried. “Kill the pig-shit!”

Helgi roared as Ragnar’s axe caught and sheared a large chunk from his shield, leaving it in splinters. Stumbling, he cursed and threw the shield away. He held up a hand to signal for a breather.

Ragnar dropped his shield also but kept his axe ready. “Ishraq refused Helgi’s bribes and threats. Yusuf, you heard them arguing late into the night, in the hall. Ishraq feared for his life.”

“I heard it, Ragnar,” Yusuf said. “But you were still found with his blood soaking your tunic. And you wear my family’s gold around your neck.”

Ragnar whirled to face him, face red and sweat-streaked. “I loved Ishraq! He was everything to me.” His hand, caked with dirt and blood, strayed to the gold collar. “He gave this to me as he died in my arms. I must return it to the Emir, to prove Olavi’s good faith.”

Gyda’s eyes went past Ragnar, to a gleam of silver just behind him. “Watch yourself!”

“Die, you son of a whore!” Helgi spat. “When your corpse is cold, I will take that collar and melt it into a buckle for my new sword belt.”

Helgi struck Ragnar in the side with a knife. With a hoarse cry, Ragnar stumbled and slammed to the deck. Blood stained the planking. Helgi was on him instantly, flipping him over to press the knife against his throat.

“Worthless dog!” Gyda threw herself forward. She hauled Helgi off and threw him across the deck.

Yusuf joined Gyda and drew his blade. It gleamed with reflected torch fire.

“There can be no denial now, Helgi,” Yusuf said. “The Great Emir, may the stars shine on him, will hear of this treachery.”

“To me!” Helgi cried to his crew. “Fight them!”

They did nothing, refusing to answer the call of a cowardly leader. Gyda grinned.

Helgi’s face changed to a rictus of fear. He backed away, feet hitting Eir’s fallen axe. He snatched it, holding it and the bloodied knife out before him.

“Traitorous bitch,” he bellowed at Gyda. “I’ll burn Sea-Wolf and steal your cargo. I’ll take it and make the delivery myself. The trade is mine! The glory is mine!”

Ragnar limped forward to stand on Gyda’s other side. He held a hand against his wound, which oozed slowly through his fingers.

“Did you think I had no friends among the other oath-men, Helgi?” he wheezed. “They know I travel to al-Andalus. I will pay Ishraq’s blood-price and throw myself on the mercy of the Emir. My friends will tell your father of it. And of how you seek to supplant him. Jórvík will outlaw you. There will be nothing left for you but dishonor and the fame of a coward.”

Helgi launched himself at Ragnar, a scream in his mouth and the axe held high overhead for a killing blow.

Gyda lunged, stepping in front of Ragnar as she buried her seax in the man’s guts.

The axe fell with a thump to the deck, and for a moment, Helgi stood still as stone, pressing his hands against the pulsing blood. He gaped, taking a step forward, then another. He fell, striking the strake. Then, he toppled over without a word or even a splash to mark his passing.

Ragnar, Gyda, and Yusuf rushed to the side and looked into the black depths, but he was gone.

“Rán received her sacrifice after all,” Gyda said.

“He was a coward to the last,” Ragnar said. He tilted his head with a grimace. “And a thief! The bastard still had my arm-rings and purse.”

“You have your sword,” Yusuf told him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “And now your honor as well.”

“I would trade it all for Ishraq,” was all Ragnar answered.

 

---

 

Gyda stood at the prow of Sea-Wolf, watching the sun rise. Behind her, Rán’s Daughters drank and laughed among the benches. Eir sang with her clear, high voice. Gyda smiled. It was good to have joy return to the ship.

Helgi’s serpent vessel sailed ahead of them, an intimidating escort with Yusuf in command.

Ragnar came to stand beside her. “Thank you, Gyda.” He bowed, wincing as his bandaged wound pulled. “You saved my life. And in doing so you saved my honor.” The gold collar flashed in the sunlight as he moved.

“I saved this trade deal,” she grunted. “See to it that it holds.”

He nodded. “I don’t know what fate al-Andalus holds for me. Or if the Emir will be merciful. But at least I can pay the debt and give Ishraq’s family some peace. That is enough to hope for.”

“You should know I would have taken that ornament from your neck if I’d had the pleasure of lopping off your head,” she said.

Ragnar laughed. “You would have, wouldn’t you? I’m happy you didn’t get that opportunity.”

They fell silent for a moment.

“Where will you go,” Ragnar asked eventually. “Olavi won’t have you now you’ve killed his son.”

She drew a heavy breath. “Iceland, probably. I hear there’s plenty of land, and settlers. Merchants I can sell to.”

He cocked his head, a strange expression passing over his face. “Will you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Return to al-Andalus in a twelve-month,” he said. “If I am alive, I will pay you an obscene amount of silver to take me with you.”

She scowled. “To Iceland? What about your oath to Olavi?”

Ragnar looked down at his hands. “Olavi released me. I was going to tell Ishraq the news. Ask him to go with me to Iceland. But then I…it was too late.”

She regarded him a moment, then nodded. “If we both live in a twelve-month, I will take you with me.”

He sagged in relief. “Grim you might be, and silver-struck, but you are fair, Gyda Fiskwif.”

“I will bring you to Iceland…but not for less than your own weight in silver.”

His mouth dropped open, and she grinned.

A warm breeze pushed them on, and overhead, white clouds drifted across the dawn sky, promising a day of fine sailing.