“Are Skowvithr and Yowtgayrr on board?” asked Jane with a hint of impatience.
“They are below. They don’t enjoy traveling over water,” I said. “Sif made them a draught so they will sleep.”
“If only I’d made one for my husband,” Sif said behind her hand.
“Why is it everyone in my family thinks I’m deaf?” grumbled Meuhlnir.
The ship lurched away from the dock as they laughed, thralls on the deck closest to the water pulling on the oars to get them through the breakwater. The spray from the waves crashing against the bow was frigid, but once they cleared the breakwater and turned north, the spray lessened to a mist.
“How long will it take to get to Suelhaym?” asked Sig.
“Don’t start that, Siggy,” said Jane. “We’ll get there when we get there.”
“I just wanted to know if there’s time for Cousin Mouthy to teach me to use one of his axes.”
“No,” said Yowrnsaxa. “Because the second he starts, I will break his legs, and he’ll have to heal up before you can continue.”
“Aw, come on, Auntie Yarns! Mom gets to learn to use a shield and axe! Why don’t I get to learn to fight?”
Meuhlnir glanced at me. “With your father’s permission, young Sig, I will teach you to vefa strenki.”
“Only his father’s permission?” asked Sif with an arched eyebrow.
“Er…that is, I meant that…”
“It’s okay,” said Jane, laughing.
“Fine by us, Meuhlnir. Thank you.” I scratched my chin, trying to keep from smiling. “But no lightning. Not for a long while.”
Meuhlnir drew his head back as if I had spit at him. “Of course not! I do know a thing or two about teaching a youngster to vefa.”
“Sure, sure,” I said. “But you do enjoy lightning.”
Meuhlnir grinned. “That is true.” He took Sig off to the side and began instructing the boy in hushed tones.
“And what about you, Jane? Are you ready for another lesson?” asked Frikka.
“Yes!” Jane stood and dug out her wooden practice axe. The three Isir women smiled at each other and got out their own training weapons.
“Guess that leaves us chickens,” I said.
Veethar grunted.
“I’m surprised you consented to go by ship, Veethar. You opposed it when we discussed the route.”
Veethar waved his hand over the rail as if that was answer enough.
“No forests?”
“No horses, either,” said Mothi with a grin.
“At least we’re bringing the horses with us,” I said.
Veethar shook his head. “And yet, instead of riding them, we stand on this glorified raft and hope we don’t encounter rough weather.” He walked away from Mothi and me and went over to stand next to Althyof, who stood next to the mast, twitching at every groan the ship made.
The women set up a large square, three paces by three paces, using a length of rope to mark the boundaries. I watched Jane limbering up, rolling her shoulders, taking practice swipes with her wooden axe.
“She’s a fine woman, if you don’t mind my saying,” said Mothi.
“Why would I mind? She is.”
With a cry, Frikka leapt into the square, putting her weight behind an overhand blow. Jane stepped forward, forcing the leap to end awkwardly, and swept her shield up to meet Frikka’s practice sword.
Frikka smiled. “That was good.”
“Thanks,” Jane said, returning the smile. “I was—” She yelped and backpedaled as Frikka came at her, first barging Jane with her shield, then swinging the practice sword in a vicious flat arc.
“You’re not here to talk, girl!” growled Frikka. “Talk when the fight’s ended.”
Jane blushed, but set her feet and leaned into her shield, taking Frikka’s blows on its face. Frikka slammed blow after blow on the shield, and Jane winced. Sensing a quick victory, Frikka closed the distance and raised her sword. Jane thrust under the bottom rim of her shield, poking Frikka in the stomach with the head of her axe.
Frikka doubled over, laughing. “Oh, Sif, my sister. You taught her that trick?”
When Jane straightened, Frikka favored her with a half-mocking bow and stepped out of the square, rubbing her stomach. Sif nodded and strapped on her shield. “Let’s see if you can use that trick on me.”
Jane smiled and beckoned Sif with her shield.
“She fights well,” said Mothi. “Learns quick.”
“When she sets her mind to something, no one can stop her.”
“Strong woman. Admirable.”
I glanced at him, narrowing my eyes. “I’m not going to have to break your legs, am I?”
A broad smile split Mothi’s face. “Why? I’m not going to teach Sig how to use one of my axes.” Mothi rested his hand on my shoulder, and I winced. “Bad today?”
I looked away. “No. It’s okay.”
“That awful, is it? The cloak doesn’t help?”
“Oh, the cloak helps. Without the cloak, I’d be in bed somewhere.”
“This poison you used to take, this…”
“Methotrexate.”
Mothi shook his head. “The Gamla Toonkumowl has words easier to remember.”
“If you say so,” I said and laughed.
“Mother Sif was working on something to replace the meth…the poison.”
“Methotrexate. Yes, she is, but so far she hasn’t come up with a replacement that is potent enough to make a difference.”
“She’ll find it,” Mothi said with confidence. “She’s like your Jane—when she sets her mind to something, it’s best to just get out of her way.”
“I heard that!” Sif called without breaking the rhythm of blows she was trading with Jane.
Mothi rolled his eyes. “This family…”
I chuckled. “Indeed.” I nudged Mothi with my elbow. “Without being too obvious, look at Althyof.”
Mothi glanced at the Tverkr, who had graduated to crouching next to the mast, looking up into the rigging as if he expected something to fall on his head. “Poor guy. Too bad ships can’t be constructed using granite.”
“Meuhlnir! I expect battle pay for this voyage!” yelled Althyof.
“Is it so?” asked Meuhlnir without turning away from Sig.
A loud buzzing sound vibrated through the ship, starting in the stern and sweeping forward toward the bow at an alarming rate. The noise ceased, leaving my feet tingling. Everyone froze for a moment. “What the hell was that?”
“Not sure,” Mothi said. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”
Meuhlnir ushered Sig away from the gunnels. He handed Sig off to Jane and turned to Veethar. He opened his mouth, but a loud, pulsating throb made speech impossible. The vibrations it sent through my body nauseated me—it was similar to the deep throb of double bass drums at a heavy metal concert, but far more intense.
Mothi pulled me away from the bow, concern etched on his face. “I don’t like this, Hank.”
The captain of the boat was shouting orders at the crew, his face pallid, expression grim. He ordered the oars pulled in and shipped, and their holes plugged.
“What is it?” bellowed Meuhlnir.
“What we wanted least to meet,” said Veethar. “A dragon.”
The captain snapped orders, and the crew leapt to answer his demands. They set the sails and the rigging for speed. “Wind, Yarl!” he called.
Meuhlnir raised an eyebrow at Veethar, who made a mocking half-bow. “Vintur plowsa,” he said, raising his arms wide. The wind doubled, then trebled, until it howled through the rigging, snapping at the sails, stretching the ropes that held them. The big ship leapt forward in the water and accelerated hard.
“More, if you can, Yarl,” called the captain. He kept glancing off the stern at something in the water.
“How much can your ship take?”
“More than this!” snapped the captain without turning from the stern.
“Sterkari vintur, sterkari,�
�� chanted Veethar.
“Oh, by the Plauinn,” snapped Althyof. “Can you Isir only think in one dimension?” The Tverkr knelt next to the mast and withdrew one of his twin daggers. He chanted under his breath, but without enough volume to be heard over the thrumming coming from the sea beneath us. With sharp, quick gestures, he carved runes in the planking that made up the deck we stood on, and then did the same to the mast. Without breaking the rhythm of his song, he moved to each of the other masts and carved runes into them. When he stood, he glared at Veethar. “Now, make the damn wind blow, Isir.”
Veethar shrugged and drew a deep breath. “Andardowhtur kuthadna!” he boomed, his voice echoing like thunder. The wind surged, blowing like the leading edge of a hurricane.
The ropes sang with tension when the wind caught the sails, and the ship lurched forward as if shot from a cannon. The masts creaked and groaned, but they held.
“Can we outrun it?” asked Meuhlnir.
“Hope that we do,” said the captain. He turned and stared off the stern.
My gaze went to Meuhlnir’s, and we hurried toward the stern of the ship. “How do we fight a sea dragon?” I asked.
Meuhlnir shook his head. “I’ve not had the occasion to do it.”
“But still, you must have an idea.”
He glanced my way but didn’t meet my eyes. “Let’s get a look at the thing before we decide whether to fight it or not.”
The pulsating throb changed pitch, becoming a booming click that rattled through the ship, making anything not secured jump and dance. “What the hell is that?” I asked, not expecting an answer.
“The dragon’s roar,” said Meuhlnir.
We reached the stern as the beast broke the surface of the water. Where the white dragon I’d fought had been streamlined for flight, massive chest and shoulder muscles built for controlling its huge wings, the sea dragon was long and thin, similar to a snake, or a Chinese dragon. It had no arms or legs, and though it had wing-like appendages, they looked more useful in the water than the air. Iridescent scales covered its body, and the reflected sunlight glinted and shimmered with a thousand different colors at once. Mouth stretched wide, the dragon emitted another series of clicks at such a volume I thought my head might explode. I felt hot, skin super-heated by the sound waves.
“Still want to fight it?” asked Meuhlnir.
“Not in a million years,” I whispered.
The dragon was twice the length of the ship, with fins and sails designed for speed in the water. It couldn’t fly per se, but it could glide through the air for a short span. It used the time to shift its gaze back and forth amongst the people on deck as if marking them. When the dragon’s gaze lingered on Althyof, it hissed, and its eyes glowed a fiery orange.
“Your reputation precedes you, Runeskowld,” said Meuhlnir.
Althyof made a disparaging sound. “I’ve bound stronger dragons than this.”
The dragon’s eyes narrowed, and it hissed again before ducking its head and plunging into the water.
“Can dragons understand us?”
“Of course, they can,” snapped Althyof. “How else would my bindings work?”
“The runes I saw on Friner’s belt—”
“Maintain the binding in my absence, but the binding must come first.”
“Can you…can you—”
“Not from atop this floating disaster! I can’t concentrate in this claptrap.”
“You cut the runes into the deck and masts.”
“A ship has no will.”
Meuhlnir grunted.
“Captain, what’s the draft on this vessel?” I asked.
He turned to me with a scornful expression. “The last place you want to flee from a sea dragon is in the shallows, you fool!”
Meuhlnir cleared his throat. “You forget yourself.” He said it in a hard-edged tone and didn’t even glance at the man, but the captain blanched, and his eyes widened a little.
The captain bowed to Meuhlnir. “I meant no disrespect to you, Yarl,” he said.
Meuhlnir chuckled and hooked his thumb at me. “He’s the last of us you want angry with you. Disrespect him at your peril.”
The captain turned back to me, confusion written on his face. “But…but he’s…he’s not even…” The man’s eyes roamed my body, lingering on Kunknir and Krati and the strange belt that had been made for me by Prokkr, the Tverkr Master Smith.
It dawned on me that he was looking for melee weapons, and I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. Holding my hands out, palms toward the captain, I shook my head. “It’s okay, Captain. You don’t owe me—”
“It most certainly is not okay, and he certainly does owe you respect, Aylootr.” Mothi stepped onto the bridge and glared at the man. “Have you not heard?” he asked, his tone dripping disdain. “You are in the presence of Aylootr, slayer of dragons, slayer of oolfa, pursuer of the Black Bitch herself.”
The captain’s eyes bounced between Kunknir and Krati again, getting wider and wider. “And these?” he asked.
Mothi clucked his tongue. “You’ve been at sea too long, Karl.” He stepped to my side, face set, muscles across his shoulders bunching. “Do you know me?”
The captain nodded. “You are Mothi Strongheart.”
Mothi’s nod was curt. “I respect this man,” he said, lifting his hand toward my shoulder. “If I, Mothi Strongheart, respect him, what should you do?”
“Mothi,” I said, using the quiet voice I used to calm drunks back in New York. “There is no—” His hand came down on my shoulder and squeezed.
“Respect, Captain. It is granted to you because of your position on this ship. It can be given to your first mate, instead.”
The captain bowed to me, a deep bow from the waist. “I apologize, Yarl Aylootr.”
“Good, now we can be friends again. Answer his question!” Mothi’s voice cracked like a whip, and the captain jumped.
“The draft of this vessel is shallow for its size and displacement. It was built for speed, long and narrow, with a flat bottom. We can sail tight to the shore, but as I said before, that’s the last place we want to be with a sea dragon close.”
“Why?” asked Meuhlnir without turning.
“They spring off the bottom, leaping high in the air. From the air, the damn things spit poison on ships beneath them. The poison is like…like…well, I don’t know what to compare it to. It eats into the skin and burns while it does so.”
“Acid,” I said.
“Poison,” said the captain with a shake of his head. “Once touched, a man dies. Of that, there is no doubt.”
“Okay, so shallow is out, but that’s fine. What I’m interested in is the shape of the keel and the bottom of the ship.”
Mothi grinned and struck the captain on the shoulder with the back of his hand. To look at Mothi, it was just two friends horsing around, but to look at the captain, Mothi’s blow hadn’t been a playful one. “You see? Next time, answer without all the fracas.”
“Why, Hank? What difference does the bottom of the ship make?” asked Sif.
“Friction…to be fast, a ship needs a shallow draft. Isn’t that correct, Captain?” The captain nodded, rubbing his shoulder. “The heavier the ship, the deeper it sits in the water, and that means friction with the water increases. We need this ship to ride higher—out of the water if we can achieve it.”
“Out of the water?” asked Althyof. “What ship sails out of the water?”
“One enchanted by Master Enchanter Althyof,” I said.
“You over-estimate my skills.”
“And one with the help of a vefari,” I said, turning to Meuhlnir.
He glanced at Althyof. “Well, Tverkr? Shall we try?”
Althyof tucked his head to his chest, but even over the wind, the snapping of the ropes, and the sound of the sea pounding against the hull, we could hear him muttering. When he looked up, his eyes glinted. “If this fails, it will not be because of my enchanting, Isir.”
Althyof began chanting again, and walked to and fro on the deck, squatting now and again to carve a rune or two into the planks. The more he carved, the faster the ship went.
Meuhlnir grunted. “I’m not sure what will work, if anything.”
“All we can do is try,” I said. The clicking sound boomed through the ship again, sounding as if it originated beneath the keel. “No time like the present.”
Meuhlnir nodded and said, “Veka midna.” The timbers that made up the ship groaned, and the ship rode a minuscule amount higher in the water.
“No, no!” snapped Althyof. “I’ve already made the wood light!”
The water astern began to churn and roil.
“Do something else, Father,” said Mothi. “Now.”
Meuhlnir shot a glare at him. “Taka plug!”
The ship began to skim and skip across the water, like a flat stone thrown side-arm. Behind us, the water erupted in a column of frothy white water, and sunlight glinted from iridescent scales at its center.
“It attacks!” yelled Frikka.
Kunknir and Krati came out of their holsters in my palms without my decision to grab for them. They would be useless once the beast returned to the water, but when it was in the air…
Jane stepped up beside me, her shield on her arm and a sharp axe in her other hand. She wore a winged helmet and a mail shirt that was a little too big for her. Even so, she was beautiful.
“More speed,” said the captain, his voice almost inaudible in the din.
“Not yet,” I said, cop-voice coming to the fore.
When the water cascaded down the length of the dragon and the beast’s entire body was in the air, I fired. Kunknir roared and bucked, slinging hot brass across the bridge. Krati crashed in counterpoint, and more hot brass flew. The rounds flew true, the .40 caliber rounds from Krati glancing off the iridescent scales, and the .45 caliber rounds from Kunknir slicing through them as if they were papier mâché. The dragon made a sound like a baby rabbit in the jaws of a cat. Its eyes sought mine, but I remembered how the white dragon had mesmerized me that day on the plain and avoided its gaze. Kunknir fired dry, locking the slide back. Still firing Krati, I released the magazine from the .45 into the pouch Prokkr had designed for that purpose, the weight and momentum of it triggering the clever device that propped another magazine away from the belt. I slammed the pistol onto the fresh magazine and released the slide, chambering a round.
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