“A long swim,” the man said. “And he was battered. Tir willing, he did not make it so far.”
Tir willing, he did.
A terrible thought came to Hulda: she might never know. Not know if the man lived or had died. A long, hard shiver convulsed her. It should not matter.
It did.
He or someone of his blood killed your brother. That is all you need to remember. Let the rest of it go.
“You were on guard,” Ivor flung at Garik, “and should be punished. Step up!”
Hulda moved before Garik could. “It was my responsibility, that watch. If you will take up with anyone, it will be me.”
“Gladly.” Ivor moved closer and spoke into her face. “You do realize he will tell all his warriors we have but one boat, ja?”
“If he makes it to shore,” said the grim watcher at the rail.
“If,” Ivor spat. “Our chance here is spoilt. What is to be done now, other than slink home like kicked dogs?”
“What, indeed,” Hulda replied.
“This voyage,” Ivor raged on, “has been a disaster from the first.”
“Blame yourself,” Hulda fired back. “You said he was not the man.”
“So he was not. I also said to kill him anyway. You listen to half my advice and not the other. Tir spare us from the madness of sailing with a woman in command.”
Hulda’s eyes narrowed. “You question my ability to lead?”
“I do. And for the welfare of us all, I feel I should assume command from this moment forward.”
A rare anger licked up through Hulda, blooming from the base of her spine to her head. She did not fire up often. She had learned that a woman competing in a man’s world—where tempers were often quick and volatile, fueled by male pride—could not afford to. She reached more often for reason. Persuasion. Now Ivor’s words tapped the most fundamental part of her.
She drew her sword. It left its scabbard with a sharp snick. “You challenge me?”
Ivor’s eyes narrowed. Even in the dim light, for morning had barely come, she could see the thoughts moving in them. If he challenged her, he challenged her faðir who had placed her here, and Faðir was a wealthy, powerful man. Close with the jarl. Dangerous to cross.
But Ivor was angry and impatient, eager to vent his spleen and take out his frustration upon someone.
Her.
“If you can best me,” she hissed at him, “then you can take command.”
Jute had taught her to fight, and Ivor knew it. He had jeered at the start of her training. Not of late.
“I say the crew should decide.”
“That is not how it is done.”
“It is.”
“Not aboard my boat. I am in command. Unless you can depose me.”
No one surrounding them made a sound. The soft lap of the tide against the side of the longboat grew loud. As did the beat of Hulda’s heart.
Ivor snorted. “Let us leave this place. Sail home with your failure. You can see what your faðir thinks of the wasted time and cost of this voyage.”
He did not want to face her. Whether because he thought he could not best her, or because he thought he could and feared the consequences of humbling Elvar’s only surviving child.
