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In between lay a treacherous stretch of shallows, where the dual coasts pressed in close to one another, and jagged underwater rocks had rent many a ship bottom. Only the Northern longboats could navigate it safely. There had been talk throughout Oliver’s lifetime, and before, of creating a dam system that would allow for the raising and lowering of the water level, but finances had never been agreed upon, and so it was a spot on the map marked with a skull. No one sailed there; signposts along the shore warned any and all to turn back. It was as constant as the sunrise: the sun came up, it went down, and the Narrow Strait was unnavigable.
A wine cup rested on the edge of the desk. Oliver didn’t know whose it was, but reached for it and took a sip regardless, his throat suddenly dry. “The water’s gone down, he means? Or been drained?”
Erik flicked him a glance overtop of the parchment, jaw flexing beneath his beard. “Oddmarr says it’s smooth and flat – not an empty waterway, but one filled in. It’s sand, and silt, with stones laid over it. He says there are long scrapes in the stone, marks as if something heavy’s been dragged across them, and a mess of footprints on the shore, preserved by the cold.”
“The Sels,” Birger said, “didn’t come the long way ‘round. They reached an obstacle, and hauled their ships over it.”
Oliver had heard of such things before, of wooden tracks made and ships dragged across solid ground. He shook his head. “He said ‘bridge.’ That means there’s a chance a contingency of Sels broke off and went down into Aquitainia.”
“Aye, could be,” Birger agreed. “They’d be on foot, at least, and not able to move as quickly as they did getting here.”
“What will Oddmarr do?” Rune asked. “Follow them?”
“He’s to continue west for now, checking in regularly,” Erik said. “Those were his orders. Until he gets word from us.”
“You think a bear-shirt’s going to follow your orders?” Bjorn asked, skeptical.
“I don’t think he’s going to go charging down into Aquitainia unless someone convinces him to.”
Bjorn tipped his head. “Fair point.”
Oliver stood so he could peer over the table at the map spread across it. His view was upside down; when Erik offered to spin it, he stayed him with a press of fingertips at its edges. The names of the northeastern Aquitainian duchies were written in a firm, slanted hand: Norbury, Nede, Drakewell, Hopewell, and, the largest, the wildest, Inglewood. Technically, the duchy owned the Inglewood itself, but could anyone truly own a forest? It was dense and vast, bordering both Drakewell and the duchy of Norbury north of it. A long, sweeping arch like a sickle marked the wood on the map, where it stretched up, up, until it nearly touched the shoreline at the Narrow Strait. The Merchant’s Widowmaker. Where one potential death met another, where no man wanted to find himself.
“Here.” He pointed to that stretch of shore and its tiny, illustrated trees. “If they went into Aquitainia, it was here. They could move unseen and unbothered through the forest for hundreds of miles, and from it enter Norbury, Drakewell, or Hopewell. Or convene with the party they expect to be holding Inglewood Duchy, still.”
Amelia had written to them of the battle outside Wood Manor, where she’d met drakes of her own, and they’d saved her and her men, along with Lord Reginald’s rescuing forces.
“My cousin and her allies plan to retake the manor and Inglewood,” he continued. “That’s assuming there are any Sels left. And that a new batch haven’t arrived.” A headache was blossoming in his temples, and he sipped from the wine cup again. “She won’t know reinforcements are arriving.”
“What, then?” Rune asked. “We go after them?”
“With what army?” Birger asked, sighing. “Our numbers are depleted. Between the festival, and the siege…with some dead… and too many injured.” He looked weary. “The Phalanx is weak.”
“We have the clans,” Erik said. “Between the Beserkirs and the Jotunns, that’s five-hundred.”
“You ought to go straight to Silfr Hall and drag that coward Kjaran out by his fancy fucking beard,” Bjorn growled. “He should have been at the festival with the rest of you, ‘stead of hiding with his gems like a gods-bedamned woman.”
“Give our women more credit than that,” Rune said.
“Aye, you’re right. Better yet, send the dragons after him; they can carry him here by the scruff of his neck.”
Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve sent a falcon to Kjaran, but haven’t heard back yet.”
“That’s why you send the dragons,” Bjorn stressed.
“How many men does he have?” Oliver asked. “Would it make a difference?”
“Three-hundred,” Erik said, “and yes, every single sword makes a difference.” His slanted look said you should know that.
Oliver did, but if Kjaran was craven, it stood to reason he might retreat with his entire force if things got rough. “A sword’s no good if it gets thrown down at the first sign of trouble.”
“Now, lads,” Birger said, “I wouldn’t go calling the Silfr boys cowards–”
“You have the Úlfheðnar,” Leif spoke up, at last, and everyone fell silent. Erik twisted around in his chair to look at him.
Leif had sat forward, so that the ends of his braided hair had fallen into a pool of candlelight, the pale scruff on his chin; the rest of his face remained in shadow, but his eyes glowed, blue sapphires in the dark. “The wolf-shirts will go to battle as well.”
A chair creaked. The wind whistled against the window panes.
