Again and again, the longboats were hurled to the bowels of the sea only to be thrown nearly straight up to catch the peaks of yet another wave, a wave many times as tall as an oak tree.
The sky was dark, but it couldn’t yet be night. She heard a strangled yell, men’s shouts and curses, and knew one of the men had fallen overboard.
She saw Rorik through a blur of rain hunkered over the side of the longboat, searching for his man, but there was nothing but the frigid water, frothing wildly, drawing back only to surge forward. It was then they had no choice. They needed another man at the oars. They released Einar and set him in the lost warrior’s place. He was strong, she’d give him that, and he bent to the job, pulling and drawing with all his strength. She saw that Hafter had tied him loosely to the oar. Then she saw him no more for the other longboat was lost in a bank of fog and heavy rain.
Time passed. She continued to bail out the water from the bottom of the boat, her movements steady and rhythmic. Still the water covered her feet, and she wondered how much longer the longboats could hold together.
Through her thoughts and her fear, she heard Rorik’s voice, never changing, always encouraging, steady, so very steady. She focused on his voice and continued her movements, filling up the water skin, lifting it, then dumping it over the side, only to have a wave of frigid water strike her hand and her face. It seemed for naught, but she had to do something.
Suddenly, it was over. From one moment to the next, the force of the winds died, the slashing rain became a sullen drizzle, and the longboats ceased their endless dipping and dragging.
It was over.
The late afternoon sun came through the quickly dispersing clouds. She heard the men shouting, cries of Odin All-Father and Thor and Frey on their lips.
She merely smiled, knowing that all but one of them had survived the storm. She saw Rorik as he spoke to each of the men, then heard him shout to Hafter in the other longboat, which was rapidly drawing close to theirs once again.
She saw Einar hunched over an oar, his head down.
“We will land,” Rorik called out.
Gunleik, bowed forward from the pain in his back, looked up and nodded.
“Aye,” he said to Mirana. “It is safe now. There are no treacherous shoals or half-buried rocks hereabouts to tear us apart. The storm pushed us farther east, beyond them. Thank the gods and your husband, we’ve survived.”
“Aye,” she said. “My husband is the best of men. As for you, Gunleik, I will try to find a spirl plant, ’twill help the spasms. It normally grows close to shore.”
He patted her hand. “We’re alive,” he said. “What is a miserable little back pain?”
Both longboats headed toward the stretch of beach only some one hundred yards distant. It had trees growing close to the shore, and this worried Rorik, for trees meant cover for possible enemies, but he knew there was little choice. The men were exhausted, he felt himself as if he would fall over any moment, his muscles cramped from the hours at the oars, but the longboats had to be inspected for damage. He scanned the shore for any kind of movement. He saw nothing.
Suddenly, with no warning, Einar leapt from the longboat, the rope that had bound him loosely to the oar he was rowing now dangling from his wrist. He hit the water and disappeared from view.
Rorik turned to Mirana. “Can he swim?”
“Like an otter,” she said, and jumped up to lean over the side.
As Rorik pulled off his boots and checked his knife at his wide leather belt, he shouted, “Hafter, keep watch! All of you, hold steady. We must wait until he shows himself!” Rorik held close to the side, preparing himself to jump.
Finally, Einar came to the surface a good twenty yards from the longboat, close to shore, far too close to shore. “After him,” Rorik shouted, and the men bent to their oars.
The longboats were flat-bottomed and could slide through the most shallow water, but Rorik knew that once Einar broke the surf, he would disappear into those trees and he would never find him. He would slip away. Even though Einar had no weapon, even though if he did escape he would very probably be killed by animals or men, Rorik couldn’t accept it and he knew he would never be able to accept it. Einar would always be there, alive, always alive, even if it were only in his mind. If he didn’t see him die, he would be immortal. He had to catch him. He had to see him die.
He cursed his damned promise of justice. He should have killed the bastard, strangled him at Clontarf until the cord had cut through to the back of his neck. But he hadn’t, no, he’d wanted to be a hero to his parents, to show them that he, their brave son, had succeeded, had brought back Einar as one would the lowliest slave.
He would fail, he smelled it, felt it in the deepest part of him.
He watched Einar slough through the waves, no exhaustion showing in his arms as they sliced through the water smoothly and evenly, with great power.
He couldn’t wait. He was stronger. He was the better swimmer, he had to be. Ah, but he was exhausted, his arms so tired, the muscles so knotted, occasionally seized with cramps, he wondered if he could lift them, much less set them to churning through the water. If only they’d set Einar to the oars at the beginning of the storm, if only . . . but he’d taken his place there for less than an hour. His strength had barely been tapped.
Rorik made up his mind in that instant. Even as drained as he was, he knew he could outswim the longboat, for the waves were high and the currents pulling strangely. He had to. There was no choice. He had to catch Einar.
He dove overboard. The last thing he heard before his head went underwater was Mirana’s shout. He knew that Gunleik and Hafter would keep her safe, no matter the outcome.
“By all the gods, no!”
But Gunleik was too late. Mirana dove over the side, wearing only her shift. All attention had been on Einar and Rorik. He yelled and yelled, but she was gone from sight for several moments. When she surfaced, he was astounded that she was so very close to her husband and Einar.