The storm struck without warning, attacking the drakkar and driving us away from the rocky coast with such ferocity that the gods themselves must not have wanted us to cross the strait. As the Nordelanders struggled against the violent waves, any visions I might have had about the glory of raiding across the seas were swiftly dissuaded by the cold. By the wet. But most of all, by the endless vomit.

Not mine, as my sea legs were strong, but the contents of the stomachs of nearly everyone else, including Harald’s hooded thralls, was filling the hull. Better to wade through vomit than to lean over the side and risk being swept away by the angry sea.

“What a disappointment it will be,” I shouted over the thunder and the raging waters, “if all your plots and all your schemes amount to nothing because we are drowned beneath the sea!”

All on board glared at me, though Tora’s glare held little threat given that a stream of vomit spewed from her lips in the middle of it. I laughed and leaned against the hull where I sat beneath a seal hide coated with my magic to keep the spray from soaking through. “Or perhaps not even such a glorious death as to be claimed by Njord, but a death by turning your own innards into outtards. I have heard such grand tales of Nordelander ferocity, but this is pitiful.”

“Is she ever silent?” Harald demanded of Bjorn. The king of Nordeland was not immune to the tossing waves and his temper was fraying as a result. I gave him a beaming smile and was rewarded with a scowl.

Bjorn only bent over the oar he was manning, unaffected by the waves. Which was regrettable. If anyone deserved to taste the sour burn of bile, it was him and his lying tongue.

“You’ll know no peace, Father,” Bjorn finally answered, the muscles of his back straining against his tunic as he put his strength into rowing. “But I’ll remind you that you invited her vitriol upon yourself.”