But the voice in the darkness is not satisfied. “You still haven’t said how, Gunther. The serpent will slaughter us all.”

The men cease stomping. They murmur, scratch themselves, glance about at their fellow conspirators.

Gunther stares down every pair of eyes in the hall. Mine included. “What are we fighting? It’s a damn fish, isn’t it? And how do we catch fish?”

“A net!”

“A harpoon!”

Gunther’s hand rises to stop them. “With the right bait,” he announces. His gaze rolls back to me. “Ulric, if you please?”

The old fisherman is fast, and he is strong, trapping my arms. Cornelius has a burlap sack in his hand. It comes down over my head and everything goes dark.

***

My wrists are lashed. I am marched outside, stumbling along blind with the others clamoring around me. The sound of the waves and the thud of men climbing into boats. Oars dipping into water. Echoing across the harbor is the thunder of Gunther’s voice, urging his men to watch for signs and be ready with their lances.

The hood is plucked away, and I squint against the sunlight. Gunther leers down at me, the scar on his cheek white in the sunshine. There is a scaling knife in his hand.

“Time to do your duty, lad,” he says. “Bring your sweetheart to us.”

“Gunther, stop. Don’t do this.”

His grin is obscene. “We all have a part to play, Kaspar. Be a man now, by being a worm.”

He laughs at his own joke as he cuts the rope from my wrists. Then he pushes me in. Salty darkness and a low hum inside my ears. A cold so sharp it stings like nettles. I kick my legs and flail, but I do not know which way is up. Am I scratching to the surface or clawing my way to the kelp bed?

Without warning I break the waterline, saltwater burning my throat. I look for shore but cannot find it. There are five skiffs on the water, the men stone-faced and gripping their steel. The fishing boats come about to block my path and pen me in. My injured hand is as dead as a stump, making it difficult to tread water.

“For God’s sakes, Gunther,” I call out with a splash of saltwater on my tongue. “Do you want me to drown?”

He stands tall in his sloop, one boot on the rail. “I’d prefer you to lure the fish in, but a good drowning will suffice.”

My wet clothes are heavy, and they tug me down. Did someone put stones in my pockets before throwing me in? How soon before I can’t keep my head up and just slip away?

I flail in the chop and Gunther the Brave laughs. “Here, use this to keep your head above water,” he says.