Felix muttered words in his native tongue, most likely an oath. Gareth gave a series of orders and the crew scrambled to obey. Sigurd was on the steering oar; a second man went to help him. The rowing oars were readied. If the approach to the serpent isle was as Felix had described it, the men would need to maneuver Liadan through a narrow channel to reach sheltered water. Crewmen stood ready to lower the sail. All was steady purpose.

“I can’t believe it,” Felix said. “But here we are.”

The eldritch bellowing sound came again, rattling my very bones. And closer at hand, someone was scrambling along the narrow way beside the open hold, a frantic figure shouting out a tirade of furious Norse. I did not understand Knut’s words, but my mind reeled from the power of his feelings—rage, terror, the utter panic that attends a recognition of impending doom. No! Not in there! I won’t go back, I can’t, I can’t—

Every crewman on deck was occupied in sailing the ship. Gareth shouted, “Stop! What are you doing, man?” but Knut continued his wild progress along the vessel, scrambling ever closer to the forward deck where Felix and I were standing not far from the oblivious Svala. I could almost smell his fear. As he passed a crewman whose hands were busy adjusting a rigging block, Knut snatched a knife from the man’s belt.

Felix grabbed me and shoved me behind him with my back to the rail. Knut was on the tilting foredeck now, fighting to keep his balance, his features like a grim war mask. “Ill luck man!” he shouted in Irish, taking a labored step toward us. “You bring fear! You bring death! A curse on you!” Another step. Felix tensed. Knut had the knife up before him, ready to strike. He moved to take the step that would bring him close enough, but Felix was quicker. He let go of me, sprang forward and kicked out in the space of an instant. Caught unbalanced, Knut toppled and crashed to the deck. Felix backed, arms out, shielding me once more. Knut snarled like a wounded animal, struggling to get up. His eyes were on Felix, and the word they spoke was death.

“Svala!” I squeaked in a voice too faint to be heard above a gentle breeze, let alone this wild gale.