Too, the ships’ Captains seized upon a mission of their own, made possible by the gathering of these four great longboats:
Some ten years past, Atli, a warrior of Jute, had been the only Juten survivor of a battle at sea between the Fjordsmen and the Jutlanders. Atli had fought so skillfully that the Fjordsmen spared his life, taking him unto their bosoms as they would a brother, bearing him back to their stad. In the fjordside village, Atli was held in high esteem, for he wielded a war axe like none had e’er seen before, and he schooled others in this skill. But one night, in a drunken rage, Atli slew Olar, the son of the Elder. At his trial, Atli refused to pay or be bonded to the blood debt of a kin-slayer: two hundred ounces of silver. Outlawed, he was given the clothes on his back, his axe and shield, and four hours head start over Olar’s blood kith, who came after him ahorse. Yet somehow, afoot, Atli escaped the pursuit.
Two years later, a savage raid leveled the stad, for Atli had returned, bringing one hundred Jutlander warriors with him in two Dragonships. And they slew more of Olar’s kin-Man, Woman, child-without heed to age or sex or whether or no the victims fought or yielded. It was then that the Fjordsmen discovered that Atli was none other than a Prince of Jute.
For seven years the extended kith of Olar nursed their hatred of Atli, and news came that he was now King of Jute. And these tidings enraged them further still. But it was Reynor that drew them together, for his mission to secure the services of the four great Dragonboats spurred the Fjordclan to use this gathering as a means to slake their bloodthirst, for they would ride this fleet unto the very shores of Jute and extract a raging vengeance against Atli.
And these Dragonboats made it possible, for they were great enough to hold all the warriors of Olar’s kith, as well as Elgo’s Warband.
The Longwyrm was the greatest of the four, scaling one hundred and three feet in length, with twenty-five pairs of long, narrow-bladed spruce oars, trimmed to differing lengths so that they would all strike the water simultaneously in short choppy strokes.
Foamelk and Wavestrider were next in length, each measuring some ninety-six feet, each carrying twenty-two pairs of oars.
Surfbison was the least of the four: ninety-two feet long, with twenty pairs of oars.
Each of the ships was constructed with overlapping oaken strakes, giving the hull a serpentine flexibility that caused each craft to cleave sharply through the waters, yielding a nimbleness beyond that which its narrow keel-board alone would bestow.
And ’twas these hulls, shsshing through the water, that bore Elgo and his Harlingar toward their immutable destiny, and the Olarkith toward their unknown ends as well.
On the first day, some of the Vanadurin felt a bit queasy in the stomach, but they took their mind from it as they and their comrades busied themselves with the steeds and trappings, tending their mounts, currying, feeding grain, watering, clearing away their droppings, washing down the deck to eliminate the stench of urine, laughing all the while with the Fjordsmen about seagoing stable duty, speculating as to why the beasts couldn’t be trained to relieve themselves over the side like the rest of the passengers.
And they rubbed tallow into the leather traces, saddles, and straps.
Too, the Harlingar spent this time treating their weapons and armor ’gainst the spray, oiling the steel to ward off the brine.
The Fjordsmen, as well, readied their weapons of War, for the mission they fared upon was grim.
Elgo, filled with a restless energy, paced the length of the ship, back and forth, threading his way through warriors, speaking to his Men, checking the state of the horses and ponies, stopping now and again to watch the Fjordsmen bring the longboat to a new tack, haling the steerboard hard over, setting the beitass pole such that the scarlet sail made the most of the wind. But often, he would stand long moments in the bow, as if willing his sight to fly o’er the darkling waves and distant land and spy out the far goal. At other times he would stand in the stern near the steering oar, speaking quietly to Arik, Captain of the Longwyrm.
“Aye, Prince Elgo, we strike ’gainst the foemen in Jute.” Arik stroked his yellow beard. Yellow beard and yellow braids had the Captain of the Longwyrm, a large, powerful man in his mid-forties, dressed in light green jerkin and dark green breeks, grey boots, and a fleece vest. ’Round his head wrapped a black leather band, incised with silver runes. His eyes were grey, and set within the weathered features of a seafarer, features now cast with the grim look of an avenger. “’Tis a blood debt they owe, a judgement long o’erdue. Wi’ our axes and blades, we go to collect the weregield, the levy they did not pay of their own free will. But now we will see that they pay most dearly, in blood as well as gold.”
On this day, Arik, Elgo, and Ruric stood in the stern of the ship nigh the steersman. Several warriors lounged nearby.
“Aye, Arik,” growled Ruric, “collect what ye will. Just remember that we rendezvous on the second full Moon past Year’s Long Day.”
“Fear not, Old Wolf,” laughed Arik. “I’d not strand ’ee on Rian’s shore-” Arik broke off what he was about to say and shaded his eyes, peering southerly.
“Njal,” he barked, “quarter to the steerboard. Signal the others, too.”
The steersman called out orders, and the crew set to, resetting the whisker pole, trimming the sail as Njal hauled hard over on the steering oar.
One of the crew sounded a trump, to be answered by hornblowers on the other three ships, and they, too, quartered to the steerboard.
Arik pointed toward the south, and low on the horizon Elgo and Ruric could see what appeared to be great white talons clutching at the sky, marching out of the east and south and down to the sea.
“’Tis the Gronfangs.” Arik’s voice was grim. “Modru’s Claws. They reach down into the sea, passing from sight o’ Man, plunging into the cold depths. Know ’ee ought o’ them?”
“Some say the mountains stride ’neath the ocean on to the west,” Elgo responded, “islands standing where their peaks jut out of the water.”
“Aye,” answered Arik. “I’ve heard that. And indeed there are islands where the mountains would fall if they were to continue marching westward ’cross the floor o’ the abyss. Tall stone crags: the Seabanes.
“’Tis the Seabanes we veer away from. Dangerous waters. Cold and deadly. There it be that swirls the Maelstrom, haunted by dreadful Krakens lurking wi’in its twisting churn.”
“Krakens?” Fire sparkled in Elgo’s gaze, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.
“Aye,” nodded Arik. “Hideous monsters, Prince. All ropy arms and clutching suckers. Glaring eyes, and a great claw beak. Strength beyond measure.”
“Dragons’ mates, they say,” added Ruric.
Arik scowled thoughtfully. “Dragons’ mates, aye. ’Tis said among my folk that at rare times down through the ages, Dragons gather ’pon yon headland.” Arik pointed at a distant mount, just now discernible on the horizon. “There be the Dragons’ Roost, last of the Gronfangs. Halfway down, its sheer sides fall plumb into the icy sea. But near the top ’tis said that Dragons’ lairs raddle its sides, and there are many ledges where lie the lovelorn Wyrms, awaiting the call of their mates from the sea. From that aerie ’tis said that a Man can peer down into the Maelstrom itself, though no Man I know ha’ e’er claimed that he stood there and looked. And a Man would be a fool to do so when the Drakes are about, for ’tis said that Dragons can sense when strangers intrude wi’in their demesnes.
“Be that as it may, the Drakes forgather, waiting, now and again raising their great brazen voices to bellow at the sky. And once in a great while, it seems, they do combat, one wi’ another, though ’tis said that for the most part they know who be strongest, and yield the higher places to them, the most powerful on the topmost ledge, and so on down to the least o’ them.”