Heart of Flame

XXI. Homecoming

The northern seas were thick with mist and floating ice between the great waves and storms seemingly fixed upon battering every floating thing to death upon the jagged shoals. Sorne had never really experienced mists quite like these, where the entire world was white and ethereal, some so thick that she couldn't see the stern of the ship from the bow, even the rigging and sail lost from view in it when one stood on the deck. There was no sign of sky or wave, just mist. The winds blew through the night, lulled in the morning, and then picked up to near-tempest by mid-afternoon on even the calmest of days. Any time there was a lull, mist rolled in.

It was amazing that Hjorr kept them from crashing into something, particularly given the fact that he was a one-eyed mute who looked about as young and spry as Father Time. Still, with the help of his sunstone, he could track the movements of the sun and navigate by that...along with his exhaustive memory of the shore. Sorne had no idea how he managed. It seemed like magic far surpassing her own, but Áshildr insisted it was only wisdom Hjorr had collected over his long life. He was in his twilight years, almost three hundred years old.

The longship itself was a strange thing, fashioned out of a hard, bone-like white wood. Or at least, Sorne assumed it was wood. The prow of the ship was carved into the shape of a great wyrm, rising into a crested sea serpent's head that was larger than Thadash's torso. They only had each other for company, but there seemed to be a lot of space. It was exactly the kind of ship Sorne expected to be carrying undead raiders or perhaps a plague, if she was being honest with herself.

Ice coated the few inches of deck that weren't crusted with salt from waves that seemed intent upon ripping them from the ship. The rime built up thick on the rigging, giving it an endless creak. The first two weeks, Sorne had been perpetually anxious about that sound. The storms were terrifying, made no better by Hjorr and Áshildr laughing fit for lunatics. Few things seemed to bring giants joy the way cheating death did. It made Sorne immensely grateful that, even if it was only for the moment, they were on her side. Poor Vridash had gotten the worst of the trip. The first few days had been relentless sea-sickness until his body adjusted. She was glad he'd improved, because death had seemed like a foregone conclusion.

By the last leg of the journey, it had become something of a competition of storytelling, which Sorne felt truly under-equipped for. Vridash had every war story in his tribe's history since the dawn of time memorized—or so it seemed—and Thadash knew the myths of Ash Kordh. In her opinion, however, Áshildr won handily. The giants knew how to spin tales, one story folding into the next, images painted in words coming to life in the mind's eye. Giants could live as long as three hundred years and Áshildr was at half that, though the glow of youth was far from fading in her visage. It meant that the giantess had seen a great many things and had stories for each ones. Her naturally poetic bent and insatiable appetite for excitement made for riveting listening.

Sorne wondered often how she would ever live up to the expectations of a truly mythic people. It made her almostly painfully aware that soon they would be in Throkk, and reality.

Right now, the lamps had burned low. They were moored at Kaldrsund, the sheltered harbor closest to Throkk. Vridash snored near the stern. Hjorr was asleep as he leaned against the rudder now that the ship was anchored, his bones creaking quietly in the wind. Thadash slept towards the middle. Nirsal was curled around the mast, her breathing deep and even. Sorne sat just behind the prow, wreathed in mist, looking towards where she knew shore was.

"You are pensive, Fire-Heart." Áshildr was careful to speak before she came too close, though more as a courtesy than because she feared Sorne. "Do you worry of the battles?"

Sorne shook her head. "It's never battle that worries me," she said softly. "It's everything else. I don't feel ready."

The priestess leaned against the prow beside the human, her dark eyes thoughtful. "Do you believe in fate, Fire-Heart?"