Daughter of the Wind by Michael Cadnum

the fattest pig on a spit,” his friends told his senseless form. “We’ll wear out the women and drink the wine dry.”
    When Odd breathed his last, Hallgerd expected to be the object of some bitterness.
    There was none that she could detect. There was only a matter-of-fact sorrow as Odd’s body was adorned with amulets and a good hunting knife, wrapped in seal skin, and committed to the black ocean swells.

Seventeen
    For four days Bison and her companion ships followed the sea road south, swept along by a steady wind. Sometimes, along the coastline, a kaupskip —a merchant vessel—loomed out of a rivers mouth, and received long study by the seamen. Sometimes a stained sail showed itself along the rock coastline, and they stared long after it.
    On the sunny afternoon of the fourth day, the ship was readied for harbor.
    Hallgerd did not need to be told what was happening. Cordage was uncoiled, chests freshened with oil, blankets shaken out and stowed, the entire vessel made as beautiful as the storied ships chosen for death voyages, the burials of grand ladies with objects of wealth and nourishment. The Danes were capable sailors, Hallgerd thought, but vain—not one of them could row for a morning without adjusting the creases in his tunic, worried that his clothes were getting stained by brine.
    The Danish ships ran out their oars and entered a long, flat coastline. Hallgerd had heard the tales of attacks on such landscapes, and knew that Danes inhabited heath and bog land rich with birch forests. But the place Bison approached now was a habitation built up over the water on stout timbers, wharves and piers jutting out over the tide.
    A white-timbered fortress angled up from the shoreline, and the silhouettes of spearmen caught the sun. Light glinted off iron spearheads as sentries gazed at the ship, and at her, strangers pausing in their conversation to point, and gawk. Was it only her imagination, or did the onlookers’ lips form the words the jarl’s daughter ?
    The days of good wind and kind weather had lulled her into childish confidence. Danish song and Danish gentleness had deceived her.
    She was about to enter the town of an armed enemy.
    Never had she been so afraid.

Eighteen
    Bison made her way into the confined waters of the harbor.
    Hallgerd had visited port cities before, with her father, although never one with such a tall timbered wall, each stave sharpened to a rugged point. This town gave every sign of being newly built, despite its impressive air of bustle and military might. Hallgerd knew that kings ordered the construction of such harbor fortifications to protect the mouths of rivers or defend their farmland.
    â€œWhat place is this?” Hallgerd forced herself to ask, hoping her voice did not betray her anxiety.
    â€œIt is called Freylief,” said Olaf. “It’s an old town, but some of these walls have grown in the short time since I’ve slept beside my wife.”
    Hallgerd was familiar with the town’s name, and felt a chill. The place was famous as Gudmund’s stronghold. Olaf was plainly proud of his home port, and Hallgerd added, unable to keep the tension from her voice, “A mighty warrior must be jarl here.”
    Olaf smiled. “Gudmund wields a thirsty sword,” he boasted.
    Hallgerd was unable to keep herself from shivering.
    Bison ’s oars stirred the quiet water. The sound of joiners’ mallets rang across the harbor. Tiny boats serviced the larger craft moored along the wharf, heavy prowed freight ships manned by crews with black hair and dark eyes. No man was so busy he could not spare a glance at Bison and her companion vessels as they glided by.
    Hallgerd could see no warships, a fact that gave her little happiness. The fighting ships were no doubt breasting waves, and bringing harm to distant places.
    She counted the skips tied up along the wharf—small, sleek vessels Hallgerd could sail as well as