The ocean air had a smell all its own, a mixture of cleanliness and decay, of fresh and of foul. Sinaedh could almost taste the salt, and the occasional rotting fish left by the side of the wooden walkway set her steps in wide arc to the side. Her steps rang hollowly on the planks set above the sand. Few were about just now, as the fishing fleet had left early and wouldn’t return until later. Only old men mending nets, children tossing pebbles at the gulls, and a few strong sailors unloading cargo from a merchant ship were there to wonder at her.

She’d dyed her armor again. Dull green, the chain had been carefully mended, then painted with a hue that she thought might fit in at her destination. No guild insignia, nor hint of who she might be had been allowed to remain. “They hate me anyway,” she’d murmured as she folded the guild cloak she’d been so proud of into a small chest. The cloak and her shield were now on their way to her home in the Highlands, unless the courier she’d hired was less than trustworthy.

Sinaedh looked out over the lapping water, then clattered down the wooden stair to the dock. There, at the end of the pier, that must be the one she’d been directed to. Her chain mail jingled as she walked toward the wooden ship where men bustled, carrying large bales into the vessel to be stowed away.

A short man with whispy grey-blond hair seemed to be the one directing the loading. He gestured and whistled to the men working, occasionally stopping to call out to them in a singsong voice. Sinaedh frowned briefly. She’d not learned the tongue of her enemies, and now she sought to venture to their lands to find her husband. She’d have to listen carefully so that she would have a chance of understanding and interacting on her journey.

She’d spent several days in the port already, asking about honorable men and crews, and most of the answers she’d gotten had directed her here, to one Olafr Holmvardr, who was accounted both skilled in navigation and honest in dealings. An enemy by all reckoning, but Sinaedh was resolved to go to the land of ice and snow, for each night a dream had come to her, of Sanders beckoning, of cold winds, and of eventual joy, should she succeed in finding him again.

“Ok gerir hann that naudugr,” the man cackled, slapping the shoulder of a larger grinning blond man as she approached. Both turned to watch her, nodding politely.

“Greetings,” Sinaedh said, pitching her voice to be heard over the splashing of wave and screaming of gulls. “I seek passage, if you are one known as Olafr, and this ship Svanfridr.”

“Ja,” the grizzled blond man nodded, piercing blue eye sweeping over her form. “This ship is Svanfridr, and I am Olafr.” Sinaedh nodded. The man spoke her tongue easily, with only a trace of accent. “I’ve heard of one asking about me. We take few passengers, most of the knarr is for cargo.”

Sinaedh nodded. “I’ve heard this. I’ve also heard you are an honorable man, whose bargains and oaths may be trusted to be sincere. I wish to go to Jotunheim.”

The taller man’s eyes widened and he shook his head, looking at the captain. Olafr, shrugged. “Jotunheim! Hefir thessa aldri fyrr verit freistat,” he chuckled, then gestured toward the ship. The man nodded and walked up the plank, lifting his voice to instruct those still loading the vessel. “I do not think you wish to go to Jotunheim,” Olafr said, looking back to Sinaedh. “For it’s a dangerous place. We’ll not travel there. But we can give you passage to Vasudheim, where we’ll dock. The fare will be twenty gold.”

“I’ve but ten,” Sinaedh countered, though she’d saved more than that.

Olafr’s blue eyes gleamed as he grinned at her. “Fifteen then,” he offered.

“Twelve, and you break me, but I do need to travel.”

“Twelve it is.” The man held his hand out, and without hesitation, Sinaedh gripped it, affirming the bargain. “Come aboard then. I’ll show you where to put your gear. Payment is due when we land.”

Sinaedh nodded and followed the man up the narrow plank. Each step took her farther from home, deeper into the unknown, but in her mind was the memory of the dreams, calling her forward. “Sanders, I’ll come for you,” she whispered.

The ship was sleek even though its purpose was cargo. The lacquered wooden sides had gunwales pierced to admit oars, though a single mast stood amidship. The cargo that had been taken aboard was securely lashed along the center of the vessel, leaving about a man’s spread arms-width on each side. Along the sides, men had secured chests containing their personal items in such a way that they might be used as seats if the oars were necessary. Two dozen men crewed the knarr, each with his own duties, and all well-seasoned.

Olafr called out to a man in the bow as the ship was loosed from the dock. Sinaedh watched in fascination as the man in front dropped a weighted line to sound for depths in the water. The tide slowly carried the ship toward the sea, with the mate at the large oar in the stern making small steering adjustments as Olafr instructed.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up into the face of one of the younger sailors. “Here, you...,” he gestured toward a small tent in front of the mast. “You put your pack there. You...,” his hands came up and swept before his face. “You burn in vindr ok soli...” He pointed to the sky where the weak sun peered between clouds.

“Yes,” Sinaedh answered. Though she’d lived her life in the open, she knew well the dangers of the combination of sun, wind and water. She walked forward with the man, leaving her pack there, trusting for now in the honor of the sailors.

The young sailor opened a chest, pointing within. “Food,” he said, and Sinaedh nodded her understanding. “Water,” the man pointed to a pair of barrels with latched lids. “Ingr,” he said again, smiling as he placed his hand on his chest.

“Sinaedh,” she replied, her own hand covering her heart. “And I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet du as well,” he answered. “If du haf need, ask me.”

“Ingr! Skaltu nu bjug skip!” Ingr waved to the sailor calling him to the stern, smiled at her, then quickly made his way back to work.

For the first few days, the ship remained close to shore, the square sail belling out in the fresh breeze. When not on duty, sailors trailed lines into the water, catching fresh fish, which were baked in the coal stove that sat in a large sand-filled box near the middle of the boat. Sinaedh found herself falling into an easy camaraderie with many of the sailors, who showed her the knots they tied, or how the sail was adjusted, or the marvelous sunstone that they used to find direction. She helped in the cooking, learning to bake the fish and prepare barley flatbread. “Osyrat kornbrod,” her friend Ingr nodded in satisfaction as he bit into one of her creations and chewed. “Nearly as good as my mother makes.”

Sinaedh found herself smiling. Life aboard the ship didn’t have the difficulties it seemed her life at home had. Still, every night a dream of Sanders came to her. Sometimes he simply beckoned. Sometimes he was trudging through deep snow. Each time she woke with a start, to feel the rocking of the ship under her, to hear the soft chant of the sailors as they worked, or the snoring of those sleeping nearby her.

The fourth day out from port, a sailor pointed to the shore. “Arnsteinn!” came the call.

Olafr shaded his eyes with his hand, looking toward the shore. He nodded, then turned to bark an order at the man at the steering oar. This man, a muscular dark-haired sailor called Bjorn, lifted a hand in acknowledgment, then pulled on the board, turning the ship. “Now we go out to the open sea,” Olafr said as he walked past her, back toward the stern. “Be prepared.”

Sinaedh nodded, though in truth she’d no idea what to prepare for. She’d stowed her gear well, she’d helped in preparation of food and salting the extra fish that had been caught. So she took a few steps to the side, out of the way of the sailors trimming the billowing sail. The next few days she felt a strain in the sailors. When she asked, Ingr replied that it was always that way when they left the mainland for the open ocean. Away from the shore, they were more dependent upon their own skills, with no hope for help. Here, they risked all.

One evening, an excited cry came from the side of the ship where some had been fishing. Sinaedh made her way over toward the crowd to see a strange creature had been pulled from the waters. It most resembled the bagpipe that Randon had played from time to time, and she half expected it to make a similar sound as it flopped on the decking. Long arms curled from it, festooned with strange circular cups. An excited sailor pointed at another appendage coming from the baglike body. “Vingull!” he crowed, and those around laughed.

“What is that?” Sinaedh asked.

“Eightlegs,” a sailor replied. “Guut luck. And one with…,” he gestured below his belt, then glanced at her. “Guut.”

The sailors pulled the beast to the center of the ship, occupying themselves with cutting it into sections and baking the pieces. A solemn circle formed around the small tent, with all save the tillerman gazing intently as Olafr chose one of the larger pieces, then lifted it to the skies. “Ek mun blota Odinn,” he intoned, then carried the portion to the side of the boat and hurled it up into the sky. He returned and took another piece of the creature. “Ek mun blota Thorr.” Again he took the piece to the side and threw it overboard. When he returned, each sailor chose a portion to each, chewing solemnly. Olafr carried a piece back to the stern, where the steersman also joined the feast.

Sinaedh watched in silence. The cooking and eating of the strange creature had all the earmarks of religious ceremony. She withdrew slightly, watching, but knowing that she had no part in what the men were doing. As the ship sailed on, the sailors finished their communion and slowly returned to work. Each one seemed to avoid her for a time, lost in his own thoughts. Sinaedh chewed a bit of dried fish and ate a few berries for her own meal, curling into her blanket as the sailors gradually returned to their normal duties.