“I have nothing to fear from the Alban tree sorcerers. They must fear me, although they may be too foolish to do so.”

After a pause during which the chieftains fingered their spears in silence and a few regarded him as if they were thinking that it might be a good idea to run him through that instant, his littermate Tenth Son raised the expected objection, as they two had agreed beforehand. “It is foolish not to fear those with powerful magic.”

“I am protected against their magic.” He raised his standard. Feathers adorned it, bones strung together with wire and clacking softly against strings made of beads and scraps of leather that twisted in the breeze as they brushed against the desiccated skin of a snake. Chains forged from the spun and braided hair of SwiftDaughters, iron and gold, tin and silver, chimed softly. The bone whistles strung from the crosspiece clacked together, moaning as the wind raced through them.

“You may be protected, but what of us?” said Skuma’s chief, a huge warrior with massive hands the size of a spade and skin as pale as powdered arsenic.

“All those I hold in my hand cannot be harmed by any magic thrown against me.”

“What of spears and arrows?”

He grinned, displaying the jewels set into his teeth. “Not even I can protect your sorry hides from plain iron. Are there any among you who desire such a shield in battle? Do you fear to fight?”

They roared their answer as the wind ripped through their lifted standards, raising a hellish noise.

After a bit, the wind dropped enough, and their shouting ceased, so that he could speak again. “Those who faithfully follow me, I hold in my hand. Those whose hearts are not loyal receive no protection from me.” He gestured toward the fleet before counting his commanders. “Who are we missing? Who has turned tail to run home?”

Eight longships and two knarrs were missing from those that had set out eight days before. One had been seen drifting lifeless on the open waters, and no captain had dared board it for fear that the tree sorcerers had poisoned its hull with their magic.

“It flew Ardaneka’s banner,” said Hakonin’s chief. “Not one of Ardaneka’s ships do I see now.”

Some of his chieftains eyed the distant shore nervously. A blanket of fog had settled in over the headland, tendrils probing out onto the open sea before they were ripped to pieces by the wind. A warning whistle blew shrill and strong. At the fringe of the gathered assembly, right where the rock dropped precipitously away to the sea on its steepest side, his human allies huddled. They had pulled their cloaks up in a vain attempt to shield themselves from the battering of the wind, but now they exclaimed out loud and pointed to the northeast.

A longship was coming in, bucking in the swells. Its mast had been snapped off halfway, and shreds of sail draped the deck. Seaweed wreathed the stem of the ship. A half-dozen oars had survived the wreck, but not one body could be seen. Deep gouges marred the clinker-built hull, scars cutting through the red-and-yellow paint to reveal pale wood beneath. Rigging trailed behind like so many snakes wriggling through the sea, except for two lines drawn taut at the front.

The merfolk were hauling in the crippled ship.

Four merfolk surfaced near the strand, propelling a bloated corpse. Two swam in close enough to give it a final shove, and it scraped up along the beach, rolling against the pebbled shore until it wedged face up between two rocks, caught there. They watched in silence as the sea troubled its rest, trying to suck it out as waves receded, trying to force it in to shore as waves rolled in.

Even from the height of Cracknose Rock every soul there recognized the corpse. Like the rest of them, Ardaneka’s chieftain bore distinctive markings on his torso. Seawater and feasting crabs had obliterated portions of the three-headed yellow serpent painted onto his chest yet, even with sea worms writhing in the rotting oval that had once been his face, enough could be seen to identify him.

Hakonin’s chief hissed derisively. “Ardaneka’s master only bared his throat to you after the battle at Kjalmarsfjord, when he saw no one else had the strength to resist you. It seems his faith in you was not strong enough to protect him from the tree sorcerers’ storm.”

“So it was not,” remarked Stronghand.

They all agreed then, one by one, that Ardaneka’s chief had been furtive and tricky, eager for gold and silver but reluctant to place his people in the front lines where they might take the brunt of an assault. His seamanship hadn’t been anything to boast of, either, and he had only raided where the pickings were easily gained, not where he might meet real resistance.