The sun was falling when Skadi nodded at the coastline and said, “There is Juteland.”

A sennight had passed since Conall watched Bréannin in the wash at Béale Feirste as the oars bit into the waves to begin the Drage’s long voyage. Seven days on the sea, seven nights anchored in some inlet. Seven. A magical number for some, but for him, it was only a measure of how sore his arse had become sitting or lying on the ship’s wooden boards. He stared hard in the direction Skadi nodded, but all he could see was a mist with a smudge of darkness above it. It seemed a dreary place at best. The joy on Skadi’s face said that it only seemed that way.

“Is it always shrouded in mist like this?” Conall asked.

“Nay, Éireannach, sometimes the weather is bad.”

As they neared the smudge and the mists thinned, Conall realized that what he thought was an unbroken coastline was, in fact, riven by a wide waterway only visible from close by. Despite being separated by an expanse of water, the forest was forbidding, and he felt a shiver of something—not fear. Maybe awe. On his return, Cú told him that Juteland was not as fearsome as its reputation. When The Hound had been in the land of the Juti and saved Malthe’s sister, it was a place most in the Five Kingdoms feared. Emer’s father, Forgall, sent Cú there to die, but instead, he saved a princess and returned a hero. Despite saying its fearsome reputation was false, the boy also said that the Northern Kingdom gave him a sense of vulnerability with its swathes of dark forest, black waters, and huge blond-haired warriors with eyes so blue it pained him to look at them.

“This is Limfjord,” Skadi said with pride as the ship entered the channel between the dense forests on either bank. She was once again at the steering oar. In truth, she’d been there since they sailed, guiding the langskib around the coasts of Ériu, Alba, and Gaul. They did not lose sight of land during the sailing, crossing to Ynys Môn and then heading south around the coast of Alba before crossing to Gaul and heading north, anchoring each night in sheltered coves and sleeping on the deck.

“Is it not beautiful?”

Conall could only nod because the scenery had struck him speechless.

The black water’s surface reflected the trees of the forest and the blue sky between, giving the channel a narrower appearance than reality. The waterway meandered ahead of the slow-moving longship. The warriors at the strakes were silent as if in awe of the fjord’s majesty. The same fat-gutted warrior was beating his drum slowly and steadily. Standing at the oar, Skadi had her hands crossed over the wood in an aspect of prayer, as if she was worshiping the fjord’s solemnity. He sensed that these fearless warriors truly venerated the waters of their homeland.

“You seem excited,” he said, one eyebrow cocked.

“Ya. I’m happy to see my home. It’s more than four moons since we sailed.”

“Your settlement is near here?” he asked.

“Nay. Lindholm is about thirty leagues into the fjord. It will take us three days to reach the pier.”

“Why so far in?” Conall asked. He thought raising a settlement nearer to the sea would have been preferable.

“It is close to the Kattegat. But also at the narrowest point.”

“The Kattegat?”

“An inland sea. Our clans are all in settlements around it. When they sail west to avoid the unpredictable Northern Seas, they come up the Limfjord. They pay us tribute, and we allow them to pass.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Conall said, grinning and shaking his head.

Sitting on the deck with his back to the strakes, he wrapped himself in the thick wool blankets Skadi gave him after they set sail. The sun had already fallen below the tree line, and Malthe would soon order Skadi to find an inlet where they could lay up for the night. The ship’s deck didn’t make the most comfortable bed, but he’d slept in worse places.

“Sleep well for the next nights, Conall of the Victories,” Skadi said. “When we arrive, we feast.”

***

When Malthe shouted, “Lindholm,” a grin showing his teeth, Conall went to the ship’s prow to see where his new friends came from.

What he saw surprised him. Their home was similar to Ériu’s settlements in many ways. Besides the three piers where the Jutes had moored other longships, Lindholm boasted a wooden palisade surrounding the dwellings with thatched roofs. Although not round, the buildings were wooden and, with their thatch, reminded Conall very much of home. On a slight rise in the center, he assumed the large longhouse with thickly carved trunks on either side of the door and turf covering the roof was their central hall. People were moving about between the houses, busy with their daily tasks. He could see fishers mending nets, youths practicing with wooden swords, a Jute who appeared to be churning butter, and another milking a cow. A young woman tended fish over a frame covering a smoking fire. Another kneaded dough on a large table. Everywhere he looked, people seemed happy. Someone signaled their imminent arrival with a deep-throated horn blast, and everyone stopped what they were doing to gather at the central pier’s end. The crowd was dense, and the settlement empty of those he’d watched from the ship’s prow.

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It looks like everyone’s here to welcome them back.

It was a custom he found touching, however strange.

The warriors showed their efficiency, mooring the Drage against the middle pier. Malthe put an arm across Conall’s shoulders and guided him to the short bridge one of the warriors had placed at the gap in the strakes.

“Welcome to my home, Éireannach,” the Jute said, guiding him to the pier.

Conall stumbled slightly on reaching the unmoving wood. After so long at sea, it was a change not to be swaying.

“Whoa,” he said, holding his hands out to grab something. Skadi laughed as she took his elbow, stopping him from embarrassing himself by landing on his arse or falling into the fjord.

“Thank you,” he said, rasping a hand over his stubbled chin.

“Skadi, you will offer him succor?” Malthe asked.

“Ya.”

“Get some sleep, Conall. It will be a long night.”

Nodding, he followed Skadi, who led him through the gap that appeared in the crowd. Several of the folk patted her, and all of them greeted her by name. They were happy to see her. The looks they gave Conall were curious but free from any animosity, and they were soon through the crowd, walking up the slight incline toward the gate.

At a screech, he turned to see a tall, striking woman throwing herself into Malthe’s arms. Three young girls waited for the chance to welcome the Chief home, but he was too engaged in fending off the woman’s kisses. Everywhere Conall looked, he was struck by the same sense of happiness he’d noticed from the ship’s deck.

Lindholm was a community of folk who enjoyed their lives.

Instead of going through the gate, Skadi turned north and led Conall around the palisade and up the shoreline. After a few moments of walking, a large house emerged beside an inlet nestled under the forest eaves. Not unlike the curraghs back in Ériu, a small boat was moored to the pier, appearing motionless on the fjord’s black surface. An animal pen rested beside the main house, which housed pigs, if he could take the oinks and the smell as a sign. Chickens were loose within the grounds bounded by a wicker fence. Despite Skadi’s prolonged absence, her home appeared well-tended.

“Where are you, Mikkel?” she called as they neared the steading.

“I’m near, big sister, as always. Where else would I be?”

Searching for the source of the words, Conall eventually saw a hunched figure sitting on a bank with his bare feet in the fjord. By his size and posture, he understood it was a youth. Conall followed Skadi as she stalked over, angry for a reason he couldn’t fathom. He supposed it might be because the youth didn’t come down to the pier to welcome them with the rest of Lindholm’s folk. When she reached the bank, the shieldmaiden placed clenched fists on her hips and stared at the matted hair of the figure before her.

“Is this how you greet your sister on her return?”

“Why would I welcome you returning happy from where I can never go?” the youth snapped.

The words carried so much venom that Conall glanced into the fjord’s black waters, hoping to see something of the youth’s features in the reflection. He had to fight an urge to step back when he saw the hatred glaring at him from the surface.

He thinks I will steal his sister and is jealous.

“You know you’re needed here to tend our steading,” Skadi said, her words just audible.

“Your steading, you mean. Now, help me up.” Mikkel held out a hand, and his sister helped him get to his feet. It was only then that Conall saw his mangled foot. “Pass my crutch.”

Conall looked over his shoulder and saw the crutch leaning against a tree. He handed it to the boy, who nodded without looking at him.

“Mikkel, greet Conall of the Victories,” Skadi said, her excitement again shining like a beacon.

Her brother, though, did not share that excitement; giving Conall a barely perceptible nod, he hobbled away. “I must feed the chickens.”

“Forgive him,” Skadi said, leading Conall to the main house. “He loathes the fact he relies on me.”

“What happened to his foot?” Skadi didn’t answer but led him up the oak steps and into her longhouse. Shrugging, Conall followed her, suspecting she would tell him in her own time.

Conall studied the interior and was again surprised by the similarity between Skadi’s home and any roundhouse in Ériu. The inside was dark—the only light coming from the open door. The homestead was shaped as a cross with a square firepit in the center. Cots covered in hides filled the two flank recesses. A table with two chairs—rough-hewn from tree stumps—stood in the top area beyond the firepit. Weapons and cooking utensils were hanging on the wooden walls, and shields propped against the walls in spaces not occupied by farming tools. He could be in Átha Clíath in his roundhouse, preparing to light the fire, readying for a cold night.

“You take my cot,” Skadi said, nodding to the right.

“What will you do?”

“I need to talk to Mikkel. He seems upset.”

Conall nodded, sloughed off his boots, and fell into the hides piled on the cot. He could not remember ever finding a bed more welcome than this one. The hides held a muskiness, which was not unpleasant. The scent of Skadi, no doubt. As he fell into a dreamless sleep, he could hear the murmur of voices as the siblings sat talking at their table.