CHAPTER I
THE SEA DOES NOT REMEMBER**
The sea was calm when the ships arrived.
Not the kind of calm that promised mercy. It was the quiet that came before a blade was drawn. The water lay flat and dull under a pale sky, thick with mist that clung to the surface like breath held too long. Oars dipped without splash. Wood groaned softly. Men kept their heads down. No one spoke.
Thorfinn stood at the prow of the lead ship, knees bent slightly to keep balance, eyes fixed on the shoreline. He had been awake all night. Sleep did not come to him anymore. When it did, it brought faces. So he stayed awake instead and watched the fog thin as the shore grew closer.
It was not a large village. A dozen houses at most, low and wide, built of timber darkened by salt and wind. Smoke rose from two hearths. Fishing nets hung along poles. A single boat was pulled onto the sand, its hull cracked and patched. There were no walls. No watch fires. No guards.
Someone laughed quietly behind him.
Thorfinn did not turn.
The ships scraped onto sand. Men jumped down, boots sinking into wet ground. Axes were checked. Shields lifted. A few murmured prayers, some to gods they barely remembered, some to no one at all. Thorfinn stepped down last. His feet touched the shore and he felt nothing. Not fear. Not hunger. Not excitement. Just the weight of his knives against his ribs and the familiar pull in his chest that came before killing.
They moved fast. Not shouting yet. That would come later.
The first house was taken without sound. A man stepped out holding a bucket and froze when he saw them. He opened his mouth. Thorfinn crossed the distance before the sound could leave his throat. The knife slid in under the ribs, angled up. The man sagged. Warmth spilled over Thorfinn's hand. He lowered the body into the sand so it would not fall.
The second house screamed.
A door burst open. A woman ran out with a child clutched to her chest. She tripped. Someone behind Thorfinn threw an axe. It struck the woman's back and she fell forward hard, the child crushed beneath her. The child did not scream. The sound it made was worse.
Thorfinn kept moving.
Fire took the thatch roofs quickly. Smoke rose thick and black. Men shouted now. Steel rang on steel. A fisherman swung a spear wildly and was cut down by three blades at once. Another tried to run into the water and was dragged back by his hair, his throat opened from ear to ear.
Thorfinn moved through it like water through a broken net.
A man came at him with a wood axe, face red with fear and effort. Thorfinn stepped inside the swing, felt the wind of it pass behind his head, and drove his knife into the man's thigh. When the man fell, screaming, Thorfinn knelt and slit his throat cleanly. He stood as the body twitched.
Blood soaked into the sand. The tide would take it soon.
He entered the third house.
It was darker inside. The fire had not reached it yet. A table stood in the center with dried fish laid out. Two bowls. One was overturned. A man crouched in the corner with a short blade, shaking so badly his teeth clicked. He was young. No beard. Bare feet.
Thorfinn looked at him.
The man rushed him.
It was clumsy. Desperate. Thorfinn caught his wrist, twisted hard, felt the bone crack. The blade fell. Thorfinn drove his knife into the man's chest, once, twice, until the body sagged against the wall. The man tried to speak. Blood bubbled instead.
Thorfinn stepped back. His breath was steady. His hands did not shake.
He turned and saw the child.
A boy no older than six stood behind the table. He had not moved. His eyes were wide and dark, fixed on the body sliding down the wall. His mouth was open but no sound came out.
Thorfinn froze.
Not because of the boy. Because of the look.
He had seen that look before. In England. In Wales. In places whose names were already fading from memory. It was the look of something breaking without sound.
The boy's gaze lifted slowly until it met Thorfinn's.
For a moment neither moved.
Then footsteps pounded outside. A voice shouted something about loot. Someone laughed again.
Thorfinn turned away.
He left the house without looking back.
The village burned.
By the time the sun broke through the fog, there was nothing left standing. Bodies lay twisted where they had fallen, some half covered by sand, others blackened by fire. Gulls circled overhead, already screaming.
The men gathered near the ships. They counted losses. Two wounded. One dead, an arrow through the eye. They shrugged and moved on. There was food to take, cloth, a small chest of coins. Not much. Enough.
Someone kicked a corpse into the surf. The waves pulled at it, slow and patient.
Thorfinn stood apart from them, wiping his blades clean on the hem of a dead man's tunic. He watched the sea.
It did not care.
They sailed before noon.
The village vanished behind them, smoke thinning into the sky until it was nothing but a stain on the horizon. The men settled into the rhythm of rowing. Jokes started up again. Someone sang, off key.
Thorfinn sat near the mast, back against the wood, eyes closed.
He saw the boy again.
He opened his eyes and stared at the rope at his feet until the image faded.
Night fell before they reached the next shore. They made camp in a shallow cove, pulling the ships onto rocks and building a small fire that would not carry far. Meat was roasted. Ale passed between hands. One of the wounded groaned as his arm was set. No one helped him much.
Thorfinn ate without tasting.
A man sat across from him, older, scarred, his beard streaked with grey. He chewed slowly, watching Thorfinn over the fire.
"You didn't take anything," the man said.
Thorfinn did not answer.
"You should," the man went on. "A man should take something. Makes it worth it."
Thorfinn looked up. "Worth what."
The man snorted. "The risk."
Thorfinn said nothing.
The man shrugged and turned away.
Later, when the fire burned low and the others slept, Thorfinn walked to the edge of the water. The tide was coming in. It lapped against the rocks, cold and steady. He crouched and washed his hands again. The water ran red for a moment, then clear.
He watched it until it was clear.
He thought of his father.
Not the man. The idea.
He tried to remember Thors' voice. It came faintly, like sound through water. He remembered the words about a true warrior, about no enemies, about running instead of fighting.
He felt nothing.
Behind him, someone shifted in their sleep and muttered. The night pressed close, heavy with the smell of smoke and salt.
Thorfinn stood and walked back to the camp. He lay down on the cold ground and stared at the sky until dawn.
The sea kept moving.
It always did.
Thorfinn did not sleep.
The sky lightened slowly, as if it did not want to be seen. Grey crept in from the east and pushed the stars away one by one. The fire had died to ash. A few embers glowed faintly, then went dark. Men lay where they had fallen, wrapped in cloaks, mouths open, breath loud and uneven.
Thorfinn rose when the light was still weak.
He walked past the ships and into the trees. The ground was soft with needles and damp leaves. The smell of sap and rot clung to the air. Birds watched him from the branches but did not fly. He went far enough that the camp sounds faded, then stopped.
He knelt and pressed his palm into the earth.
It was cold. Solid. Real.
He stayed there longer than he meant to.
When he stood, he realized he was shaking. Not from fear. From something else. Something that did not have a name anymore. He clenched his fists until the feeling passed.
A sound came from behind him.
He turned, knives already in his hands.
It was one of the younger men from the warband, thin, sharp eyed, carrying himself like someone who had not yet learned when to stop talking. He raised his hands slightly when he saw Thorfinn's stance.
"Easy," the man said. "Just pissing."
Thorfinn did not lower the knives right away.
The man glanced at them, then at Thorfinn's face. "You're awake early."
Thorfinn said nothing.
The man shrugged and finished what he came for, then lingered. "You always go off alone like this?"
"Yes."
"Doesn't bother you. Being out here. Could be wolves."
Thorfinn looked at him. "Then they come."
The man laughed, but it sounded thin. "You don't talk much, do you."
"No."
Silence settled between them. The trees creaked softly. Somewhere deeper in the forest, something moved.
The man scratched his beard. "You from the north?"
"Yes."
"Thought so. You fight like it. Quick. Clean."
Thorfinn turned away.
The man watched him for a moment longer, then left. His footsteps faded.
Thorfinn stood there until the forest felt empty again.
When he returned to camp, the others were waking. Someone was already arguing about course and wind. A piece of bread was shoved into his hand. He ate it because it was there.
They pushed off soon after.
The wind favored them, strong and steady. The sails filled. The shoreline slid past, broken cliffs giving way to long stretches of rock and grass. The sea glittered now, bright enough to hurt the eyes.
Hours passed.
Thorfinn sat with his back to the mast, sharpening one knife slowly, carefully. Each stroke was measured. He did not rush. He did not stop. He focused on the sound of stone on metal and nothing else.
A scream broke the air.
It came from the rear ship.
Thorfinn looked up as men shouted and pointed. The ship jerked suddenly, oars clashing. Someone fell into the water. Another followed, dragged down by a flailing arm.
The sea churned.
"Man overboard," someone yelled. "Something's got him."
Thorfinn was already moving.
He reached the edge and saw the dark shape beneath the surface, fast and wide. A seal perhaps. Or something larger. A man's head broke the water, mouth open, eyes wild. Blood spread around him in a widening bloom.
The shape struck again. The man vanished.
The water closed.
No one jumped in after him.
The ships pulled away slowly, cautiously, as if the sea itself had teeth. Silence followed. Someone crossed himself. Another spat.
Thorfinn stared at the water long after it was calm again.
The sea did not remember.
They reached another shore by late afternoon. This one was emptier. No smoke. No houses. Just a strip of sand and forest beyond it. They made camp without fire and kept watch in turns.
Thorfinn took the first.
He sat on a rock, knees drawn up, watching the tree line. The light faded again. Shadows thickened. The forest seemed to lean closer as the night deepened.
He thought of the boy.
The memory came unbidden. The boy's eyes. The way his mouth had hung open, as if the scream was still inside him, trapped.
Thorfinn pressed his fingers into his temples.
He remembered another boy. Smaller. Blonde. Standing in the snow with a knife too big for his hands.
He swallowed.
Footsteps approached softly behind him.
"You can rest," a voice said. "I'll take over."
It was the older man from the night before.
Thorfinn shook his head. "I'm fine."
The man sat anyway, easing himself down with a grunt. "You always say that."
They sat in silence for a while. The forest breathed around them.
"First time?" the man asked suddenly.
Thorfinn frowned. "What."
"Killing a village," the man said. "You look like it's sticking."
Thorfinn did not answer.
The man nodded slowly. "Yeah. I remember my first. Couldn't eat for days. Thought I'd be sick every time I closed my eyes."
"And now," Thorfinn said quietly.
The man gave a humorless smile. "Now I sleep like a child."
Thorfinn looked at him then. Really looked. The scars. The eyes that did not quite focus on anything anymore.
"I don't want that," Thorfinn said.
The man laughed softly. "You don't get to choose."
The words settled heavy between them.
A branch snapped in the distance. Both men tensed. Thorfinn rose smoothly, knives ready. The sound did not come again. After a long moment, the tension eased.
The man sighed. "You should sleep. Your turn ends soon."
Thorfinn did not move.
"When this is over," the man went on, "when the fighting ends. What'll you do."
Thorfinn stared into the dark. "It doesn't end."
The man looked at him for a long time. Then he stood. "Try to rest anyway."
He walked back to camp.
Thorfinn remained where he was.
When his watch ended, he lay down but did not close his eyes. The sky was clear now, stars sharp and cold. He traced familiar shapes without naming them.
At some point, exhaustion pulled him under.
He dreamed of water.
He was standing in the sea, waist deep, waves pulling at him. Bodies floated past, faces turned down. He recognized some. Others he did not. They brushed against his legs as they drifted by.
The boy stood on the shore, watching.
Thorfinn tried to move toward him, but the water grew heavier with each step. Hands reached up from below and caught his ankles, his calves, his knees. He struggled, but the grip tightened.
The boy did not move.
Thorfinn opened his mouth to speak, but salt water rushed in instead.
He woke choking.
The camp was quiet. Dawn was breaking again.
He sat up, gasping, then steadied his breath. No one stirred. The dream clung to him like wet cloth.
He stood and walked to the water's edge.
The sea lay calm once more.
He watched it until the sun cleared the horizon and the light spilled across the waves, bright and indifferent.
The sea did not remember.
But he did.