Thorvald’s Wyrd 028
The north wind blew in Thorvald’s face, nearly warm next to the touch of the iron rivets under his palm. As he touched the mast, the sail billowed and snapped taught. With a long rasp, the ship freed itself from the gravel bank and the hair on Thorvald’s neck pricked up, dropping back just as quickly.
Next to the Wild Hunt come to life before his eyes, if the square sail worked against both wind and current, he could not call it unnatural, not with the Runelord’s help at his back.
Whatever magic moved the ship, he stood safe within.