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and must be respected. Each of them said something to honor the dead, sharing a story that spoke to Keeper’s bravery and courage. Aylaen spoke a prayer to speed his soul.
    “His gods are not our gods,” she said. “I do not know their names, except that they are called the Gods of Raj. If they are listening, let them hear that Keeper was a good man, a brave warrior, and that I counted him as my friend.”
    “If Keeper had died at home, his family would paint his face to honor him,” Acronis explained. “If he had died on the field of battle, his friends and comrades-in-arms would honor him in this way.”
    “I do this as his friend and comrade,” said Skylan.
    “And I do this as Keeper’s family,” said Acronis. “For he was part of my family. Chloe loved him.”
    The two dabbed the flour on the skin that was now cold. Acronis smeared the white paste over the bald skull. Skylan drew a black stripe from Keeper’s neck to the chin and another black stripe across his nose and cheekbones.
    “You must help me one last time, my friend. In return, I will take you back to your people,” said Skylan. He kissed the silver amulet around his neck. “Torval be my witness.”
    Bjorn placed the giant two-handed sword in the ogre’s hands, then they covered his body with one of the spare sails to keep the dampness from smearing the paint. And then they stood staring at each other.
    “Now what do we do?” Sigurd asked, subdued.
    Erdmun’s stomach growled loudly and the men all laughed.
    “I think we had better eat something,” said Skylan. “Before Erdmun’s belly brings the ogres down on us.”
    Aylaen and Farinn carried up food—dried meat, bread, and olives, a Sinarian fruit for which the Vindrasi had developed a taste. The men sat on their sea chests, eating ravenously. Wulfe, who had been quietly munching on some soggy bread, shoved the last bit under the sail near Keeper’s cold hand.
    “He might be hungry,” said Wulfe, and he gave the body a little pat.
    And then there was nothing more they could do. Darkness was falling. The night was thick around them, muffling sound. Erdmun’s head fell forward, resting on his chest, and he began to snore. His brother, Bjorn, started to wake him.
    “Let him sleep,” said Skylan, who felt as if he would drop from fatigue himself. He tried to remember back to when he had last slept, but too much had happened, events were blurred. Yesterday was distant, today was shrouded in mist. Tomorrow might not exist.
    “We should all get some sleep while we can,” Skylan added. “I will take first watch.”
    “I’ll stand with you,” said Sigurd.
    No one argued. They slumped down on the deck.
    Skylan leaned over the rail near the dragonhead prow, staring into the fog. When he found himself dozing off, he shook his head and went back to talk to Sigurd, who had been pacing the deck, to keep himself awake.
    He found Sigurd leaning against the mast. His eyes were closed. He had fallen asleep standing up. Skylan shook him.
    “I’m awake!” Sigurd protested.
    “Lie down,” said Skylan. “Before you fall and break something. The Dragon Kahg and I will keep watch.”
    Sigurd continued to swear that he wasn’t the least bit tired, even as his eyes closed and his head lolled.
    Skylan walked about, checking on his people. Aylaen had taken off her armor, complaining that it was too heavy. Dressed in the leather tunic worn by the Sinarian soldiers underneath their armor, she had wrapped herself in a relatively dry blanket she’d found in the hold. Wulfe was curled up at her side, pressing against her for warmth. The rest lay sprawled on the deck. Grimuir had his hand on his sword. Farinn was mumbling in his sleep, perhaps the words to his song. Erdmun snored. Acronis, an old campaigner, had made his cloak into a pillow. Not far from the rest, Keeper lay beneath the sail in eternal slumber.
    Skylan walked forward, stationed himself beside the dragonhead prow, and stood gazing out