. . .

Vaenwode seizes the rope.

He laughs, helplessly, in the face of Hans and his storm-steed. He clings to the rope with hands already growing slick with ice.

He can’t help it. He frees one hand to salute.

Then the rope jerks sharply. It hisses. It is like a living thing; somewhere high above him, Gunfrid has bound it to the water-wheel, and it lashes and it draws him up.

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