Olaf wasn’t a safe companion. He dealt out punishment with a quick hand, breaking teeth or cracking a rib according to his mood. Seeing Lucy with the monster made Jack sick. But there was nothing he could do about it.

On the third day a storm rose. The boat rolled frighteningly and waves splashed over the side. All the captives bailed furiously while the oarsmen struggled to reach shore. The sad-eyed woman collapsed. She hadn’t been strong to begin with. Olaf dragged her up, and with a swift movement that made Jack cry out, he cut her throat and threw her over the side.

Jack and the others were frozen for one long moment. Then they redoubled their efforts before Olaf turned his attention to them. Even so, the shore remained agonizingly distant. The oarsmen were pushed back by the wind and lost two strokes of progress for every three they made. Thorgil clung grimly to her rudder. The sea attempted to snatch it out of her control, but she ground her teeth and fought back.

“May angels carry you to your daughter’s side,” whispered the monk as he toiled. “May your time in purgatory be short.”

He was praying for the poor, murdered woman. Tears rolled down Jack’s face, mixed with rain. He didn’t even know her name, and already her face was blurred in his memory. May the life force hold you in the hollow of its hand,Jack thought, repeating words he had learned from the Bard. May you return with the sun and be born anew into the world.

It wasn’t a prayer Father would have liked. He would have knocked Jack six ways to Sunday for saying it. But Jack thought it right and sensible to call on two religions, in case one failed.

Lucy was packed between rolls of fur and cloth. Jack could hear her crying over the storm, which was so intense now, he couldn’t see the stern of the boat. He tried not to think about the poor, dead woman. His duty was to see that Lucy didn’t suffer the same fate—if they didn’t both drown, that is. Jack no longer felt the sharp terror that had been with him in the first days of their captivity. The best he could manage was a dull, oxlike misery.

Olaf moved down the ship, handing out coins to the men.

“Now we’re in real trouble,” grunted the monk.

“Is he payingthem?” said Jack, who was so exhausted, he no longer felt pain.

“He’s giving them gold so they won’t show up empty-handed in the halls of their sea god. Satan will take that gold off them and kick them straight down to Hell.” The monk smiled cheerlessly.

Even a little hellfire would be welcome now,Jack thought. The cold made him clumsy, and the bailing bucket kept slipping out of hands. He was so tired, he saw spots before his eyes. He was terrified of fainting. Fainting meant death.

“Land fyrir stafni!”someone shouted. A gap in the driving rain showed they were, in fact, quite close to shore. A moment later Jack felt sand under the keel. The oarsmen jumped out and wrestled the boat through the waves to safety.

They lay like so many drowned rats on the shore. No one, not even the berserkers, had the strength to move. They had dragged the boat as far from the waves as possible and then collapsed. Jack managed to reach Lucy and held her in his arms. The sea boomed, the wind howled, and rain poured endlessly. In the boat were oilskins to erect as shelters, but no one made a move to unpack them.

Presently, darkness fell. Sunset had not been far off when they came to shore. Jack felt Lucy shudder and tried to dig a hole for her in the sand. At least that would give her some protection from the growing cold. He sat up. A few warriors—Olaf among them—had recovered enough to rise. They bellowed orders, following them with kicks. Slowly, painfully, the captives struggled to their feet. Those who could not were dragged roughly to a field above the tide line.

By now darkness was almost complete. Jack felt a rope being tied around his ankles. He was hobbled to the others, but fortunately, Lucy was not taken from him. He held her close again and, to his relief, felt an oilskin settle over them. The berserkers were not going to lose their cargo to illness.

“There, there,” murmured Jack as Lucy continued to shake. His throat felt ragged from shouting over the storm earlier.

“Why won’t they take me to my castle?” she said between chattering teeth.

Jack was astounded. Surely she didn’t believe that anymore. He paused, uncertain how to answer.

Lucy began to cry. “I keep telling them again and again. They don’t listen.”

“Dearling, they aren’t knights.”

“Oh yes they are! Bad ones.”

Jack bit his lip and decided to go for the truth. “They’re slave traders.”

“Don’t tell me that!” wailed Lucy. “I don’t want to hear it!”

“We have to face it, dearest. We’re slaves.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” She sobbed until her strength was used up. She clung to Jack, shivering and moaning. He couldn’t think of a single way to help her. Then, amazingly, Lucy said in a voice that was almost steady, “I know those men aren’t knights. I saw that—that poor woman die. I know Thorgil hates me and—and that she’ll probably kill me. I’ll go to Heaven then, won’t I?”

“Of course.” Jack’s throat felt raw with the urge to cry.

“So that’s all right. But until it h-happens, I don’t want to think about it. Don’t you see? I can’t live knowing about it.”

And Jack understood. Lucy was like Father. Father was so miserable about his twisted leg, he had to make up stories. Lucy was devastated at being torn from all she had ever known. So was Jack, but he was older. He could stand it. All that stood between Lucy and madness was a thin enchantment of belief. He made a quick decision.

“Most princesses have adventures before they get to their castles,” Jack said.

“Sometimes awful ones,” said Lucy. She yawned and snuggled close.

“They get carried off by ogres or even fed to dragons. Can you imagine a worse thing than being tied to a tree in front of a deep dark cave?”

“With smoke coming out.” Lucy’s voice was getting muzzy.

“Black, ugly, foul-smelling smoke.”

“But a knight always comes and rescues them.”

“Yes, always,” said Jack. He blinked back tears. Lucy’s hand relaxed its hold on his tunic. Very soon he heard her babyish snores.

He mustn’t cry. He mustn’t cry. He was all Lucy had, and he mustn’t fail her. Jack felt at his neck. The rune of protection spread warmth over his hand and up his arm. Taking care of Lucy wasn’t a bad thing, really. It was much better than having no one at all. How odd,Jack thought. He had no more control over his life than a dog on a chain, but caring for Lucy made him feel… well… strong.

I wish the Bard could explain it to me,Jack thought. He sighed and prepared himself for a long night with the rain pounding on the oilskin over their heads.

After a day’s rest they went on, northward along the coast. The land became wilder. Few villages lay in these parts, and those few clung to the rocky shore as though they expected to be blown away by the wind.

The sea was still high, although the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. The captives worked in shifts to bail the ship, a never-ending chore. Now and then Jack saw round towers on the distant hills. They were solitary and somehow threatening. He never saw people around them.

“They’re the strongholds of the Picts,” said the gloomy monk.

Jack had seen Picts. They sometimes came along the road to his village, trading ironware for food. They were a small, secretive people, covered in blue designs that were said to be permanent. It gave them an almost ghostly appearance, for they could melt into the dappled shade of a forest as easily as an animal. He had never seen more than one or two at a time.