Jack sat next to Cloud Mane and watched the preparations. Bold Heart perched on the horse’s back. “You have to stay out of Frith’s way,” Jack told the crow. “I wish I could be sure you understood. You seem awfully intelligent, but you’re only a bird. A kind of black chicken, really.” Bold Heart ignored him and searched for ticks on Cloud Mane’s back.

It was time. The awful moment when they would face Ivar the Boneless came nearer with every oar-stroke. Jack morosely watched the coast speed by as the warriors rowed with renewed energy. They’d decked themselves with finery—brooches, armbands, and finger rings, the more, the better—and exchanged their greasy leather caps for headbands worked in gold. Olaf wore a fine woolen cloak, pinned on the right shoulder to leave his sword arm free. Even Thorgil had a necklace of finely worked silver leaves over her faded tunic. With her bright hair streaming in the wind, she looked quite girlish.

Jack thought about telling her this, but he knew the penalty for baiting her.

They met boats of all sizes, though none as grand as King Ivar’s drekaror even as large as Olaf’s and Egil’s ships. When they came to the mouth of the fjord, a swarm of little fishing boats scooted out of their way. The fishermen cheered, and Olaf stood tall and grand at the prow.

They followed the fjord deep into the land. The sound of the sea died away. The waves disappeared. Soon the water was as calm as a lake. On either side were grim, forested mountains, with here and there a hawk coasting the upper air. And far away to the north lay high mountains covered in snow.

“Jotunheim,” said Olaf.

Troll country,translated Jack with a sinking heart.

Presently, they saw farms high in the hills and steep meadows with herds of sheep and cattle. At a bend in the fjord, where the meadow came down to the water, was a large dock and many houses. A child saw them coming and ran back along a street, shouting. Immediately, the houses emptied out. Men, women, children, and dogs hurried to the dock, hollering and barking for all they were worth.

“Any sign of Ivar?” said Olaf.

“Not yet,” said Sven the Vengeful.

The celebration on the shore went on. The people were working themselves into a frenzy, but there were some who were less joyful. They shaded their eyes and looked from one ship to the other. Jack guessed they were searching for the third ship, the one that presumably went down, or for kinfolk who might have been rescued.

“There’s Ivar,” said Sven.

Beyond the town was a shoulder of mountain leaning out over the fjord. It was an outcropping of dark blue stone, as bleak and lifeless as metal. On top was a long house Jack hadn’t noticed before. A group of people—it was too far to see clearly—stood outside.

“He’ll wait for you to come to him,” said Sven.

“Troll-whipped weakling,” muttered Olaf under his breath.

In spite of the absence of the king, the warriors’ welcome was everything they could have wanted. The women hugged and kissed them. The men, who were mostly old, gave them friendly punches. Parents greeted sons; wives—sometimes two or three to a man—welcomed their husbands. Children ran around shrieking. Those whose family members had not returned wept quietly at the side. Perhaps their men were still on the way. Perhaps not.

Jack held Lucy’s hand tightly. The crowd surged around them, pushing them this way and that. “What a pretty little thrall!” cried a woman, chucking Lucy under the chin.

“Go away!” shrilled Lucy.

“With a temper, too,” the woman said approvingly.

Jack pulled his sister out of the crush until they were up among the houses. He didn’t know what to do. He felt lonely and scared. No one in this town cared about them. They were livestock, to be sold or slaughtered. But he had to stay in control so he could protect Lucy. He looked around to find something to take his mind off his troubles and saw Thorgil walking slowly up the street. She, too, was alone. No one had come to greet her. She didn’t even seem to have friends.

Something twisted inside Jack. How could anyone be that alone? No matter how desperate his and Lucy’s situation was, they had each other. And they had parents who missed and mourned for them. They had a village where they would be greeted as enthusiastically as the returning Northmen. How could anyone come home to nothing?

Then, racing down the street, Jack saw a pack of dogs. They were unlike anything he’d ever seen and unlike the curly-tailed dogs frisking around the dock. These animals were huge,almost as tall as he. They had long, lean heads and small ears. Their coats were matted and gray.

Jack pushed Lucy behind him. The dogs galloped toward them like horses. But at the last minute they pulled up and danced around the children, baying and leaping.

“Slasher! Wolf Bane! Hel Hag! Shreddie!” yelled Thorgil. The dogs fell on her, yipping and licking. They rolled her in the dirt, and she pummeled them back. Then one of them—Jack thought it was Shreddie—left the tangle and came back to Lucy. He plumped his front legs down on the ground and waggled his rump in the air. His tail wagged furiously.

“Nice doggie,” said Lucy.

“I don’t think so,” said Jack, his heart pumping.

“Stay away from them!” shouted Thorgil, fighting her way out of the tangle. “They’re myfriends. Mine!They’re not for dirty thralls.” She ran up the street. “Come, friends! Come to me!” she yelled back. The dogs took off like arrows.

Jack stared after her, glad the huge beasts had gone. “Nice doggies,” said Lucy.

“Let’s find Olaf,” said Jack. It occurred to him that Thorgil, when she cried Come, friends! Come to me,had spoken in Saxon.

Olaf took them to his farm above the village. Several of his thralls—with slave rings around their necks—carried chests of booty. Jack wondered if he would be fitted with such a ring. It would be a terrible and unending humiliation. No one could look at him without knowing his status.

Any illusion Jack might have had about friendship between an owner and his slave was dispelled by the thralls’ names: Pig Face, Dirty Pants, Thick Legs, and a man-and-wife couple called Lump and She-Lump. She-Lump led Cloud Mane to a stable. Even the horse had a better name.

The walls of Olaf’s main house were curved inward. The ridge along the top formed an arc like the keel of an overturned ship. At each end of the ridge was a carved dragon’s head. Scattered about were other buildings—stables, storehouses, kitchens, and spare bedrooms.

Inside, as with Father’s house, the floor was below the surface of the ground. Along the sides were benches and tables and, leaning against a far wall, a beautifully made loom. Everywhere were examples of Olaf’s carving skills. Horses, birds, fish, and dragons decorated the roof beams and supporting timbers.

A fire burned in a long stone-lined trough down the middle of the hall. It made the air pleasantly warm, but smoky. Jack and Lucy started coughing the minute they got inside. “Good for the lungs!” cried Olaf, striking himself on the chest. “A hearty cough always tells me I’ve arrived home. Come on, ladies! Come and see what I’ve brought you!”

Olaf’s three wives crowded around, along with his tow-headed children. There were at least a dozen. They mobbed their father, demanding to see what he’d brought them. “A smack on the backside!” roared the giant. The children weren’t a bit scared. They continued to climb on their father’s legs and hang off his arms.

Finally, the wives unhooked them and the gift-giving began. There were shawls, tunics, bolts of cloth, and tools for the general running of the house. A heap of salt cakes brought cries of approval from the wives, who, Jack learned, were called Dotti, Lotti, and Heide. Olaf handed out embroidered headbands to the boys and scarves to the girls. Everyone got a new knife. He tossed necklaces, bracelets, and brooches to the wives, laughing to see them fight for the loot. “Who are the thralls for?” Dotti said. The women eagerly turned to look at Jack and his sister.