Chapter One
Firth of Clyde, Alba—September 936AD
Raging waves heaved around the ship as if to forewarn him on his quest. Giric MacDomnail gripped the serpent on the galley’s prow and leaned forward. Storm be damned. He would not lose his vessel to the violence around them—not when he had such an important task ahead. Too much weighed in the balance.
“We’ll never make it!” Osgar MacAlpin said. His greatest ally needed a little more faith.
Giric could barely make out his words or features over the howling wind and sea spray stinging his face. Sailing down the Firth of Clyde had been choppy, but manageable. But this was a sea he’d never experienced. Giric gripped the serpent’s head tighter, willing the ship to win the battle. This journey was too important, and he’d put it off for far too long.
The ship groaned and creaked as each wave threatened to tear it apart. Though quite strong, he was no match for the push and pull on his body as the ship was tossed around.
“Giric, did you hear me?” Osgar tugged on his shoulder. “We must return to Prestwick. The storm is too powerful.”
Giric whipped around to face his doubting friend. “We will not turn back. It’s taken me too long to acquire men brave enough to make this journey. I won’t let a wee storm stop me now.”
Osgar shook his head. “Christ’s teeth, Giric! You’ll kill us all!”
Giric grabbed his oldest friend’s tunic. “If we do not make the journey, there will be nothing left of our homes. Do you understand? And I will not allow one more Scot to fall victim to their raids and barbarism.” He’d made a vow to his sister, and he intended to keep it.
“Aye, I understand, but the men are scared, Giric. They think the Viking king conjured up one of their gods to bring about the storm.”
Giric shook his head. This kind of talk would get them all killed.
“Viking kings do not conjure, Osgar. You know this. Do not let a little wind steal your courage.”
Osgar put his hands up in surrender. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” He stepped away from Giric. He’d made his point, but now Giric needed him to do the job with which he was tasked.
“You worry about the men. Keep them calm. Let me worry about what to say to the Viking chief.”
Osgar shouted at the men to row harder. Their rhythmic chant grew loud enough to reach the heavens. Good. Their chanting would help them focus. He turned back to the horizon to scan for land.
Giric had heard plenty of stories of how the Norsemen and Gaels had made their peace on the Isle of Lewis. He had a proposal for Gunnar Haraldson and no amount of bad weather would keep him from it. To hell with superstition and conjuring. He needed the ship and the men to hold themselves together a little while longer.
The sky grew darker as the clouds turned a sickening inky grey. Thankfully, he’d had the men tie the sail up a while ago, else they would surely end up adrift. He and Osgar took turns steering the ship until finally, the wind turned around and pushed them in the right direction. Osgar was a relatively quiet man under normal circumstances, but in that moment he was fierce in his pursuit to keep the men pumping. He was grateful his friend had put his fears to good use. Giric could neither operate the ship, nor make this journey alone.
“Heave!” Osgar shouted.
“Ho!” the men replied.
By the time land appeared, at least half of the men were vomiting over the side of the galley. But Giric was not too exhausted to hoist up a white flag. The last thing they needed was to meet a band of Vikings on the shore whose blood was up from the storm.
Before long, Lagavulin came into full view. The large bay offered excellent protection from the open ocean, but also an unencumbered view of approaching ships from the east. Giric was certain all able-bodied warriors wielding shields and axes had amassed on the beach the moment the ship was spotted.
There was great risk to his approach, of that he had no doubt. He’d sent a message with a man he’d seen in Prestwick but a fortnight ago. Without any way of accepting a response, he was unaware if his message had reached its destination or if Gunnar Haraldson was the kind of chieftain who negotiated or attacked first.
As they approached the shore, a large wooden structure came into view. Giric squinted to make it out, but his mind would not let him reconcile the image.
“Is that a ship’s hull?” Osgar asked.
And then he understood. The structure resembled an overturned ship’s hull, but of a size Giric had never seen. He knew a little about Viking ways, but clearly not enough. Was this where they all lived? Or was it some sort of common place like a tavern?
Before he could put any more thought to it, the sea calmed and a single shaft of sunlight shone through the thick clouds overhead, landing on the shore. Something there reflected the light.
“God’s teeth,” Osgar said.
“Hold steady,” Giric said. “We would greet a stranger no differently in these times.”
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing, man?” Osgar asked. “That’s no welcoming party.”
