Every day as well, members of the ship's crew came and visited awhile, including Captain Orri, who always brought laughter to the room.

But every night, Egil woke up weeping, calling out men's names.

There came a day, however, when he sat in a chair facing Arin and said, "My engel, I would tell you what I can of the vile Wizard Ordrune."

“I cannot… there is…" Struggling to speak, Egil shook his head, confusion in his eye. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out and stared down at his hands.

Arin drew her chair close, until she sat knee to knee with Egil.

He looked up at her and gritted, "I remember all he did to us in his tower, in his dungeons, in his… pits, but as to… concerning"-a look of fierce concentration drew over Egil's features-"the other… before… after." Egil slammed a fist onto open palm. "He stole thoughts. Took memories. Left confusion. Cursed me."

Remaining silent, Arin reached out and took his hand and gently unclenched his fist, and held it softly while smoothing out his fingers.

Egil watched, as if somehow detached from his own hand, yet slowly he relaxed. After a moment he took her fingers in his and lightly kissed each one. She lowered her eyes, and he released her, yet she did not draw away, but instead she reached out and took his hand again. They sat in still comfort, neither speaking. Through the open window they could hear the cook calling for the yard boy to bring more wood, while within the room there sounded only the whisper of whetstone against steel as Aiko sharpened her blades. At last Egil took a deep breath and slowly let it out, and then quietly, calmly, he began again. "This I do remember."

"Ragnar! Ragnar!" Egil scrambled down the slope toward his armsmate. The young man stopped and waited as Egil came scurrying. Egil dropped to the footpath, calling out, "We have it!"

Ragnar's eyes widened. "Your father's ship?"

Egil laughed hugely and shouted, "Yes!"

Ragnar whooped and clapped Egil on the shoulders. "By Garlon, at last! A ship of our own." Suddenly, Ragnar grew sober. "Your father, is he…?"

"It's the ague. He can't seem to cast it off. But he said he didn't want to miss the raiding season altogether, so he gave me command of the ship. 'You are only twenty summers old, my son, yet I was no older when I built her. Besides, 'tis time to see if you can fly on your own.' That's what he said, Ragnar-fly on my own-and me with four unblemished raids under my belt. Ha! I'll show him just how well I can fly. I'll swoop like an eagle, my friend, for is it not my name?"

"Hai, Egil, like hawks and falcons and other such we'll all swoop down upon our prey, and no matter how they twist and turn we'll run them to ground." Ragnar paused, then said, "Your very own ship at last."

Egil grinned. "At least for one raid. Come, Ragnar, let us go look her over."

Egil and Ragnar set off down the path toward the docks below, where tethered was the Sjoloper, a modest ship by Fjordlander standards-being just seventy feet long and carrying but fifteen pairs of oars-yet to Egil and Ragnar she seemed the greatest of all the Dragonships sweeping across the seas.

They strode along her length, stepping over thwarts, examining the overlapping oaken strakes that yielded the hull its serpentine flexibility, causing the craft to cleave sharply through the waters, giving the ship a nimbleness beyond that which its narrow keelboard could bestow alone. They scrutinized the mast and unpacked the square sail from its protective tarpaulin, unfurling and inspecting the dyed cloth, along with the beitass poles. They checked the steerboard and each of the spruce oars racked amidships in oaken trestles, the oars trimmed to differing lengths so that when plied in short choppy strokes they would all strike the water simultaneously.

Having gone over the ship from stem to stern, Egil said, "She needs a minor bit of work, but the crew will make short shrift of that."

Ragnar leaned against a wale and looked out over the water as if to see lands afar. "When do we sail?"

"As soon as we can," replied Egil.

Ragnar now turned and leaned back, his elbows on the wale. "Where are we bound? What shores? Leut? Thol? Jute? Where?"

Egil shook his head. "Father says those places are already picked over. He suggests West Gelen."

"Ungh," groaned Ragnar, his face twisting sourly. "Fisher villages. We'll find naught but old men to fight and cod to win."

"My thoughts exactly, Ragnar. But you see, I have a plan."

"A plan?"

"Aye. To go where Fjordsmen have not been."

Ragnar cocked an eye at Egil. "Where?"

Egil glanced 'round. No one stood nearby, though a few lads fished from the end of the dock. He slipped his jerkin loose and reached under to take a flat oiled-leather pouch from his belt. From the packet he extracted a tattered fold of parchment, doubled over several times, and said, "I bought this from a seaman in Havnstad in Thol." Slowly he opened the parchment, fanning it out on a thwart. It was a map, rather large.

Ragnar's eyes widened as he scanned the unfamiliar shores. "Where are we going? What will we do?"

"What else, Ragnar, but raid, that's what: towns, towers, ships, villages-we are Fjordlanders! Wolves of the sea! As to where…? Here!" Egil stabbed a finger down on the map.

Egil and Ragnar rounded up a crew, mostly younger men, men of their age, men eager for adventure, for Egil would not reveal where he was bound, and many of the older warriors would not go without knowing the destination. Yet the young men had no qualms about setting out on a venture with nought more than the promise it would be exciting. Besides, Egil had named them Hawks of the Sea, though Young Wolves of the Sea would have been more accurate. Hence, with nought but promises of adventure and of deeds of derring-do and of fortune awaiting, Egil and his Hawks set sail on a midsummer's day, leaving behind a puzzle as to where he was headed, and only Egil's father knew whence ship and son were bound, a destination he kept to himself.

In the dark, moonless night, clouds covering the stars, the Sjoloper slipped through the blackness to come alongside the unwary craft, and Egil and his Hawks quietly clambered over the wales and up.

Filthy and athirst, with whips flailing against their backs, all the men stumbling in chains, Egil and his crew were driven along the twisting passageway through thick, stone bulwarks and into the courtyard beyond. Behind them, hinges shrieking, the massive main gate slowly swung to and slammed shut, and a huge bar ponderously rumbled across to thud home in a deep recess embedded in the high, buttressed ramparts. And with gears clattering and ratchets clacking and iron squealing, a mighty portcullis screeched downward in its track, its iron teeth grinding down to bottom out in deep socket holes drilled in the stone pave below.

Straight before the captives stood a large, dark building-the main hall-a hundred or more feet wide and three storeys high. To the left and against the stone bulwark were stables and a smithy and outbuildings. To the right, in the northwest corner and abutted against the wide ramparts stood a tall tower. Little of this did Egil get to see as he was shoved forward by his Drokken guard, yet he saw enough to know that he and his Hawks were caged.

They were driven shuffling across the courtyard and into the large building and down, their chains rattling and manacles clacking, as down the narrow stairwell they floundered to come at last to the foul mews below.

"So, you are the captain of the raiders." Egil remained silent.