Gunnar turned to the stranger. "You see? I told you he was Irish."

"He is Irish all right," the man observed placidly. "My cousin Sven once had an Irish woman. He got her in Birka for six bits of silver and a copper armband. She was a good wife, but had a very bad temper and would not allow him any other women. Always she said that she would gut him like a fish if he even thought of bringing another woman home. This vexed him sorely, I believe. She died after only five years-I think it was a wolf got her, or a wildcat. That was unfortunate for him. Sven could not easily afford another wife like that."

"Unfortunate indeed," I agreed. "You are the king's helmsman. I have seen you with him. I am Aidan."

"And you are the king's new slave," said the stranger. "I have seen you also. Greetings to you, Aeddan. I am Thorkel."

"We have sailed together before-Thorkel, Tolar, and me," Gunnar said. "This is the third time for us, and everyone knows the third time brings very good luck."

Tolar nodded sagely.

"They are saying you are a Christian," the pilot informed me. "They are saying it is bad luck for the king to trust a Christian; they fear it will prove poor raiding once we get to Miklagard." Thorkel paused, distancing himself from the rumour-mongers. "Well, people say many things; most of it is foolishness, of course."

"Aeddan is a priest," Gunnar declared blithely, raising a hand to my overgrown tonsure. "He speaks very well for his god. You should hear him sometime."

"So?" wondered Thorkel. "A Christian priest? I have never seen one before."

"It is true," I affirmed, and resolved to find a razor somewhere and restore my tonsure.

The seaman passed a speculative eye over me, and made up his mind at once. "Well, even so, I cannot think trusting a Christian is any worse than trusting one's luck to the moon and stars, and men do that readily enough. I think you are harmless though."

From this moment, Thorkel and I became friends. As I had no particular duties, I often spent the better part of every day in his company-sometimes sitting on his bench at the tiller, other times standing with him at the rail as he scanned the sea with his keen blue eyes. The tall helmsman undertook to tell me whatever he could about our progress, not that there was always much to tell. Aside from a few vague landmarks-hills, rocks, rivers, farms, and suchlike-there was little to be seen or mentioned.

We plied the wave-worried seas. Autumn storms were gathering and the days were growing cool and short in the northern realms. Thorkel steered a steady course along unfamiliar shores, and the king resolutely resisted any forays into unprotected settlements-not that many opportunities presented themselves; signs of human habitation were few along the darkly forested coast, for we were pursuing the little-known, and less trusted, northern route to our destination. More difficult than the southern route, the northerly course had the singular advantage of shortening the journey; by how much the journey might be reduced was anyone's guess. Some wagered that we would be drinking ol in Harald's hall for the Jul, or mid-winter feast. The pessimists among us tended to think it would be high summer once more before we tasted any of the king's beer.

Thus, coursing from headland to islet to promontory, we made our way along the misty coastline, pushing ever eastward. Truly, the Eastern Sea is a friendless expanse of cold black brine traversed only by solitary whales and other monsters of the foam-flecked deeps. I saw no other ships save the three following in our wake.

Twelve days after setting sail, we came to the place Thorkel had begun searching for three days previously: the mouth of the River Dvina. Pausing only long enough for the ships behind to catch us up, we then turned into the deep channel of the river and began the southern course of our voyage.

A peculiar voyage it was, too; for we left sea travel behind and sailed the inland waterways: south down the Dvina and Dnieper, passing through the lands of Gardarike and Curled and other trackless places, the barbarian realms of the Polotjans and Poljans, Dregovites, Severians, Patzinaks, and Kazars. Twice we were attacked-once in daylight while under sail. Our adversaries rose up out of the reed-beds, yelling shrilly and throwing stones and sticks; when we did not stop, they gave chase along the river, bouncing over the rocky banks on shaggy little ponies-a sight which made the Sea Wolves laugh, and occasioned great mirth for many days after.

The second attack came during the night four days into the great portage over the hills between the Dvina and the deep, long Dnieper. The fight was savage and brutal and lasted until midday. At King Harald's command, Thorkel and I and five others retreated to the longship to guard the sails and stores. I took no part in the fighting, but watched it all from the rail, praying Michael Militant's shielding for Gunnar and Tolar, whom I could see from time to time, toiling amidst the smoke and blood and shouting.

What a peculiar creature is a man, wayward as the wind and just as fickle. Many of these same Sea Wolves had attacked my own dear brothers, killed how many I do not know, ruined our pilgrimage, and stolen our chief treasure-and in similar circumstances. Yet, and yet!-here was I, hands clenched in fervent prayer, pouring out my heart for them, praying with all my might that they should overcome the marauders. It was, I suppose, God's way of showing how far I had fallen. Sure, no additional proof was needed.

Harald lost seventeen men altogether: eleven dead, and the rest carried off for slaves. The foemen lost far more-scores, I think-but we did not stop to count them, nor did we take slaves. As soon as the battle broke the Sea Wolves hastened to the ships and, taking up the ropes, we moved on until we came to a more sheltered place in an oak grove. There we stayed the day, resting and tending the wounded. At dawn the next morning we continued the portage as if nothing had happened, the previous day's clash all but forgotten.

Few settlements were of any size to warrant attention. One of the few, however, was a timber fortress called Kiev-a trading settlement in the possession of a tribe of Danefolk called Rhus, I think. Here we were to exchange some of King Harald's silver for fresh meat and other supplies.

"This Kiev is perhaps a day or two past the shallows," Thorkel informed us a few days after the attack. We had spent the day poling the ships through muddy shoals-a tedious and oppressively tiresome labour. Thorkel, Gunnar, Tolar, and I were sitting at a small campfire on the riverbank beside the ship; we had begun taking our evening meal together, breaking bread with one another and dipping it into the same pot.

Why Harald tolerated this odd communion between his slave and his men, I cannot say. But then, neither had I worked out why he wanted me in the first place. The whole business was inscrutable to me. Still, I took comfort in the familiar companionship of Gunnar and the others; I am not ashamed to say they were my friends.

Although he had never been so far south, Thorkel seemed to know the region well; Gunnar remarked on this, whereupon the pilot smiled and leaned forward confidentially. "I have a skin, you see," he confided, tapping the side of his nose meaningfully. What he meant by this, I soon discovered, was that he had an oiled sheepskin on which was drawn a crude map.

"Here is Kiev," he said, unrolling the skin which he kept inside his shirt. The rivers were black scratches and the settlements brown spots. He placed his finger on one of the spots, and then, moving further down, stabbed at another brown spot. "And here is Miklagard. You see? We are almost there."

"But we have a very long way to go yet," I pointed out.

"Nay," he replied, shaking his head and frowning at my ignorance. "All this," he indicated a blank expanse above Miklagard, "here and here-all this is calm water. We can easily cross that in three or four days if the wind favours us."