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"Heave, one, two. Heave, one, two." The rhythmic roar paused for a second, then, "You! Yes, you. Pull. Pull!" The final word was accompanied by the shrill hiss of a whip slicing the air, then a shriek as the lash found its mark.

"Bastards," muttered Taranc under his breath as he leaned in to drag on the huge oar again. "Just shut up and row," he rasped to the men on either side of him in the crammed hull of the Viking dragon ship. "Our chance will come, but for now they have the whips."

Murmurings of resentful and fearful discontent surrounded him and the occasional scream rose up as yet another of his Celtic countrymen attracted the vicious displeasure of their Nordic captors.

Taranc allowed none of it to distract him as he bent his body back and forth, each powerful stroke of the huge oar ploughing the unrelenting waves.

He fought to retain his temper, to not react to the bullying and swagger, the belligerent crowing of the victorious Vikings as they pressed their newest slaves into the hard labour required to carry them back across the North Sea to their home in the cold and frozen North.

Many of Taranc's friends and neighbours had perished in the swift and violent Viking raid on their villages.

Taranc recalled with vivid accuracy the sight of Dughall, Lord of Pennglas weeping over the body of his slain son.

Adair was ever a foolish and headstrong lad, but he had died seeking to defend his home and Taranc could not help but admire the young man's courage.

It was a waste, though. A bloody stupid waste.

The Norsemen had swooped on them without warning, killing all who resisted and herding the rest into a circle to be taken as slaves.

Taranc had been among those rounded up and had surrendered without much in the way of apparent protest. He was but one man, and their Viking attackers were many, and heavily armed.

Taranc might privately admire Adair's determination to put up a fight, but did not share his suicidal tendencies.

As chief of the village of Aikrig, Taranc saw his duty in seeking the survival of his people rather than a glorious death.

Under his leadership they would await their moment, retaliate if and when an opportunity arose. Dead Celts were of no use to anyone.

"Heads down. Just row and keep quiet," he commanded.

He glanced from one side to the other, his stern glare calculated to quell any lingering dissent.

Taranc expected to be obeyed, and his people did not disappoint him now.

They bent their backs in unison, succumbing to the roared commands of their cruel captors who seemed to believe they controlled the situation.

Taranc knew better. At a word from him the oars slaves would rise up and attack the Vikings, but to what avail? Better to choose their moment, when the odds were more in their favour.

As he rowed in silence he relived those awful moments when he had realised what was happening, and with that understanding had come recognition of the utter futility of resistance.

Taranc had been at Pennglas when their attackers struck, having gone there to seek out Fiona, his betrothed.

She was daughter to Dughall, sister to the hapless Adair, and herself now also a prisoner of the Vikings.

Fiona was every bit as courageous and foolhardy as her brother and had sought to repel the invaders with her slingshot.

An excellent markswoman, she had felled two or three Norse warriors before being apprehended by no less than the Viking chief himself.

She was now his captive and Taranc feared for her.

As men, the fate of those who shared the dragon ship with him was clear enough.

They would be expected to work, and the labour would be hard.

For women, the future might be much more uncertain.

All knew the vile reputation of these vicious Norsemen, their cruelty to female captives.

Taranc’s feelings regarding his betrothed were somewhat complex.

Informally promised to one another since childhood they had grown up together.

The pair had played in the meadows which lay between their villages, climbed trees, and roamed the surrounding moors in search of autumn berries.

He had taught her to swim; she shared with him her skill with the slingshot.

They were friends, playmates, comrades, but as they approached maturity they had both come to the realisation that they were not destined to be lovers.

Taranc adored Fiona, and he knew she shared his affection, but neither considered the other in a remotely lover-like way.

If pushed he would describe their relationship as more akin to that between sister and brother.

They loved each other but were not in love and never would be.

And now, Fiona was in grave danger and he cursed his own helplessness to assist and protect her. He did not even know for sure where she had been taken, only that she was no longer in the company of the Viking warlord who had seized her.

He knew that because that man was in this very dragon ship, arrogant and tall at the prow of the vessel, gazing ahead across the frothing waves.

Ulfric, Taranc recalled. The Viking chief spoke their Gaelic tongue and he had told them his name when he announced that they were to be taken as slaves, or thralls as the Vikings preferred to term such lowly beings.

Taranc rowed with his back to the direction of travel so he could not see the Viking leader, but he was acutely aware of his presence.

The tall, blond warrior exuded power and authority, but he exercised uncommon restraint too.

Back at Pennglas, Taranc had fully expected Fiona to be slain on the spot for her resistance to the Viking assault, but Ulfric had prevented that, instead taking her as a slave.

He had no need to spare her, and Taranc could not help but be grateful. And puzzled.

There was another, also. The chief was supported by a second warrior, one clad entirely in black, as dark as the leader was blond.

They were friends it had seemed to Taranc as he watched them, and though the dark one spoke only the guttural Nordic tongue Taranc recognised that he displayed a less respectful attitude to the leader than did any of the other raiders.

If anything, this one had seemed amused by the exchange between Ulfric and Fiona.

It was he who had supervised the loading of the slaves, the selection of the females who were to be taken, and the dark Viking now commanded his own dragon ship which sliced through the waves not a hundred feet from their stern.

Taranc could discern his tall, powerful figure marching back and forth, the long wolf skin cloak flapping in the brisk offshore wind.

Murdering, thieving bastards. They would pay for this, Taranc promised himself. They would pay dearly.

A muffled sob from his left caught his attention.

Taranc leaned forward and peered along the row.

A small boy huddled at the very end of the bench, pressed against the outer hull of the ship.

His thin fingers gripped the oar and he tugged ineffectually at the unrelenting beam.

As the Viking oars master passed by, his lash dangling from his hand, the boy shrank back as though he sought to crawl into the very planks which made up the sleek vessel.

Taranc recognised the boy, or at least he knew him by sight.

The lad had moved to Aikrig perhaps a year ago, with his mother who had married a fisherman from his village.

The man was dead, drowned at sea some months ago, and now the boy had been enslaved by the Vikings.

The dear Lord alone knew the fate of the mother.

"Pass the boy along here. He shall sit beside me," Taranc instructed the man to his side. "Have a care, do not let the Vikings see him move."

The Celts obeyed, surreptitiously shifting the boy along the bench until he was pressed between Taranc and another burly Celt called Iain. Taranc never broke his rhythm as he leaned down to speak to the boy. "Place your hands beside mine and move with the oar. I shall row, you just hold on."

The boy nodded and did as he was told. Taranc saw that tears still glistened in his eyes. He would have liked to offer words of comfort but such would be hollow in the circumstances. Instead he settled for what he knew to be true. "Remain close to me. I shall do all I can to aid you."

The lad nodded, chewing on his lip. "Thank you, sir, " he whispered.

"What is your name, boy?"

"I am Donald, sir."

"It is nice to meet you, Donald. I am Taranc."

"I... I know, sir."

Of course he knew. Such was the reality of rank and privilege. Taranc spared the lad a final reassuring grin and bent to his task.

The journey was mercifully swift, aided by a buffeting wind which filled the sails and carried the dragon ship lightly across the sea.

After just two days afloat and one bitterly cold night they sighted land to the north.

The dragon ship drew closer, then skirted the rocky coast as they continued on.

They passed towering cliffs where the sea churned and boiled at the foot, and narrow inlets where the water was forced between two sheer rock faces.

There were tree-lined coves and sloping beaches.

Here and there Taranc could make out settlements, the occasional isolated farm, and fishing vessels bobbing closer to the shore whose occupants waved a welcoming greeting to their Viking captors as they sped past.