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At last the man at the helm turned the dragon ship to the right and they made straight for the squat harbour which protected a settlement rather larger than any they had passed thus far.

As they drew alongside the rough wooden jetty willing hands flung out ropes which the Viking sailors grabbed and used to haul the ship in.

The hull bounced against the planks with a horrendous bump and a deafening grating sound.

Donald slithered from his seat with the impact, only to be grabbed and pulled back by Taranc. "Grab a hold of me, lad. Stay close."

The boy nodded and grasped Taranc's tunic.

The ship remained motionless when the ropes were secured tightly, and the Vikings swarmed ashore, led by their blond chief.

The Celts stayed where they were, panting from the exertion of the last several hours and the sudden, shuddering halt.

There was another resounding clatter as the dragon ship carrying the dark Viking slid into the space alongside them at the jetty, and that, too was tied off.

The blond and the dark one greeted each other on the quay, exchanging congratulatory slaps to the back before turning to regard the captives in both ships.

Brief words were exchanged, then Ulfric strode away.

The other Viking called to several others, issued commands in rapid Norse, then gestured to the Celts in Taranc's ship to clamber up onto the jetty.

They were a sorry crew, reflected Taranc as he surveyed his miserable countrymen.

They had been offered no shelter on the voyage, and little enough in the way of food or water so they were cold, hungry, dirty and exhausted.

Donald would be asleep on his feet were he not so frightened.

Taranc shoved the lad behind him and signalled others to cluster about them.

It would do no good to attract unwelcome attention to one who was clearly unable to work.

The longer they could conceal Donald, the better the lad might fare.

Using the points of their drawn swords the Vikings herded the Celts together on the jetty, then ushered them along the planking and onto the quayside.

They were led to a small enclosure where they were permitted to sit down on the ground and given a few hunks of not quite stale bread.

A pail of water was deposited in the middle of the exhausted throng, a metal cup dangling from a chain attached to the handle.

Clearly this was all they were to have in the way of a drink, but Taranc was pleased to discover the water was fresh, clean and deliciously cool.

He took a drink himself, then handed the cup to Donald.

One by one the men relieved their thirst then lay back to rest and to wait.

Hours passed and dusk started to fall. More bread was offered, and some cheese.

The water bucket was replenished. The dark Viking made occasional appearances, no doubt to check that all was quiet and under control, then he made himself scarce again.

When darkness descended it became clear there was to be no shelter again, though it was still the summer and the night was less chilly now that they were ashore.

Taranc thought they might manage well enough, but was relieved when the dark, leather-clad Viking returned again, this time accompanied by three other men each bearing a pile of blankets.

These were dumped in the compound for the thralls to help themselves.

Taranc made sure Donald had one and they all settled in for the night.

As dawn broke the busy harbour sprung rapidly back to life.

Fishermen launched their small craft, traders set up stalls offering wares such as fruit, vegetables, oils and other goods.

A forge close to the thralls' compound was opened up and soon a strong blaze crackled in the fire pit there.

A huge man wearing just leggings and a charred leather apron rattled a ferocious array of metal implements as he prepared for his day's labours.

The dark Viking returned, and this time Ulfric was with him. They strode among the thralls who remained seated, huddled in their rough blankets. Taranc made sure Donald did not show himself, no easy feat when Ulfric paused to gaze down at him.

"I trust your voyage was not too rough, Celt. The crossing was speedy and the seas kind to us."

Does he seriously expect a response? Taranc glared back at his captor as Ulfric dropped to his haunches to better meet his eyes.

"I see the fury blazing in your face, Celt, and I understand the reasons for it.

However do not let your anger get you killed.

Heroes do not last long in my slave quarters. "

Taranc had little doubt of that, but did not choose to dignify the Viking's remark with an answer. Instead, he had a question. "Where is Fiona? What have you done to her?"

"You mean your lovely little betrothed? She is safe enough, for now."

"If you hurt her, I shall kill you myself, I swear it." Taranc ground out the words, meaning every syllable of the threat.

Ulfric grinned, unrepentant and not apparently unduly alarmed. "Then let us hope that it does not come to that, Celt, for I am loathe to needlessly squander good thralls in pursuit of discipline. She is mine now. Accept it." He straightened, offered Taranc a brief nod, and moved on.

"He frightens me," whispered Donald, the words muffled beneath the blanket which concealed him from the Viking chief's notice.

Taranc regarded the Viking's retreating back. His own feelings toward the Nordic warlord were more complex, but did not, surprisingly, include fear. Were he pressed, Taranc might better describe his attitude toward Ulfric as one of grudging respect.

"Do as you are told, cause no trouble, lad, and you will be all right." Taranc hoped this was true as he handed the boy the last of the bread he had hoarded from the previous night. He did not suppose he was alone in wondering what this day would bring.

During the course of the morning the thralls were ordered from the main group ten or so at a time and escorted across the flagged courtyard to the forge.

There, each was fitted with a heavy metal shackle around their right ankle.

When it was their turn to make the short trip, Taranc could no longer hide Donald.

The smith raised his bushy blond eyebrows in surprise when he caught sight of the diminutive figure quivering in his forge.

He had no shackle small enough so the boy had to wait while the man fashioned a miniature version just for him.

Taranc remained beside Donald and no one seemed to object.

He was proud of the lad's fortitude when the iron band was at last secured about his ankle and they both made their way awkwardly back to the main group.

Hours passed, with nothing else to break the monotony of the wait.

More stale loaves arrived, more water, and a large pot containing a broth of some description.

Taranc did not believe it contained much meat, but it was palatable all the same and they were happy enough to dip their hunks of bread in it.

At last, darkness fell again. Once more Donald bundled himself inside a blanket as he huddled beside his new protector and they settled in for their second night on these foreign shores.

"Get up. All, up." A small, squat individual marched between the sleeping Celts, using his foot to nudge those who still slept.

He was not gentle and most rose grumpily to their feet.

For the benefit of those not quick enough the pugnacious little man held a switch which he cast about him with enthusiasm.

"Get in line, everyone. Three, then three, then three. Like this..."

He grabbed two men and shoved them into the formation he desired, and pushed a third alongside. He arranged three more behind them. "Face front," he commanded, stabbing his finger in the air. "That way."

The smith moved between the men now assembled in rows of three, looping a length of chain through the shackles to secure them together.

It was no longer possible to conceal Donald, and the Viking slave master eyed the lad with undisguised distaste.

"Too small, no use," he announced, but still had Donald chained along with the rest, two rows back from Taranc.

It was no longer possible to sit comfortably on the ground so the men shuffled in disconsolate confusion as they awaited the Vikings' next move.

They did not have long to ponder this. A group of women were bundled along the quay, clearly having just disembarked from a ship.

Taranc recognised several familiar faces, including Donald's mother who was heavily pregnant and appeared ready to drop.

Do these Viking bastards have no compassion at all?

The women were ushered into the forge to be shackled like the men. He could not see Fiona anywhere among them but as soon as Donald's mother came within earshot he called out to her.

"Is Fiona with you? Did they harm her? Are you well?"

A woman standing beside the pregnant one responded. "We are fine, considering. Fiona too, though she required aid to get off the boat."

"Bastards," muttered Taranc, just as Fiona came into view. She walked beside the dark Viking, her eyes blazing with a familiar anger. Taranc hoped she would manage to curtail it for he had no doubt that retribution would be swift should she fail.

The women were shackled like the men, and added to the formation at the rear of the group.

The slave master strutted up and down the line yelling his orders in a near incomprehensible broken Gaelic.

He used his switch freely as though convinced that a sharp blow to the shoulders or hip would aid his victims in deciphering his garbled words.

"All. Go now. Walk fast, no slow."