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Taranc narrowed his eyes as he took in his new surroundings.

As soon as their Viking guards removed the chains securing their shackles together the other Celts sank to their haunches in silent, exhausted misery.

Not Taranc. He remained standing, assessing the condition of their bedraggled ranks.

The four women were utterly spent, and the men hardly any better.

Ever one to dwell on the bright side, Taranc took comfort in the knowledge that at least they had arrived, no one had perished on the journey despite the best efforts of the short Viking with the long switch. Now they could rest.

"You, all stand. All up, now!"

For fuck's sake...

Taranc had never loathed anyone the way he had come to detest the little slave master.

The man was called Dagr, he had learnt, and he was a bully.

Never satisfied, always complaining and ready to lay into any slave who didn't move fast enough for his liking, Dagr was a conceited fool who had driven them mercilessly across the hills and valleys to reach this inhospitable place and it seemed he was not yet done.

They were to have shelter it would seem, since the structures in whose shadows the Celtic captives now crouched did at least appear sound and weather-proof, but that was all that might be claimed as far as comfort went.

It was not sufficient. The Celts needed food, they needed to rest, to recover from the arduous journey.

And now this idiotic Viking cur seemed intent upon heaping more misery on them.

"Let them rest." Taranc stepped forward, his chin held high. "No one has the strength to stand any longer. We need to eat, and?—"

The whip cracked and pain blistered across Taranc's chest, but still he did not back off. Dagr's pugnacious features darkened in fury. The man did not like to be gainsaid. "Now. All stand. All will work..."

"Tomorrow," replied Taranc, his tone deliberately calm. "We will work tomorrow, when we have rested."

The whip whistled through the air again, and this time Taranc did stagger back, though his resolve was undimmed. Dagr could posture and screech all he liked, the bare facts were clear enough. His people were on the point of dropping. There would be no work done today.

The standoff was interrupted by the arrival of a small, horse-drawn cart loaded with roughly hewn logs.

The young karl who drove it spoke to Dagr in their coarse Nordic tongue and pointed to the seated slaves.

Dagr shook his head but the lad was having none of it.

He started to unload the cart, arguing all the while with the slave master.

Firewood.

Taranc could but hope. Acting on his hunch he stepped around the slave master and started to assist the sweating karl.

As the other thralls realised what their leader was about, one or two struggled back onto their feet to lend their efforts to the unloading.

Dagr was quiet for once, and soon the pile of fuel was stacked in a neat pile beside the door of the barn.

As soon as the task was completed the karl clambered back into the cart and clucked at the stocky little pony between the shafts.

The wagon trundled off, leaving the Celts to contemplate their firewood.

"Gather kindling and load the fire pits. Get on with it. Do you think your fire will light itself, perhaps?"

Taranc spun in surprise at the haughty female voice behind him, and almost swallowed his tongue.

The tall, blonde woman who approached across the meadow beside a loaded barrow and flanked by two young thralls was nothing short of stunning.

She fought to keep a crate of squawking poultry balanced on top of what appeared to be a pile of blankets, her waist-length plaited hair shining in the early afternoon sunlight.

If he had ever beheld a vision more beautiful he could not recall it, and Taranc was a man normally possessed of an excellent memory.

He stepped forward to catch the crate before it tumbled to the ground.

It would be a pity if those birds were to escape after all the trouble this trio had gone to in order to drag the clucking fowls all the way over here.

He lowered it to the grass and peered through the slats at the irate chickens within. Could this be their supper, perhaps?

"Light fires." The Viking woman cast her gaze about the sorry crowd, clearly irritated by their inactivity. "You will need to cook, to keep warm. Here is firewood." The woman gestured at the pile of logs. "I shall send bread..."

"Thank you." Taranc offered the woman a polite bow. "We would appreciate that."

She fixed him with a cold stare. "And I would appreciate it if you would set your quarters to rights.

Here are blankets, since it will be cold later.

You will find kindling hereabouts if you seek it.

" She glowered at him, her jaw clenching.

"Move. You have not been brought here in order that you may sit about taking your ease the entire day. "

She might be lovely to look at, but the woman was sorely lacking in compassion, concluded Taranc. She had eyes in her head, a perfectly delightful shade of pale blue, he noted. Could she not see the state his people were in? She was seemingly as misguided at Dagr.

"Lady, we have walked for two days, had almost nothing to eat and no rest. We are tired and hungry, and can do no more this day.

We thank you for the firewood and the food you have provided, and as soon as a few of us have our breath back we will do as you suggest. But once the fires are lit, I believe it is fair to say we will be taking our ease the rest of this fine afternoon. "

Her expression was a delightful mix of outrage and incredulity.

Her lovely mouth worked though she appeared at a loss for words.

Dagr, too, seemed near enough ready to explode and his whip was already curling in the air.

Taranc had had enough and stepped forward to disarm the man, then tossed the weapon to the ground.

He was at once surrounded by Viking warriors, their swords drawn.

The Viking woman stepped forward and slapped the man closest to her on the shoulder.

"Stop, all of you. Are you quite mad? My brother did not have these slaves brought here only for you dolts to slaughter his workers before so much as one stone has been laid.

Our granary requires live thralls to build it. "

"Lady, this does not concern you," intoned the arrogant Dagr as he retrieved his whip. "I shall deal with the slaves, and?—"

"All at Skarthveit concerns me," corrected the vision of loveliness. The venom in her tone did not escape Taranc, even if Dagr seemed oblivious. "And you," she turned her attention to Taranc, "you will do as I ask. Now."

Taranc bowed his head. He had no serious objection to carrying out this woman's instructions to render their new quarters habitable since that was of benefit to his people. He gestured to the Celts closest to him "You two, go and collect kindling. The rest of you can carry the blankets inside."

Most of the Celts dragged themselves back onto their feet and started about these latest duties.

"You women, you will accompany my servants back to the main village. You will be found places in the longhouses." The Viking female issued her further instructions and the four Celtic females eyed each other uncertainly. None of them moved as they looked to Taranc for guidance.

"What will happen to them?" Taranc stepped in front of the Viking woman, ignoring the furious chuntering of Dagr. He had already surmised where the real power lay in this little group, and whatever the slave master might like to think, it was not with him. "You will understand, they are afraid..."

The Norsewoman frowned at him. "They will not be harmed. The women will work in our longhouses, cooking, cleaning, weaving, caring for our livestock. They will have food, and shelter."

"Will you give me your word on that, lady?"

"Of course." She sounded indignant. "Why would I tell you false?"

"Of course," he agreed pleasantly. "You may go with them," he added, for the benefit of the Celtic females.

The blankets were soon transferred into the newly constructed barn and Taranc watched as the women who had made the gruelling journey with them trudged slowly across the grassy meadow in the company of the two slaves.

The little wench chattered ceaselessly in a dialect of Gaelic which was more or less comprehensible.

The young man was more taciturn, though he did appear friendly enough.

Perhaps life here would prove bearable after all.

They would soon see.

He turned to face the woman again.

"There was another woman with our group when we were taken. Her name is Fiona, and she was in the company of your chief. Has she arrived safe?"

"What is this female to you?"

"She is—was—my betrothed. I would know that she is safe and well."

"The Celtic female is to be my brother's bed-slave."