Page 2

T en months later

"Not much to be had here by the looks of it.

You say there's a second village, located close by?

" Ulfric Freysson shielded his eyes against the glare reflected from the waves as he surveyed the Scottish shoreline from the prow of his dragon ship.

He had to shout to make himself heard over the brisk offshore breeze.

"Aye, I reckon so." Gunnar Freysson answered his half-brother from his own vantage point on the dragon ship under his command, less than a hundred feet from Ulfric's vessel.

Two more such longships brought up the rear of their raiding party.

"I raided this place less than a year ago and I noticed a well-trodden track leading from that village you see there, close to the beach. It had to lead somewhere."

Ulfric nodded, his features set. "We land then, overrun the first settlement fast then head straight inland for the next one. Let us hope there are a fine crop of able-bodied Celts that we can round up and take with us. My granary and harbour will not build themselves."

"I daresay," agreed Gunnar already bristling in anticipation of the fight to come.

Gunnar raised his arm to signal the start of the attack.

They had agreed that he would lead the first rush rather than his brother, the Jarl, since unlike Ulfric he had prior knowledge of the terrain.

At his command the four dragon ships altered course as one and all skimmed across the surface to swoop upon the undefended little cove.

Already people on the beach were running for their lives as the monstrous dragon ships bore down on them, their cries of alarm carrying across the rippling waves.

It would do them no good. This time the villagers would not be allowed to flee – the Vikings had come back not for plunder, but for slaves.

Gunnar scanned the dozen or so small figures fleeing before them. He told himself he was not looking for anyone in particular, but even so he scoured the scene for a flash of bright red hair. He did not see her, but that did not mean she was not here.

He had allowed her to go free last time, but not again.

Ulfric wanted slaves to build his granary; Gunnar just wanted her .

The scrape of sand under the hull of the dragon ship was the signal for the Viking raiders to leap over the side into the shallow waters.

They drew their weapons as they splashed up onto the beach, their war cries deafening even to Gunnar's seasoned ears.

How terrified the defenceless Celts must be!

He grinned as he led the charge. That was the intention – shock, terror, absolute surrender.

The hamlet he had attacked on his previous foray some ten months previously was deserted.

Fires still burned, skinny dogs prowled the outskirts of the buildings, their tails tucked between their hind legs.

An upturned cooking pot lay in a pool of still-steaming broth, evidence of the haste with which the inhabitants had fled just minutes ago.

Gunnar paused to right the pot, and he gazed about him. Which of these meagre hovels was hers?

"Jarl, should we fire the houses?" One of his men halted at his side, the man clearly ready to lay waste to all around them. Blood-lust was a powerful motivator, mused Gunnar, but it rarely yielded worthwhile results.

"No, we go on, to the next village. This way." He took off at a long stride, rounding the low shed closest to him in search of the concealed track. He found it easily enough, the path freshly beaten from the pounding of feet as the villagers had sought to make their hurried escape.

"Here, to me..." Gunnar yelled, his sword held high above his head. He tore along the rough track, and was soon rewarded by the sound of frantic voices from up ahead. The Vikings were gaining on the fleeing Celts fast. This would be swift and conclusive.

Now, all Gunnar had to do was locate her .

He could not have explained what the fascination was with this particular Celtic wench.

She was pretty, though that was not uncommon.

In Gunnar's view most females were attractive but that was no reason to lose his senses over one, and certainly no cause to lead a Viking raiding party across the North Sea to claim a woman who would recoil in horror from him.

His size, his fearsome appearance, the darkness which seared his soul – she would fear and loath him for those alone, even if not for the vicious scar which marred his features.

His quarry would run screaming for the hills if he were to allow her to escape. Which he would not.

Her flaming hair was unusual, granted, but he had never cared that much for such details.

Her eyes, too, were memorable. They reminded him of the colour of the seas which lapped the cliffs beneath his home in the Norselands.

But she was still merely a woman, a female to be bedded.

It did not even matter whether she was willing or not, though this was a detail he preferred not to consider too closely.

It had never been Gunnar's way to force himself on a wench.

His brother neither – their father had taken a dim view of such matters and impressed upon them both the rewards to be enjoyed with a warm, willing woman.

That was it, Gunnar supposed. He imagined the Celt to be warm, without doubt – how could she not be with that hair?

And willing? That remained to be seen but he intended to find out.

He preferred not to dwell on how he would respond if she were not.

He had lived alone for too long, he yearned for the lively family he had enjoyed as a boy growing up in his father's longhouse, his half-brother beside him and their pretty little sister dogging their heels.

He could have installed many a Nordic female in his household, but had yet to meet one he could envisage sharing his home.

In his mind's eye, though, he had instantly seen the Celtic wench ensconced at his hearth and once that image took root he had been unable to dislodge it. He wanted her , and no other would do.

So, he had returned to the land of the Celts and this time, one way or another, he would have his little fiery haired wench.

He rounded a slight bend and the stragglers among the escaping Celts came into view.

An elderly man, two old women, a lad on crutches, three women dragging small children with them, one with a baby in her arms. The villagers hastened their steps as the Norsemen bore down on them but in seconds they were surrounded by Vikings, all armed to the teeth and shrieking their battle cries.

Gunnar's voice rose above the rest. "There are none here of interest to us.

Leave them. Onward, now." He was aware of the women pulling their little ones off the path and into the shadows of the trees, but he ignored them.

Children and women could not build granaries, nor could they row a longboat.

It would be a waste of good food and shelter to take these useless peasants, and slaying them would serve no useful purpose since they represented no threat.

He left them on the track and sprinted on in the direction of the village, his brother beside him and his men at his heels.

Gunnar could smell the wood smoke now, hear the frantic babble of terrified voices.

"We are close," he murmured.

"Aye, " his brother concurred. Ulfric turned to command their men. "Kill none unless absolutely necessary. I want strong backs, not broken ones."

The Vikings burst from the trees and were immediately upon the village which lay in a clearing.

A busier place than the hamlet on the shore, and more prosperous perhaps if the larger dwellings were anything to go by, the place was swarming with people frantically trying to flee from their fearsome attackers.

The Celts seemed surprised and confused, disorientated, as though they had not supposed the marauders would pursue them here.

Fools. They would pay dearly for their innocence.

Ulfric took charge now that they had located their quarry, barking out brisk commands.

"Search every dwelling, assemble all here in the middle of the village, men and women alike.

You, Sigmund, take the right. Gunnar, you will search the left-hand side.

Kill any who resist, and the rest will present no problems. Olaf, you will guard the prisoners as we take them. None shall escape."

The Norsemen set off at a sprint to carry out their orders.

Gunnar strode to the closest dwelling to his left and booted open the door.

Inside he found three women cowering beneath a rough table, though none sported the hair he sought.

He gestured to them to leave, and was gratified that they offered no resistance.

As they scuttled out into the daylight he shoved them into the keeping of two of his men to be taken and held with the rest. Already the clearing in the centre of the hamlet was teeming with captives.

The women wept, children clung, white-faced, to their mothers' skirts.

Several men offered some semblance of a struggle but that foolishness was quickly quelled by the application of a sword hilt to the head of one, a dagger to the throat of another.

Gunnar had no knowledge of the Gaelic tongue, but his brother did.

Ulfric's voice bellowed above the din of battle and Gunnar supposed he was telling the prisoners to accept their fate and they would not be harmed.

Some quieted, others appeared not to believe the word of a Viking. Gunnar could not blame them.

He continued his search, discovering an elderly couple, a young man, and a child of about five summers in the next dwelling. The man would make a fine slave, he thought. Ulfric would be pleased. Soon this bunch joined the rest.