iled with the best of
them, but now he was old. "It was many years ago. After a storm we
found ourselves washed up on this strange shore."

"What sort of people are they?"

"An unlovely bunch, hairy, dressed in skins."

"Could they fight?"

"Ptuh." Vornung spat into the fire. "One touch of our swords and
they'd had enough. Only one thing they could do well. They could tell
stories."

He leaned back and took a draught of mead and wiped his mouth
reflectively.

"But what stories! We were stuck there for months and I learned enough
of their tongue to understand them. They told tales that could curdle
a man's blood, tales of a land that lies to the south of them, of
treasure, of a beautiful woman locked in eternal sleep by the priests
of her people."

Treasure and a beautiful woman. This was something to make a man sit
up. Gaar's big hands were locked about his knees as he rocked back and
forth thoughtfully.

"How far?" he asked.

"That they would not say. When they spoke of this they spoke
fearfully. We might have pressed them, but we were in a hurry to get
home."

Gaar was on his feet now. He went to the door and looked out. There
was a hint of breeze, from landward for a change. Maybe the fog would
lift soon.

"Tell us more," he said over his shoulder....

* * * * *

Vornung had been wrong about these Picts. They weren't afraid to
fight, and they weren't waiting for the fight to come to them. Under
cover of darkness they swarmed in over the gunwales of the ship.

Unlovely they were, and unwashed. Gaar had the scent of one in his
nostrils as the dark fellow came at him. Gaar struck out and the Pict
went overboard.

Luckily, the surprise had not been complete. And these Norsemen were
used to fighting in close and rocky quarters. They sailed in with a
will. Gaar was not too busy to do a bit of wondering.

A man was crazy to trust an old fool like Vornung, crazy to follow a
dream of white skin and red lips and incredible beauty.

Of course, these men of the North would have admitted that they were
all a little mad to begin with. Who else but madmen would take such a
tiny craft across hundreds of leagues of stormy sea?

Gaar laughed aloud. With ten men like his he'd sail anywhere, fight
anyone. Elgen, up in the bow, had a Pict in each hand and was cracking
their heads together. In the stern, Asgar was making short work of
three Picts.

This fight wasn't going to last