The sun had just cleared the choppy waters beyond the harbor when Padric returned to the longhouse. It would accomplish nothing to hide from his vile servant and he had to do something about the slave girls. He found Heggle preparing the morning meal and the blonde girl sweeping out the longhouse, head bent to the broom. Of the other woman there was no sign.

“Heggle,” Padric asked. “Where is the other--”

“Not to worry, my lord,” she answered, looking up from her stewpot and smiling broadly. “She will no trouble you n’more.”

Padric felt ice travel down his spine and land in his gut. “What did you do?”

“I went straight away to his lord Swinehelm, I did,” Heggle said as she worked. “Told him that black haired hussy had displeased his Grace, and he sent the raiders to fetch her back. You won’t have to suffer her again.”

“What?” Padric made for the door. “Where did they take her?”

“Down to the water’s edge, o’course,” Heggle said simply. “Disobedient thralls is always given to the waves.”

Padric flew out the door, passing his guards in a bolt and out distancing them with long, pumping strides, their hollers of protest ignored behind him. He made straight for the rocky shore, knocking over a pair of fishermen in his reckless flight. In his bouncing vision he saw a small group of fjordsmen struggling in the surf, their cloaks drenched to black. When he skidded to a halt, breath burning in his ears, they were hauling something out of the water. The men dumped her carelessly, face down on the dark stones, her naked flesh shining white. Her once lustrous locks of jet were a wet mass of tangles and sand. Padric fell to his knees and turned her over as the water crept up the beach, washing over his hands and her drowned face. Her dark eyes looked up at him, unblinking, the luster gone, leaving only the accusing stare of the dead.