The knorr had eight oars, two pair forward, two aft. They were only meant to move her about in narrow spaces or a dead calm. The men who now took them were ready to drop. The skipper ordered shortened sail to help. A flaw of wind caught hold of it as it rose. Sheets tore loose from hands. The yard slewed about, the sail flapped thunderously, the lee rail went under. One of the two men at the windlass had the wit to draw knife and cut the walrus-hide halyard. An end whipped back. It left his face a mask of blood. The yard fell half overboard. The weight of the sail dragged that side deeper. Men scrambled to hew it free. Waves broke over them. Two were swept away.

Now the craft was awash, hopelessly adrift. Hadding left the little afterdeck and waded through the hull toward those of his crew and guard who lived. “The ship is lost,” he cried through the wind and crashing waters. “Chop off what wood you can to cling to!”

He caught a glimpse of the second knorr, dismasted, already half broken up. His own mast still stood firm in its partner. Taking an ax, he cut it down. Under his bidding; men used the stays to ease its fall and bring it alongside. “Bind yourselves to that pole,” he told them. He stayed aboard, helping them off so that only one was borne away, until everybody had something or other to keep afloat with.

By then they were in the shoals. Breaker after breaker dashed over them. The ship grounded. The surf got to work pounding her apart. Hadding squirmed free. The mast had gone elsewhere and he had found no piece of timber big enough to uphold him. The water hauled him below. Cast high again, he snatched a breath before the undertow took him back. Husbanding what strength he had, he worked his way inch by inch toward land.

At last he could stand, nose out of water except when it rushed over his head. Sometimes that knocked him off his feet. He recovered and slogged on. After a while he was wading more or less steadily. Soon he could fall down into stiff sea-grass and gasp.

The mast drifted in. It had dashed the brains from one of those tied to it. Another had drowned. The rest cut free and won ashore. A few more arrived, clinging to their bits of flotsam. Three were from the second ship. Nobody ever heard anything of the third. In all, Hadding gathered ten around him.

They slumped together, hungry, thirsty, chilled, drenched, battered, utterly worn out. “This many of us live,” said Svein. “It could be worse:”

“It will be,” said Gunnar.

“You’re right, unless we get to shelter,” growled Egil. “Up off your lazy butts!”

Hadding’s mouth twitched. “All that soaking hasn’t softened you, old fellow,” he murmured. He dragged himself to his feet. “Come along, then.”