There was work for many folk that winter, from the smiths who turned out rivets and nails to the women who wove the spruce-root lashings to fasten the hull’s planking to the ribs. This ship would move under the ocean’s hard caress, she would shudder and yield and remain whole under the fiercest embrace of the storm. Above the waterline, they used nails.

There came a time when the Golden Dragon was close to ready. Now a team of men came with bright paints, and turned the savage figurehead into a masterpiece of red and yellow, the crest and eyes picked out in gold leaf; the tiller received a similar decoration, and a handsome set of shields was prepared to match, though these would adorn the rim-rail only when the ship was at rest; while she crossed open sea, they would be stored away for safety. Ulf sent a man to arrange supplies of dried fish, casks of cheese, flasks of oil, and sacks of nuts and apples. There was a constant smell of bread baking, hard bread that would store a while. Ulf sent another man to check on the stock he had bought. It was hard to believe, but spring was almost here, and soon the expedition would be ready to depart.

The knarr arrived, an ungainly, blockish sort of craft, built principally for strength. She could travel long distances under sail alone, her master told Ulf as they inspected the vessel where she lay at anchor in Freyrsfjord. She required only a small crew, and this he had already, for all his men had volunteered for the voyage, provided the pay was good enough. He’d best take crew and boat together, the master advised Ulf, since the men knew the knarr better than a husband knows his wife. Women and children? Yes, he could carry them as well, though it wouldn’t be comfortable. Cattle? They’d need to talk about that. Now, about the pay again…

Eyvind was down by the water, helping haul the new ship’s mast blocks into place. The crew of the knarr had come ashore; they would find lodgings in the settlement. Among them was a fellow who seemed somehow familiar, though Eyvind could not quite place him. He was broad-cheeked, and sported a beard as red as his hair; he had a hard, brooding sort of look about him, the look of a man all too ready to find new enemies. And yet—and yet Eyvind’s memory was of someone open-faced and friendly. He thought—he almost thought…

“Sigurd!” Eyvind called, sure now. “Sigurd Gudmundsson! What brings you here to the south?”

The red-haired man turned slowly to look at him. There was no sign of recognition, not a flicker. Still, the more Eyvind looked, the more certain he became.