Dúngal gazed down the rows of benches. While Oddo kept the longship on a steady course, the crewmen lounged, clicking the little wooden pieces on their board games, or tilting their drinking horns. Even the steersman had tied up his steering oar and was joining in.
Thora sidled up to Dúngal. ‘We’re nearly there,’ she whispered. ‘If we can make it through just a few more hours with no one noticing our disguises, we’ll be safe.’
Dúngal nodded. He turned back to watch the coast, straining his eyes for the rocky finger of Benn Étair which beckoned wanderers home to Ériu. At last he saw it, a tall crag, standing alone on a long, sandy spit.
‘There it is!’ yelled a voice behind him. ‘We’ve reached Dyflinn!’
‘Dyflinn?’ muttered Dúngal. ‘It’s called Dublinn, you ignorant Viking.’
As they entered the bay, he gazed across the silver-blue water to the perfect rolling hills. Somewhere, behind those green slopes, he would find his kinsfolk again. He turned and looked the length of the ship to Oddo, standing proud beside the Captain. Their eyes met.
‘Thank you,’ whispered Dúngal, though Oddo couldn’t hear.
The sail came down and they rowed up the River Liffey towards the centre of town. The market hove into sight and when Dúngal saw the rows of slaves, bound in iron, his hands tightened on the oar.
They passed the earthen ramparts that protected the fortress of King Yvar the Viking. They swung into the pool of dark water, stained brown by the peat bog, which gave the town its name: Dub Linn – dark pool.
Their journey was ended.
As Dúngal stumbled off the ship onto the wooden dock, Thora rushed to his side.
‘We made it! We’re safe!’ she hissed.
Dúngal grinned back. ‘And wasn’t I telling you I’d get back to Ériu?’ he retorted.
Yapping excitedly, Hairydog bounded over the side of the ship. A moment later Oddo and Father Connlae joined them.
‘This can’t be Ireland,’ said Oddo. ‘It looks like a Viking town!’
‘It is a Viking town,’ growled Dúngal. ‘On Irish soil. They’ve even put in a Viking king! Those marauders use Dublinn as their raiding base for the rest of Ireland.’ He scowled at all the longships clustered in the pool, at the Viking encampment, and the huge bulk of the King’s fortress. ‘Tíagam ass. Let’s get out of here!’
As they turned to go, Captain Snari let out a yell.
‘Hey! You!’ Feet pounded towards them. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
The four of them hesitated, glancing at each other. Dúngal felt a warning surge of fear. He saw Father Connlae’s pale, shocked face, and the wisps of hair hanging from his chin, and knew they were about to be unmasked.
‘Run!’ he cried.
He leapt forward, thinking for a fleeting instant they might escape. But it was too late. The crew closed in. They were surrounded by a palisade of spears.
Snari stepped through, and glared down at them. ‘What do you think you’re up to?’ he demanded. ‘You swore allegiance to my ship! You don’t go traipsing off till I give you permission!’
Dúngal gaped at him. This pompous oaf was only worried about losing his crew. He hadn’t seen through their disguise at all!
‘As it happens,’ continued Snari,‘we’ll be in dock for a while, so you may amuse yourselves for a few hours. Except for that Oddo boy. He’s too valuable to go wandering. Völund, Egil, bring him to me! I intend to present him as a gift to King Yvar!’
Dúngal saw Oddo stiffen in shock.
‘You can’t give me away!’ he protested. ‘I’m not a thrall! I’m a Viking!’
The Captain snorted. ‘I can do what I like,’ he said. ‘I’m your Captain.’
The two tallest sailors took hold of Oddo’s arms.
‘No!’
Oddo tried to twist free, and Hairydog leapt forward with a snarl. Two spears clanged in front of her nose.
‘Like this in your ribs?’ growled a crewman.
‘Thora . . . Thorvald, look after Hairydog!’ cried Oddo.
They had a glimpse of his white, terrified face.
‘This can’t be happening!’ thought Dúngal. ‘Oddo was the only safe one!’ He glanced at Thora clutching Hairydog, at the priest blinking in bemusement. ‘We can’t just stand here. Even Hairydog did more than that!’
Clenching his fists, he stepped forward.
‘Dúnga-al!’ Thora’s voice was urgent and warning, but there was a pounding in Dúngal’s head.
‘I’m the thrall,’ he yelled. ‘You blind, stupid Vikings, can’t you see? I’m Irish. Look at me!’ He flung off his helmet and hurled himself at the astonished captors. ‘I’m the one to take, you brainless heaps of dung!’
