THE air hung heavy and damp, too close for comfort. Thick and unmoving, like a sigh half-caught. But a sigh could not be held forever. 

It would rain soon.

Ulf inhaled sharply, gazing at the dim horizon. He stood on the pebbled beach, the river gurgling out of the inlet towards the sea. Across the ocean, grey and restless, the western horizon darkened with storm clouds. And there, beyond that ocean, lay his homeland. 

"Alba," Ulf whispered in soft defiance. 

Once, eight years ago, the homesickness had been unbearable. Now, he rarely thought of the life he'd lost. It was better to forget. Better to believe he was always the body slave of Bjarke than that he had ever been a freeborn Scot. 

Besides, Bjarke, the man who had taken him captive on that other beach so long ago, was not a harsh master, not like his son, Eluf. 

But Ulf—a fitting name, wolf man—kept his native tongue, speaking it when he was alone, or with the other thralls from Scotland, the last link to home, lest he forget entirely the old ways. 

"Alba," he said once more, before turning away from the coming storm. 

He strode past the long boats on the beach, some for fishing, and a few warships that had not been sent out for the spring and summer conquests. 

Ulf had been on a few of those, learning not just to row, but also how to sail alongside his master, Bjarke, which was a rarity considering his position. But only one had been near home, a voyage bound for Éiru, the island to the west of Scotland. He had attempted to escape as they passed near the shores of his homeland, and Bjarke had bound him in irons, the second and only time his master had done so. He had never left the shores of this place again. 

Bjarke himself had gone alone a few more years when a near-fatal chest wound prevented him from heavy work and wielding weapons. So Bjarke stayed behind, slowly wasting away as old age overcame him. But his stories! 

Ulf smiled to himself as he stepped beneath the trees of the thin pinewood surrounding the Danish village. 

No, Bjarke told stories well enough to rival any Scottish bard. The details, perhaps, were not all true, but that didn't matter much. It was the captivation that mattered, what made a great storyteller. 

"Hej!" 

Ulf glanced up to see Djal before his master's door, burnishing a leather jerkin. Ulf raised a hand in greeting before continuing on his way, past the longhouses whose inhabitants stirred in morning chores. 

Djal, like himself, was a thrall from Scotland, though he had been taken a year or so before Ulf from one of Scotland's surrounding islands. And like all of them, he never spoke of those left behind, nor of his Celtic name. Only his hair, whitened before its time, and the tattoos of names on his arm, told of his buried grief. No one knew whose names those were, and no one asked. 

Ulf had asked Djal once, about four years ago, if he would thus mark himself. Djal had refused to do so at first, saying such is like taking an unbreakable oath—it can never be undone, not without leaving great scars behind as a ruined memory. 

But Ulf was determined, and in the end, Djal had given in. 

And so a snarling wolf, its body and legs swirling knotwork, ran up Ulf's arm. A wolf for the wolf man. And with the wild creature, done in the blue woad and ancient script of his ancestors: cha bhi mi fo chuing. 

I will not be bound. 

It was an oath to himself, one that could not be broken. True, he was a thrall, but his spirit remained his own. And should by some miracle he regain his freedom, he would rather pursue death than become bound against his will to another. 

Bjarke had never asked what it meant, and in this had earned Ulf's respect. Bjarke, though a Dane and his master, understood that there are things that a man may do that are between himself and another, be it to another human soul or the gods he worshipped, whose revealing must not be forced. 

Ulf stepped through the doorway of his master's longhouse, greeted with the smell of cooking porridge and peat smoke. Bjarke croaked a greeting from where he lay against the far wall, the master's place, separated from the rest of the house by tapestried hangings. 

"Sa ha, any sign of the longships?" Bjarke grunted as Ulf drew near and helped the man to his feet. 

"None yet," Ulf replied softly, his voice tensing with exertion. 

Bjarke, even in his old and weakened state, was yet a heavy man. Though Ulf had long since acquired the strength of manhood and by hard labor, supporting his master's weight across half the length of the house, or longer if Bjarke wished to step outside, stretched his limits. It never seemed to get easier, even though Ulf outmatched all of the other thralls in feats of strength—except for Djal, whose sinewy limbs were inhuman. 

Ulf lowered Bjarke into his seat, cushioned by the many furs, and exhaled with relief when it was over. 

"Well," Bjarke said, a keen edge of disappointment in his voice, "perhaps they'll come soon, perhaps tomorrow." 

"You old fool," muttered his wife, Harothel, who stirred the bubbling porridge. "Even you should know they'll not likely return until harvest time." 

"Some come early," Bjarke retorted like an angry bear, pulling at his greying beard. "'Tis been a few months since they left to aid Lord Erland against a potential Scottish uprising. Surely, there should be news. Eluf would be the first to return victorious. I know my son well." 

Harothel scoffed. 

At the name, Ulf stiffened, sitting down by his lord's feet, the weight of the thrall ring at his neck causing him to lean slightly against the wooden chair. From the beginning, he and his master's son were not friends of any sort. Bjarke was a kind master, rough but fair in all his dealings. His son was anything but. Eluf was cruel and thoughtless, save when he might tease or affect another's suffering to a greater extent. And the knowledge that he was free to wreak what havoc he desired in Ulf's homeland was nearly more than he could bear. Every reminder of it was like fiery jabs thrust deeper and deeper into Ulf's stomach, turning to cold, stony ash within.

A block of burning peat crumbled in the fire's heart, the sudden burst of flame startling Ulf back to the present. 

"They should have sent some sort of word by now," Bjarke continued to grumble. 

"If your son is anything like you, he will not be back until autumn storms set in," Harothel replied. She too liked Eluf little, but more for the sake that he was not her son but Bjarke's by a previous marriage. Eluf's mother had died long ago, before Ulf's time, but still it was ever a source of bitterness between them.

Ulf ate his portion of warm porridge, sweetened with honey, honey that seemed almost too sweet. But on this morning, it stuck in his throat in a way it had only done once before, when Eluf told Bjarke of Erland's call some months ago, a call made in Erland's name that some had gossiped and said was rather his wife's doing. Even here, leagues away from Scotland, the Danes knew who had truly taken over the Scottish throne and who ruled from it.  

Ulf swallowed it all down, in the end, but a bitter taste remained in his mouth. It stayed with him all through the morning while he tended to Bjarke's needs—of which they were many, he was becoming fickle in his old age—and into the afternoon when Bjarke led himself to rest for an hour or two. His lady-wife complained how weak he was becoming, but Ulf was used to her grumbling. She had said the same every day for the past two years since Bjarke's wounding. 

Ulf thus betook himself outside the longhouse and joined Djal outside his own master's. Djal was working again on that jerkin; he must have not finished it this morning after all. 

Ulf himself had a dagger of Bjarke's, which needed sharpening and the mending of a sprung crosswire about the hilt. It would have been best to take it to the forge smith, but Ulf knew enough from days long ago to repair it himself. Besides, it gave him something to do with his hands, something to put his mind to—anything to forget the thought that the Danes might return with news of their spring warring. 

He had always been able to bury it before, since they often raided his homeland. But today, he found himself returning to it again and again. Perhaps the coming storm had something to do with it, the ever-darkening skies and windless air, the heavy dampness that swelled and had not yet broken. 

The sigh remained held. 

Ulf focused his attention on the dagger, his hands calm and steady. But his mind remained in turmoil. 

"Something is on yer mind," Djal said softly in their Gàdhlig, as calmly as if stating how damp the air was. 

"Aye," Ulf replied, testing the edge of the dagger with his finger. "Bjarke is certain the ships sent to Scotland will return soon." 

"What makes him so certain?"

Ulf glanced up at the sky, hearing in the distance a rumble of thunder, like the growling of an angry wolf. "I donnae ken, perhaps something in the wind. The day has been strange," he added as an afterthought. "Yet I hae ne'er kent him to be wrong." 

Djal was quiet as the wind began to rise around them, a restless rustling in the trees about the village. "Does this foreboding bother ye so?"

Ulf clenched the dagger's hilt, his knuckles showing white through his skin, freckled and slightly tanned by many hours in the sun. "Aye," he forced out at last. 

Djal did not answer, perhaps knowing that Ulf, if he wished to speak, would do so in his own time. 

"It bothers me that Eluf might return," Ulf finally spoke. "That he will boast of all his feats against my people, and I am powerless against it." Out of habit, his fingers reached up the flowy sleeve of his tunic, brushing against the tattooing on his skin. Powerless, yes, but not of his own choice.

A gust of wind swept round them then, tossing about Ulf's thick, black locks of hair. The storm was drawing near.  

Djal cleared his throat, though his words remained soft. "I had thought ye past caring. We cannae do anything against them. To hope is futile." 

Ulf clenched his jaw. Did Djal think him weak? "I hae given mine own up fer dead, aye. But Scotland was yet free before those ships sailed, or else they wouldnae hae called fer more men. And it is fer her that my heart yearns. Kenning that my worst enemy is free to destroy her as he would—" He broke off and licked his lips as raindrops began to fall, pitter-pattering on the thatched roof above them. "It is fer that, that I still care." 

Thunder boomed near them, closer now. 

"Well," Djal said, rising to his feet. "Ye are young yet. Perhaps ye may yet win back. But donnae trust to hope; it will fail ye in the end." He took up the leather jerkin and opened the door to the longhouse. "See ye after the storm." 

Ulf said nothing in reply. Whatever Djal had once hoped for, it had betrayed him. He did not wish to become the same sort of broken man. Fool though he was, he yet clung to hope, though oft buried. 

Lightning split the skies, shattering the stormy gloom. Thunder followed in its wake as rain poured down freely from the heavens. 

Ulf sheathed the dagger and ran the short distance to Bjarke's dwelling. He ducked inside, escaping the rain that already damped his clothes and shoulder-length hair. 

"Sa ha, the storm has not got you yet," Bjarke greeted from by the fire. 

"See, it is mended," Ulf murmured, placing in his master's hands the fixed dagger. 

Bjarke inspected it with a keen eye. "So it is, and good workmanship too." 

Ulf bowed his head in thanks. 

"See, Harothel, Ulf is worth ten sons."

Bjarke's woman grunted. "It was you who sired Eluf. The fault is yours." 

Ulf stepped away from their resumed bickering and sat in the shadows, listening to the rain and hoping against all odds that Bjarke was wrong and that no ships would return victorious. 

The storm raged as the sigh released in its full fury, the winds howling about the eaves and thunder crashing as if the gods themselves warred against each other. 

And despite the turmoil, hope buried itself in Ulf's heart. For even if Eluf was returning, no ship could survive this storm. 

So yeah...like...I meant to type this out a year ago and it never happened. #oops

Anyway...book one of this trilogy is now published!!! And the rest are slowly on the way! And I've started a prequel that's not on Wattpad, not sure if I'll put it up here or not yet. So yeah, I've been busy. You can check out my books on Amazon or Goodreads via the links in my bio if you so desire. <3 

Thanks for all your faithful support, even if I'm not as active on here as I used to be. 

What do you think of this chapter so far? Thoughts? Comments?