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what if we encounter Croa’s men?” Ullach’s voice hovered on the edge of hysteria.
    “We’ll have to risk it. Our only hope of escape is by sea.”
    The buildings they passed seemed to be larger and the smell of ale and urine grew strong. Ahead, Ailinn saw a man staggering around. She halted and gestured for the other women to do the same, but the man must have heard them, for he turned and looked at them. His eyes grew wide. He muttered something and grabbed for the amulet he wore around his neck.
    The Norseman was drunk, Ailinn realized. Perhaps if they moved by without speaking, he would think they were some vision conjured by his ale-soaked wits. Keeping her gaze straight ahead, she walked forward. The skin on her neck prickled as they passed the man. At any moment, she expected him to call out or try to stop them. But nothing happened. As they moved into the shadows of an adjoining building, Ailinn exhaled in relief.
    They were nearing the docks. The fresh smell of the sea replaced less pleasant odors, and large, stoutly-built structures loomed up around them, storehouses meant to shelter vast amounts of trade goods. This area was also better lit than the other part of the settlement, with torches burning near several of the buildings. And there were guards. Her heart seemed to leap into her throat as she spotted a burly warrior dozing against one of the warehouses, his war axe propped up beside him. She motioned for the other women to keep silent, then stealthily led them in the other direction.
    They finally reached the open area of the quay. It was getting light and Ailinn could make out the looming silhouettes of the vessels moored there. Now they must discover the right ship, and somehow, the right man. It seemed a futile quest. But the only alternative was to meekly accept her fate, and that seemed worse than anything they might encounter here.
    Ailinn turned to face the other women. Gazing into their pale, exhausted faces, her own weariness and sense of hopelessness threatened to overwhelm her.
You can’t give in. You’re a Donovan. Donovans fight to the death.
“Wait here,” she told them.
    As she moved past the shelter of the warehouses, the stinking candle began to gutter, and Ailinn blew it out. It was light enough to see without it anyway. Which meant they had little time. Soon, the sleeping guard would wake and discover the unlatched door. Once Croa knew they were gone, he would send his men searching for them. She shivered, feeling very vulnerable on the open quay.
    Her gaze swept the nearby ships. None of them looked familiar. The damp morning air pierced her cloak, chilling the sweat that coated her skin. She squinted into the gray veil of morning light and knew a sharp relief as she recognized the distinctive dragon-headed prow of the Norseman’s ship.
    She didn’t see anyone guarding it. The crew must be aboard. Now what did she do? How could she alert her potential rescuer?
    She gazed at the ship a while, watching it shift in the water, its timber hull creaking faintly. Counting the oar holes, she decided there were at least sixteen men on the vessel. Most of them probably weren’t anything like the blue-eyed warrior, but were as rapacious and crude as Croa’s men. If only she knew the Norseman’s name. Then she could call out for him. If only she hadn’t insulted him but listened to what he had to say. If only...
    She couldn’t change the past. All she could do was try to shape the future, to wrest back control of her life. Even if this ill-fated escape led to her death, that was better than enduring the rest of her life as a helpless thrall, knowing that she’d done nothing to try to change her fate.
    Her body stiff with resolve, she raised the pottery candleholder and let it fly. It struck the side of the vessel with a crash, which was immediately followed by a man’s startled exclamation. She heard muttering and cursing in the Norse tongue, then a man’s head appeared above the