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                  “Do you see that, Thorgrim?” Ornolf bellowed as he joined his hirdman aft. “You show Thor you have balls as big as his, and he drops a gift right in your lap!”
                  “His aim could be a little better!”
                  “Ah, you young men are soft, like women! You don’t know what real fighting is!”
                  Thorgrim smiled at Ornolf’s jibing. He did not feel soft and he did not feel young.
                  “I’ll see my grandson does not become a feeble woman like the rest of you, count on it!”
                  Thorgrim had only half an ear for Ornolf, his concentration mostly on the set of waves over which they were riding. He renewed his grip on the tiller, waited, waited for the flat spot, the tiny break in the cresting seas where he could turn the longship.
                  And then it was there, not perfect, but the best he could hope for. He leaned hard on the tiller and watched the tall dragon prow sweep around, falling off the wind, and the men amidships hauled the big yard around.
                  Another wave came up under the longship and twisted it around and Thorgrim fought back with the steeringboard to keep the ship from turning too far. The wind and seas were behind them now, and the once laboring ship was racing down the waves, rising stern-first and sliding forward down the water hill until the wave passed under and bucked the bow up high. The wind seemed suddenly not as fierce, and with the thought of a victim under their bow, the men seemed absolutely buoyant.
                  “There! There!” Ornolf had his sword in hand and he used it to point forward. The other ship was cresting a wave, half a mile down-wind.
                  Irish... Thorgrim thought. It was a curragh, a large one, running down wind with a scrap of sail showing. It could be a fishing boat or a coastal trader. Not likely to have anything of great value aboard.
                  The Vikings did not care, they were ready for a fight. Amidships men were freeing swords from sheaths and hefting axes and spears. The round shields came off the gunnels. Kotkel the Fierce was swinging his ax in an arc so that others had to duck out of his way. Some thought Kotkel a berserker, and if he was not, he was close enough.
                  Olaf Yellowbeard and his twin brother, Olvir, were settling their shields on their arms. Vefrod Vesteinsson, known as Vefrod the Quick, pulled off his heavy fur cape and dropped it onto the deck. Harald slid his helmet on his head and adjusted it until it sat right. Thorgrim wondered if the fishing boat would put up enough of a fight to sate all those eager men.
                  The next rising sea showed that they had halved the distance to their prey - the waddling curragh was no match for the longship in speed. Thorgrim felt the battle-madness creeping over him, and he breathed deep because he did not want to give himself over to those spirits.
                  Down into the trough of the waves, and up again, closer to the Irish vessel, which now was running for all it was worth, the sail spread nearly full. They had spotted the stalking wolf.
                  That rig will not last in this wind , Thorgrim thought, and as if his mind controlled such things, the curragh’s mast crumpled and fell. The sail smothered the forward end of the boat, and the curragh swung around broadside to the sea and rolled hard.
                  Now the longship was on them, the Vikings whooping it up, gathering at the gunnel as Thorgrim tried to steer the vessel, like steering a runaway sleigh he could just barely control. There was a better chance they would be killed trying to bring the ships alongside than in any fight with these Irish fisherman.
                  Thorgrim heaved the