The next day floki arrives to tell Olaf that the boat is ready.

The finished boat. It is a thing of such indescribable beauty and latent power that Olaf strokes the burnished planks with his hands and lays his cheek against it, and shivers.

Freshly oiled and painted. Sinuous, sleek, graceful the hull rising shapely, like the contours of a body, like an organic, living thing.

And the prow standing proud, with its ornately carved dragon head.

Floki stares intently at Olaf, watching his reactions. Who is impressed with the boat and the put it in the water as it's travels through the water then, as they speed on, they calm down. Sober up. Look at the shoreline racing past.

A breeze catches the sail and it swells out proudly. The boat starts to move. As it moves faster, the motion stabilizes, becomes less choppy. It glides on smoothly, still picking up speed.

And now, suddenly, they're flying! The boat, still sitting low in the water, cuts through it so easily that the frame doesn't shudder on impact with the waves. It seems to ride over the waves.

And, after a while, there's an eruption of joy inside the boat, the men shouting, and hugging, and Floki going mad, laughing, leaping about, hugging them, trailing his hands in the water.

Olaf doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to, his expression says it all. He can see the future now. He is sitting on the edge of his dream.

This will be the beginning of his ambition one where he doesn't know where it will go or how long it will last, and what kind new adventures there will be for him while he does it.

A horseman sits astride his horse, at the edge of the cliffs and watches the black-sailed ship carving through the waves. We have seen him before. He has a livid scar that joins his mouth to his eye. He is one of jarl Haraldson's housecarls. He stares as the boat flies on.

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