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He had thought the monastery to be a wise choice - a quiet, orderly life measured in daily prayer, a safe life.
One of the dragonheaded boats are burning and his robe is torn and bloody, but the darkhaired man lying at Bruce's feet does not seem at all scared of him. He should be cowering, like his fellow raiders, like Bruce's brothers, but he isn't - he's grinning like a madman, admiration dancing in his eyes, words spilling from his lips, one word repeated again and again, a growl that rings like a truth - if only Bruce knew what berserkr means.