A Burning Sea E-Book

Theodore Brun

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

'Superb. A Burning Sea is a vivid, enthralling read, yet again proving that Theodore Brun is a force to be reckoned with.' Giles Kristian Doomed to wander. Destined for glory. Erlan Aurvandil has turned his back on the past and his native Northern lands, taking a perilous journey to the greatest city in the world, Byzantium. But as his voyage ends, Erlan is brutally betrayed, captured and enslaved by a powerful Byzantine general. Meanwhile, Lilla Sviggarsdottír, Queen of Svealand, has lost her husband and with him, her kingdom. Leaving her lands and people behind, Lilla journeys east on a new quest: to find Erlan and raise an army mighty enough to defeat her usurper. But when she reaches the great city of Byzantium, she discovers a place in turmoil. A dark tide is rising against the Emperor from within his own court. As the shadows darken and whispers of war begin to strengthen, Erlan's fate becomes intertwined with that of the city. Are they both doomed to fall, or can freedom be won in the blood of battle?

Leseprobe

ABURNINGSEA

Also by Theodore Brun

A Mighty Dawn

A Sacred Storm

Theodore Brun studied Dark Age archaeology at Cambridge. In 2010, he quit his job as an arbitration lawyer in Hong Kong and cycled 10,000 miles across Asia and Europe to his home in Norfolk. A Burning Sea is his third novel.

First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Theodore Brun, 2020

The moral right of Theodore Brun to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Hardback ISBN: 9781 78649 615 7

Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 616 4

E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 618 8

Printed in Great Britain

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

For Sara, without whom I wouldn’t have finished this book.

Also, for my parents – Olaf and Dibby – without whom I wouldn’t have finished anything.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

AT THE HALL OF DUNSGAR D, ESTLAND:

Osvald, son of Ostein – King of the Livi and Lord of the Estlandish tribes

Erlan Aurvandil – the Wanderer, a crippled warrior sworn to King Osvald

Aska – his one-eyed wolfhound

Valrik Viggorsson – a merchant-warrior, and skipper of the Fasolt

Adalrik – Valrik’s son, a karl of King Osvald, and companion to the Wanderer

Leikr – Adalrik’s twin brother

Vassili – an itinerant holy man

AT THE HALLS OF UPPSALA, SVEÄLAND:

Ringast Haraldarsen – King of the Twin Kingdoms, a Dane by blood, eldest son of King Harald Wartooth

Lilla Sviggarsdottír – his consort, Queen of the Twin Kingdoms, a Sveär by blood, and only surviving kin of Sviggar Ívarsson, the murdered King of Sveäland

Prince Thrand Haraldarsen – King Ringast’s younger brother, and Lord of the Danish Isles

Sletti – King Ringast’s steward

Gerutha – Queen Lilla’s servant and friend.

Einar the Fat-Bellied – one of the king’s karls, a Sveär still loyal to the old Sveär king Sviggar and his kin

EN ROUTE TO BYZANTIUM:

Ramedios – a Greek merchant and slaver

Ildur – a slave

Bayan – a translator

Jarpr – a junior member of Valrik’s crew

IN THE CITY OF BYZANTIUM:

Emperor Leo III, the Isaurian – Basíleus of the Byzantines, previously Strategos of the Anatolikon Theme, the most powerful general in the Empire

Empress Maria – Basílissa of the Byzantines, consort to Emperor Leo

Arbasdos – Strategos of the Armeniac Theme, the second most powerful man in the Empire, and Leo’s personal ally

Katãros – Lord High Chamberlain of the Palace, or parakoimõmenos. A eunuch of Northern origin

Princess Anna – the Basílopoúla, only child of Emperor Leo.

Germanus – Patriarch of Byzantium. A eunuch

Daniel – the Eparch, chief administrator of the City

Alexios – commander of the palace guard

Davit – spatharios to General Arbasdos

Silanos – steward to General Arbasdos

Lucia – a servant of Arbasdos

Orlana – an actress and star of the Hippodrome

Alethea – a beggar-woman

Domnicus – a priest of the Imperial Household

IN THE CAMP OF THE AR ABS:

Prince Maslama ibn Abd al-Malik – Commander of the Arab Armies and half-brother to Caliph Sulayman of the House of Umayyad

Abdallah al-Battal – Prince Maslama’s envoy to the Emperor Leo

AT THE HALLS OF PLISKA:

Tervel, son of Asparukh – high khan of the Bulgar nation Prince Kosmesy – his son and heir

PART ONE

EARTH

CHAPTER ONE

Blood dripped off the tip of his blade into the mud.

All around him the last of the winter snow was stained with it, a scarlet slush slowly melting into rivulets, mingling with the rain and the run-off from the pigsty into broad black puddles.

‘It’s over now,’ said Erlan Aurvandil, palming the strands of dark hair out of his eyes. His two younger companions were panting like hounds after the hunt.

‘What do we do with these?’ Adalrik, the older twin, prodded his spear-butt at the body crumpled at his feet.

‘The ground’s too hard to bury them. Drag them in there,’ Erlan said. There was a battered cattle byre huddled in one corner of the farmstead. ‘Then burn it down.’ He wiped his blade on his cloak before re-sheathing it in its wool-lined scabbard. His throat tasted foul. He spat into the mud. This was foul work any way you cut it.

They had come for settlement of a debt. A small debt from a small man, but Lord Osvald refused to overlook the sum. ‘Folk will reckon it an insult. And an insult can’t go unanswered.’ As if it were a personal slight to the Lord of the Livi that this farmsteader was beggar poor.

The man lay dead now, together with his thrall and his son. His woman had fled into the forest. All for what? A few ounces of silver? Two head of sheep? Erlan shook his head. The fool should have paid up whatever he had. But the man was stubborn and, worse, brave. He had gone for his axe. . .

And now there was this mess to clear up.

Erlan turned away in disgust as the twins reappeared in the byre doorway, their lanky frames stooping to clear the sagging lintel. Inside, the fire crackled as it went to work. Leikr still had a torch alight in his hand. He swung it over his shoulder onto the thatched roof.

‘Muttonhead,’ sniggered Adalrik.

‘What?’ his brother squawked.

‘It’s not going to burn in this weather, is it, dung-breath?’ Adalrik was right. Sheets of rain were slanting down from a leaden sky. The torch died at once. Leikr scowled.

They were boys, good-natured lads most of the time, with hardly sixteen winters behind them. And already they have innocent blood on their hands, he thought. ‘Get your gear together. We’re moving out.’

It was three leagues back to Osvald’s hall. Dunsgard stood on a rise above the south bank of the Dagava river, overlooking its sluggish brown waters. From this stronghold, Osvald ruled the Livi – a tribe that had long ago settled the shores of the Gulf of Estland, which lay straight across the East Sea from Sveäland. The Livi called Osvald king. Erlan reckoned the man unworthy of the title.

It was to Dunsgard that he had sailed in the last days of autumn, turning his back on the ghosts that haunted the Uppland halls and the fame he’d won at Bravik. Except that some memories were not so easily left behind. Many a night, before sleep overtook him, he heard phantom echoes of the sword-song over that blood-soaked plain. Other times, it was a gentler shade who came to torment him. Lilla, Queen of the Twin Kingdoms now, whose beauty lingered like an ache in his bones. He could still recall the taste of her, the brush of her fingertips in his palm. Wasted thoughts, all of it. She was the reward of another man now. A better man.

Erlan had left because he was a man of honour when honour was all he had left to him. That being such a man meant he was also a fool was the bitter lesson of it. Honour had left him friendless, loveless, lordless, homeless. A killer for hire, forced to accept the meat and mead of the first lord whose hall he came to, in return for his oath. Gods, he was not yet twenty winters old, yet so damn weary. As if all the blood on his hands was a load weighing him down. Blood that he had spilled in exchange for what? Bread and beer? Was that all?

His hand went absently to his chest where his silver amulet used to hang. . . At least Lilla was where she was meant to be. While she was in the world, somehow there was hope. Of what, he wasn’t sure. But so long as she lived, then so must he.

The gnarled gables of Dunsgard rose ahead of him, stone-still in the mist swirling off the Dagava’s muddy waters. The rain had stopped. A dreary dusk was closing in around the palisade that crowned the hilltop. The three riders kicked on through the gateway, crossing to the stables to dismount into a cold slop of puddles. Already the sound of revelry was leaking out from the mead-hall into the yard.

‘He’s early to his ale-skin tonight,’ chuckled Leikr.

‘He’s early to his ale-skin every night.’ Erlan jumped down into the mud. The old wound in his ankle jarred and sent a jolt of fire up his leg into his groin. He sucked in his breath, remembering with bitterness the lesson his father had meant to teach him as a boy. Instead he’d made his son a lame-foot. A cripple for life. ‘Hand me the sack there,’ Erlan growled irritably at Leikr. The youth tossed him the knapsack that contained the few valuables they had taken from Osvald’s debtor. A few bits of hack-silver, some cheap jewellery. It was far short of the debt the farmer owed, but it was all they had. Erlan felt no better than a thief. He tossed Leikr his reins. ‘I’ll see you inside.’

The mead-hall was the usual miasma of sweat and smoke and stale beer, the dirty rushes strewn about the floor unchanged for weeks, making the place reek with decay. It was a scene all too familiar to Erlan. He had spent the whole winter here, listening to the songs and stories and listless talk of the men in Osvald’s retinue. They were like caged wolves, with little to do but drink and eat and swive their way through the dark months, waiting for the spring. And none took to this winter work with more commitment than Lord Osvald himself.

Erlan flung his cloak over his shoulder and wove his way to the high table, around bodies already sunk into an ale stupor and hall-hounds coiled under the benches hoping for a scrap of mutton to reach the floor. At length he stood before Osvald, the noble King of the Livi.

His new oath-lord was slouched behind a long table scattered with the ruins of his supper. At first Osvald didn’t notice him; his nose was buried in the fulsome bosom of the bed-thrall sat astride him, his hand busy under her robes which had ridden up to reveal a pale, puckered thigh.

‘My lord?’ Words on his tongue that irked Erlan like stones in his shoe.

Osvald removed his mouth from the woman’s teat and squinted past her. ‘Erlan Aurvandil.’ He snorted. ‘You took your time. Well?’

Erlan dumped the knapsack on the table. Osvald shoved the bed-thrall off him and shooed her away with a slap to her rump. He seized the bag and tipped out its contents over the discarded platters. ‘Is that it?’

‘That’s all he had.’

Osvald’s nostrils flared. ‘Then why the Hel didn’t you bring him here before me?’ He was still young, under thirty winters, though already he had the look of a man gone to seed. His teeth were blunt nubs of brown and yellow. His flaxen hair was thin and dull, his beard two greasy yellow braids. ‘If he can’t pay, he should be taught a lesson.’

‘He won’t be learning any more lessons.’

The expression on Osvald’s face changed from irritation to understanding, then wry amusement. ‘Go on.’

‘They were armed. Things got. . . complicated.’

Osvald sniggered. ‘You’re a cold son of a bitch, Aurvandil. Hah! Maybe that’s why I like you.’ Abruptly he lurched to his feet and thumped his fist on the table. ‘Give ear, you pack of ale-washed hogs! Stir yourselves, you wastrels!’ Slowly his hirthmen fell silent and lent him a grudging ear.

‘Behold, the great hero of Bravik!’ cried Osvald. Erlan’s skin prickled with discomfort at the many eyes upon him. ‘If the reports are to be believed, he slew nearly the whole of Sigurd’s army single-handed. Including the wretched Kin-Slayer himself! It was this man who put Ringast Haraldarson on his twin throne. The King-Over-Us-All.’ His thin lips curdled into a sneer. ‘No matter that but two moons before, the Wartooth and his brood of sons had been lifelong foes of this hero’s oath-sworn lord.’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘Such loyalty is admirable. I should mark it well.’

Erlan turned away, now seeing Osvald’s intent. What he’d said was a twisting of the truth. By the time Erlan had gone over to the Wartooth, his ‘oath-sworn lord’ Sviggar had been murdered, and Erlan himself half-roasted alive.

‘No, no – don’t go, hero. No need for modesty.’ Osvald gripped Erlan’s shoulder. ‘There is more, is there not? They say you slew a horde of monstrous fiends besides, in the freezing drifts of winter. Is it not true?’ A groan rose around the benches – more jeer than acclaim. Erlan shrugged off Osvald’s hand, his eyes full of scorn.

‘And still there’s more,’ laughed Osvald, enjoying Erlan’s discomfort. ‘One tale has it our hero journeyed into the depths of the Earth and plucked from some dark hole a highborn maid. The very maid who now sits beside our overlord as Queen of the Twin Kingdoms. We know not whether he journeyed into her dark hole!’ When the laughter had died away, Osvald wiped his lips. ‘All this – and yet the man’s a cripple.’ This time the laughter had a vindictive edge to it. ‘You are a marvel, Erlan Aurvandil. Truly! So drink, you puppies, drink! Drink to this hero who does honour to my hall! What hope my enemies, hey, with a man like this by my side?’

Osvald threw back the contents of his ale-horn. A few drank without enthusiasm; most slumped back against the walls into their own thoughts or idle talk. Osvald sank into his chair, a sour grin smeared across his face.

Erlan leaned over the table. ‘Next time you want to scrape the bottom of the barrel,’ he said in a low snarl, ‘do the fucking job yourself.’

‘Are we beneath you then, great hero?’

‘That work is beneath any man.’ Erlan turned away.

‘Lest you forget, Aurvandil,’ Osvald called after him, ‘you swore an oath to me.’ Apparently done amusing himself, he clapped his hands and summoned back his bed-thrall.

Aye, thought Erlan, hobbling to a place far below the seats of honour. I swore an oath. One he now bitterly regretted. But with the hard grip of winter closing over all the north, he’d had little choice but to make it. Not if he didn’t want to freeze to death.

He flopped down on the bench beside the twins who were already sating their hunger on heels of black bread draped with strips of hog fat. It was basic fare in Osvald’s hall, even if it kept a man alive and his belly full. But Erlan didn’t feel like eating.

Adalrik bid him welcome with bulging cheeks and tipped out a cup. ‘You promised you’d tell us the rest of them stories one day, Erlan,’ the lad said, refilling it from the ale-pitcher and passing it to him.

Erlan nodded his thanks and took a swig. ‘There’s not much to tell.’ That was a lie. ‘Nothing good anyway.’ Closer to the truth.

‘You’re still alive, ain’t you?’

‘For what that’s worth in this dungheap hall,’ he muttered. ‘No offence.’

The boy shrugged. ‘A dung beetle’s happy enough on his dunghill ’cause he knows no different. That’s your trouble, see. You’ve been spoiled.’

‘Spoiled? Hah!’ Erlan had to laugh at that.

‘You’ve seen too much of the world. Well, Leikr and me, we ain’t going to stick around here for ever. Are we?’

‘Damn right.’ His brother grinned, tapping their cups together.

‘Come on, Erlan,’ urged Adalrik. ‘If you tell us your tales, Leikr here will put you in one of his songs.’ Leikr fancied himself a skald. Mostly he used his rhymings and kennings to win favours from the bed-thralls that Osvald kept about his hall like house-hounds. He had a sweet voice but not much invention. The lad’s attention had drifted back to a couple humping away on the other side of the hall. ‘Is that Finna there?’ he asked absently. ‘Think she’d do that with me?’

‘Not bloody likely,’ said Adalrik.

‘Why not?’

‘’Cause she knows you’ve got a cock like a baby worm and breath like Aska’s arse!’ Adalrik folded into gales of laughter; Leikr scowled and kicked him under the table. Adalrik yelped. This happened a lot.

Aska was a long-limbed wolfhound. At the sound of his name, a mass of fur stirred under the table and prodded his nose into Erlan’s lap. Erlan peeled a stray strip of fat off the table and dropped it into his mouth. The dog gulped it down, gazing up at him with a single, grateful eye.

Aska was a stray Erlan had picked up when he left the halls of Uppsala. At first, Erlan had named him Kai after his murdered friend, but that soon felt too uncanny so he changed it to Askar – the name of Kai’s father – and finally to Aska which simply meant, Ash. Erlan scratched at the top of his head.

Leikr had that moony look on his face that meant he had a question burning. Erlan took another swig of ale. ‘Come on, out with it.’

‘Do you think that the woman came back? You know. . . And saw what we’d done?’

‘I’d rather not think about it. You shouldn’t either.’ He tapped Leikr’s cup with his, then sank the rest of his beer. He still had the cup to his lips when a voice sounded at his shoulder.

‘Do you mind if I sit with you, friend?’ Erlan looked up from the rim of his cup into a small face with hollow features and tufted black eyebrows. More elf than human. His pate was brown and smooth as a hazelnut.

‘Depends what you want.’

‘A little talk,’ the hazelnut replied, already clambering onto the bench. ‘I’m a stranger here.’

‘You don’t say.’

His clothes were as foreign as his accent: heavy folds of threadbare wool heaped on his shoulders, hanging almost to his feet, quite unlike the tunic and breeks of most men in the north. When he sat, Erlan noticed a sprout of white hair across the back of his head.

‘I won’t say no to an ale, young man,’ said the stranger amiably to Leikr. The boy shrugged and poured him a cup.

‘I’ve not heard that accent before,’ said Erlan. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Some way to the south.’

‘Frankia?’

‘No, no.’ The man chuckled. ‘Much further. To the south-east, if we are being precise. Beyond the Great Rivers. Beyond even the Friendly Sea.’

‘The Friendly Sea? Never heard of it.’

‘Some in the north call it the Black Sea, I think. Though why I cannot say since it is as blue as any other.’ The small eyes twinkled with amusement. His little head jerked towards Osvald’s high table. ‘If your lord is to be believed, you sound like an interesting man.’

‘I wouldn’t take what he says too seriously.’

‘And an outsider here like me.’

Erlan shrugged and drank some more.

‘The other kingdom he spoke of – where is it?’

‘Due west from here, across the East Sea. The land of the Sveärs. I was once sworn to their king.’

‘Yet even there you were a stranger.’ A statement, not a question.

Erlan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps.’

‘It is a lonely fate. To always be a stranger.’

‘Something you would know?’

‘Ha! Of that I do know a little, yes.’ He smiled. ‘But in truth, I was never fully alone.’

Erlan sighed. It seemed the man liked to speak in half-riddles. ‘What’s your name, friend?’

‘Vassili. And yours?’

‘Erlan.’

The man folded his hands before him and leaned a little closer. ‘No. It is not.’

The nape of Erlan’s neck prickled. ‘What do you mean it’s not?’

‘Erlan is not your given name. What is your true name?’

Erlan grimaced, feeling the chafe of his oldest and most precious oath. But he would not speak of his past. Not to this nor any man. ‘You tell me.’

‘Every outlander comes from somewhere. A place where he is known, where he is someone’s son.’ Vassili smiled. ‘Even. . . a chosen son?’

Erlan jerked back from the table, startling Aska whose muzzle still rested in his lap. ‘Who the Hel are you? Do you know me?’

‘No,’ Vassili replied, still calm. ‘Not in the way you think. I know only what I see.’

‘It’s no business of yours to see anything.’

‘I cannot help what I am shown.’

Erlan took a sullen swig and peered into the bottom of his cup. Chosen son. That was the meaning of his first name, Hakan. The name his father had given him. But Hakan is dead. Erlan walked in his shoes now.

‘Why are you so reluctant to speak of your past? Have you so much to hide?’

‘I swore I would not speak of it.’

‘My friend, the one from whom you hide most is yourself. But there is one who sees all that is in you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve bound yourself with these words of yours.’ He paused and cocked his little head, as if listening to something. ‘And yet this is not the greatest curse in you. There is another.’

‘What curse?’ scoffed Adalrik. ‘What’re you on about, old man?’ He tapped his head at his brother. Leikr laughed, although with more nervousness than mirth.

The stranger ignored them. Instead he stared at Erlan.

‘What do you mean, another?’

‘Your lord spoke of a journey into the depths below. What did you find down there?’

Erlan’s restless glance shifted between the boys then back to the bald man. ‘Things you wouldn’t believe. . . I wouldn’t expect you to.’

‘Oh, I believe in things of the darkness. Just as I do those of the light. Tell me.’

‘I saw men who had become less than men. The darkness had made monsters of them.’

‘And?’

‘And their lord. He called himself the Witch King. A Watcher. Azazel. . .’ He murmured the name, as if speaking it too loudly might summon him there. ‘I killed him.’

Without warning, Vassili snatched Erlan’s wrist, his grip like iron tongs. ‘Dear God! You drank his blood, didn’t you?’ His eyes were round as shields.

Erlan looked at him carefully. This man couldn’t know that. No one could. ‘What if I did?’ he said softly.

‘It was the blood of demons.’

Leikr sucked a startled breath.

‘What?’ Erlan shook his head, suddenly confused.

‘Listen to me, friend. And hear me.’ Vassili leaned in. ‘Unless you drink the blood of the king of kings, you shall be a slave to that other, who called himself a king. You shall walk the Earth, cursed to wander. Hear me. Only the blood of the king of kings will set you free.’

A voice rang out from the high platform. ‘Where is the holy man? Where is this priest from the south?’ It was Osvald’s. Evidently he was finished with his thrall and looking for new distraction. ‘Up here! You bring a message. Well, now’s your time to speak. Damn him – where is the fellow?’

Vassili’s eyes darted to the platform and back to Erlan. ‘Seek him in the south. Do you understand me?’ But Erlan was as perplexed as ever. ‘Seek him there. And you will find him.’

‘Aha – there you are!’ Osvald at last caught sight of Vassili in their gloomy corner. ‘Come up here! It’s ill manners to keep your host waiting!’

‘My time has come.’ The twinkle returned to Vassili’s eyes. ‘God be with you.’

‘God?’ Erlan muttered after him. ‘What god?’

Vassili had been speaking a long while before Erlan truly heard him. But gradually the man’s words filtered into his troubled mind.

The little man carried a message from another – from his lord, he said, with a name far stranger even than his own. But this lord of his sounded like none that Erlan had ever known. He had no host of hirthmen, no hall, no wealth, no famous deeds of valour, nothing to mark him worthy of a man’s oath. ‘Only his words,’ declared Vassili. ‘His life. And his victory over death.’ Vassili declared he carried a message of peace from this lord – although what state of war existed between him and the Livi and why, he did not explain. Instead he turned to other things, to ancient things, his bright eyes burning, his small hands beating the air in his passion.

The whole world, he said, belongs to one great good god, who made all, who rules over all. But there was a rebellion in his kingdom, in the heavens far above – Vassili’s arms stretched high above him – and after a terrible war, the rebels were defeated and thrown down from the heavens, cast into this world of men – he flung his arms with great violence to the floor. Here, they multiplied in their wickedness, and since the old times they have spread lies and deceit, binding up the souls of men, darkening their minds, demanding their allegiance, masquerading as gods when they were nothing but devils, corrupting folk with violence and greed and envy, blinding them to the truth and spreading lies about the great god above. ‘The wooden idols I see you worship – those of Odin and Frey and Thor – these have no power. Nor is your destiny after this life as you imagine it will be. It may be far better. Or else, far worse.’

This strange talk stirred up many things in Erlan’s memory. Except that in the dismal gloom of Niflagard, the Witch King had spoken to him of a cruel tyrant, not of a great good god. True, the Watcher had also dismissed the old gods of the north as shadows and illusion. But now Erlan knew not who or what to believe. There were others in the hall, however, who took offence at this slander of their gods. The spell under which Vassili’s voice had, till then, held them was losing its power.

One man stood and cried out, ‘You say we gain one destiny by bending the knee to your lord who died, yet somehow lives.’

‘I do!’ cried Vassili in answer.

‘And if not, we suffer some dreadful fate in a place of torment.’

‘It is a place of such anguish I hardly dare speak of it.’

‘Then what of our forefathers, hey?’ There was a murmur of support at this. The hirthman looked about him, encouraged. ‘They were not given this choice, even those who died with honour in battle. Are you telling us they do not wait for us on Odin’s benches – in the high Hall of the Slain? Instead they suffer in this for ever place of darkness?’

‘The fate of any man or woman gone before us is known to God and to him alone,’ replied Vassili. ‘I am certain only that he is just. But why do you think I came all this way?’ His tone changed, imploring now. ‘Why do you think I would carry this message even to the very ends of the Earth if I had legs to take me—’

But his words were swallowed in the uproar against him, the crowd not liking this answer. More voices rose in anger. Erlan watched silently, noting that Vassili’s face lost none of its fervour at the crowd’s opposition.

‘What should we care why you’ve come?’ yelled one.

‘Sure, it’s ’cause he’s a halfwit simpleton with sheep shit for brains,’ bawled another.

‘Aye,’ said a third, ‘or some shape-shifting fiend in human flesh. Come to turn the gods against us.’

‘No!’ Vassili cried, his pale palms turned outwards in appeal. ‘I bring you only the truth. I came here out of love for you.’

‘If it’s love he wants, someone fetch him a bed-slave,’ drawled one wit to skirls of drunken laughter.

Then Osvald rose. He wasn’t laughing, nor – judging from his shifting eyes – was he sober. Seeing him on his feet, all fell silent.

‘Well, well,’ he said slowly. ‘This, I did not expect.’ He gave a long yawn. ‘It is late so I’ll be brief. I took you for a holy man. I welcomed you as a guest. You eat my food, drink my ale. And after this kindness, you open your mouth and what comes out? Some drivel that dishonours our gods, slanders our ancestors, makes mock of my hospitality. And you say I must bend the knee to some lowborn nobody who you claim has conquered death. If I do, say you, it is to my gain. But if I don’t, it will go ill for me when I die.’ Here his thin lips became an angry white seam. ‘Very ill.’ He paused, looking out over his retinue. ‘I can’t say it makes any sense to me. But it seems a curious way to poison men’s minds.’

Osvald scratched at his cheek. Then, finding a louse, he rolled his fingers and flicked it away. ‘What lord could let such poison leach across his lands? On the other hand, any fool can see your sincerity. Tell me. More than anything, you long to join this lord of yours somewhere –’ he wafted his hand airily at the rafters – ‘up there?’

‘My hope depends upon it,’ the holy man replied.

‘Very good. Then what I propose will be to our mutual gain.’ He turned to the pair of guards standing behind his seat. ‘Seize him.’

The guards moved quickly, but their speed made little difference; Vassili showed no desire to resist them. Instead he submitted meekly as they drove him to his knees, twisting his arms behind him.

Erlan had watched all this unfold, curious but now wary of this Vassili, of this little man who saw so much.

‘Now then.’ Osvald fell back in his seat. ‘Aurvandil!’ Erlan’s head shot up. ‘Aurvandil?’ Erlan stood. ‘You have your sword with you.’ Erlan wished he did not. ‘Come here. Tonight we will add to your long list of great deeds.’

‘My lord. This is hasty—’

‘Do you defy me, Aurvandil?’ Osvald’s fist slammed on the table, sending a horn bouncing to the floor. ‘I didn’t accept your oath nor feed you for an entire winter for you to question me. Now come up here and send this bald shit-spewing stoat to Hel!’

The men around Erlan eyed him. Many, he knew, would be only too happy to stick a blade in him to mollify their lord. Jealousy followed him everywhere – though, gods knew, there was little enough to envy him.

With a glance at the twins, he pulled himself off the bench. There was a squall of laughter as he limped through the muttered insults and mock encouragement towards Osvald’s table.

To refuse the order of an oath-lord was tantamount to breaking the very oath he had sworn. And to break that oath. . . For as long as he could remember, he’d had a terror of being an oath-breaker. His boyhood nurse Tolla had put that fear into him. A man’s word was the most precious thing he had, she’d said. To break it sent a tremor to the very roots of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Worlds, where the three Norns sat spinning his fate. A broken oath turned their malice against him.

He snorted. As if those blind bitches weren’t set against him already. . .

He reached the platform, his gait ringing unevenly off the wooden steps like a seiðman’s drum.

‘Draw your blade,’ said Osvald.

With the schick of steel, the hall fell silent. For a second the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the soft murmurings on the lips of the wretched holy man.

‘Hold him still.’

The guards braced Vassili’s wiry body. He uttered not a word of protest. He was staring down at the planks under him, his scrawny neck exposed under the tufts of white hair, still muttering in a tongue Erlan did not understand. The hearth flame shimmered off his leathery pate. Erlan raised Wrathling, the ancient ring-sword of his ancestors. A weapon of honour. But not this night.

Suddenly Vassili’s head turned and looked up at Erlan – and for a second his hollow features blazed bright as the sun, clothed in a startling beauty. ‘I forgive you, chosen son,’ he said. ‘Remember. The blood of the king of kings. Seek him in the south.’

‘Do it!’ screamed Osvald, the blast of his rotten breath rankling Erlan’s nostrils.

And Wrathling’s cruel edge came sweeping down.

CHAPTER TWO

In twenty-two winters, Lilla could not remember one so cold. Cattle froze to death in their stalls, snowdrifts tall as frost giants buried the halls, hanging mead-skins turned into blocks of ice. Even the hearth fire seemed to have lost its heat.

Lilla’s breath steamed around her as she hurried back towards the Great Hall. The snow and ice on the path through the Kingswood nipped at her toes through calfskin shoes.

Maybe it just seemed worse, she thought. Maybe the cold was inside her, maybe it was the chill winds of fate that had left her heart numb.

Everyone was dead. Everyone she loved. Father, mother, brothers, sister, friends. Even the child that had been growing inside her. The last, secret connection to the man she loved.

As for him. . . Erlan had left many moons ago. Where to, she had no idea. That was a question with which she no longer tormented herself. She had, of course – in the days after he’d gone. She had thought of little else, her mind flying after him like a swallow fleeing winter. But the wheel of her thoughts brought her no closer to him and so at last she had forced herself to give it up.

Instead she had resolved to give herself wholly to her husband: King Ringast, son of the Wartooth, victor of the Bravik Plains, who that day had won the Twin Kingdoms of Danmark and Sveäland and been hailed King-Over-Them-All. He had since even taken on a new name, joining his own with her father’s: Sviggar-Hring. A sign to heal the wounds between their peoples. But few used it. Most folk called him by another: the Half-Hand King. Half he lost on that bloody plain. The half he kept was killing him.

It came on slow. So slow even she had failed to notice. The work to rebuild their riven land was never-ending and Ringast drove himself hard. At first he complained of dizziness after the long hours spent in council. Lilla persuaded herself he was just tired, that he needed more sleep, and with the onset of the long winter nights he would get it. But his condition grew worse. When they lay together, his skin was cold to the touch, like a wight’s – as if he were half-dead already. Now Lilla saw it had only been his extraordinary strength of will that had kept him alive this long. A weaker man would have succumbed weeks, perhaps months, before.

That morning she had gone to the old ash at the heart of the Kingswood to make sacrifice to Eir, hoping that the healing goddess would open her mind to some new knowledge that could save him. She had listened and heard. . . nothing.

The truth was stark. She could not save him.

Maybe this last loss would come as a relief – bringing her to that final, inexorable state of being completely alone. And yet she felt a horror of it.

The entrance to the mead-hall loomed before her, welcome shelter from the wind gusting across the hall-yard. But for a second she didn’t want to go back in, didn’t want to listen to those ragged breaths rattling in his throat, or to see his once piercing grey eyes grown so dim.

Gathering her skirts, she forced down her reluctance and went inside. ‘He’s asking for you again, my lady.’ The voice belonged to Gerutha, her Gotar maidservant. A year ago they had never met. Now Gerutha was her only friend.

‘Have you changed his blankets?’

‘Twice since you’ve gone.’ Gerutha’s cheekbones cast sharp shadows down her face. ‘The fever still holds him. But he’s conscious.’

‘Bring fresh water. I’ll go to him.’

It was strange to walk these corridors now – the same approach to the same chamber, once her father’s. The same smells of oak beams and dusty tapestries and fur hangings that evoked her childhood, when laughter had resounded off the walls. It had only taken a short time to turn all of that upside down. A short time for all laughter to die.

Now the chamber belonged to the son of her father’s enemy. The man she had chosen for duty’s sake, whom she had come to care for deeply, even love in a way, although he had never possessed her inmost heart. That belonged to another.

She pushed aside the drape and braced her throat against the rancid smell that hit her nostrils. ‘I’m here, husband.’

The mound of furs on the massive bed stirred. A head of sandy hair appeared, matted with sweat. ‘Lilla?’

She sat on the bed frame. He reached out a wasted fist. She took it, feeling the warmth in her hand drain into his cold, bloodless fingers. ‘Did you sleep?’

‘It is not sleep,’ he answered hoarsely. ‘I close my eyes and faces fly around me, full of fear and fury.’ His head shook. ‘I once thought death would bring peace. But now I fear it.’

She stroked her thumb over his knuckles. ‘Speak not of death, husband. When the fevers pass, you’ll soon recover. I believe it.’

‘You’re a poor liar, my love.’ His cracked lips formed a sad smile. ‘I’m sorry. I failed you.’

A tear welled in her eye. She blinked it away. ‘How could you have failed me? You’ve done all things well.’

‘Not all. I’m leaving you alone. I should have given you a son.’

‘You did. It was me, it was. . .’ Her voice trailed off and she had to look away. She had carried a child in her belly. For a time. Although only she knew it was not this man’s seed that had put it there. ‘Maybe when you’re well again.’

‘Lilla, I’m dying. You are barren. It’s just as she said—’

‘No!. . . No. She was destroyed. Her words have no power.’

Although she willed this to be true, she couldn’t help but see in her mind’s eye Queen Saldas standing proud and untamed, long black hair streaming, the cup of poison she would drink for her crimes raised high as she cried dark curses to the wind.

‘We should have cut out her tongue as soon as we took her.’

‘Her power was broken before she spoke those words.’

Ringast snorted. ‘Yet here we are.’ He tried a rueful smile but some shiver of pain twisted his face into a grimace. ‘Still nothing from Thrand?’

‘Nothing. It’s two weeks since we sent word, as you asked.’

Thrand was Ringast’s brother. A fire mountain to Ringast’s sun. He was also a king of sorts. His seat lay at the hall of Leithra in Danmark far to the south. Thrand had sworn an oath of fealty to his older brother, although Lilla often doubted whether Thrand remembered this.

‘I have need of him here.’

‘If he’s true to his blood, he’ll come.’

Ringast sighed and sank deeper into his pillow, his eyes rolling back into his skull. For a grim moment, Lilla thought he had breathed his last. But then, by some vast effort of will, his eyes peeled open and focused on her again.

‘I’m still here.’ She reached up to stroke his cheek. But she found her gaze drawn down again, to his half-hand resting on the coverlet, the fetid wound swollen black under its useless bandage, suppurating pus. With your death, your realm will be cloven, clean and bloody as your hand. Those had been Saldas’s words, spoken before her execution. Was that lump of rotting flesh to be the fate of the Twin Kingdoms? Lilla shuddered at the thought.

‘I needed Thrand here,’ croaked Ringast, recollecting his thought. ‘I wanted him to hear it from my lips.’

‘Hear what?’

‘This.’ With his good hand, he reached out and clutched the amber necklace around her neck and pulled her closer. It took all her will not to gag at the smell seeping from his throat. ‘When I’m gone, you must rule in my place.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You are your father’s true heir. Your people trust you.’

‘No woman has ever ruled alone—’

‘Please,’ he rasped. ‘Don’t argue. There’s no time.’ His arm failed and fell to his chest. ‘No time. . . Just listen.’

She clasped his withered fist.

‘You have the heart to rule your folk kindly, and the mind to rule them well. Like your father.’

‘What about Thrand? He will be the last male heir of Ívar Wide-Realm. His claim is stronger—’

‘No!’ The word escaped his grey lips in a brutish snarl. ‘Not Thrand. Not him. He must never rule here, you understand? He hates the Sveärs. And he is cruel. It would only lead to more bloodshed. . . An ocean of blood,’ he murmured softly, like some refrain in a skaldman’s song. ‘Promise me, you will keep him from the Sveär throne.’ The black rims of his eyelids sank lower and lower. ‘Promise me. My wife. . .’

‘I promise,’ she said, squeezing his hand in her passion. ‘You have my word.’

‘Good.’ He seemed to recede then, his soul making ready to withdraw, leaving his shrivelled body to its ruin. Lilla’s heart grew heavy, filled with a terrible pity for this man whom she had at first thought hard and cold, but who had proved himself wise. And good.

‘Kiss me,’ he murmured, softer than breathing.

So she did, swallowing her revulsion, her warm soft lips brushing against his, so cold and brittle.

‘I’ve always. . . loved. . . you.’

‘I know… And I—’

She stopped. His eyes had changed, become hard like glass. Just like that he had gone. She reached up and closed his eyelids. ‘I love you,’ she finished, feeling tears chase down her cheeks. But he couldn’t hear her, and she was alone.

CHAPTER THREE

The mess was sickening.

But not half so sickening as the glee on the faces of Osvald and his retinue, or the cheer that went up as the holy man’s head bumped off the platform into the hearth in a billow of sparks, or the speed at which the hall-hounds moved in to lick up the gore.

Meanwhile, Erlan had made up his mind.

He left the hall as soon as he could get away, left Osvald slumped on the table, a spill of mead lapping at his arms. The other hall-folk were already asleep or soon would be. Erlan passed the twins on his way out. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Leikr.

‘To get some rest,’ he lied. ‘You should too.’ Then he went to work.

He fetched his gear from a chest he kept in the far corner of an outer hall where he slept, then slipped down to the row of jetties on the bank of the Dagava. Aska followed at his heel through the darkness.

It was cold, but the sky had cleared and the residual snow made it easy to see. He soon found his boat, pulled a short distance up the bank where he’d left it. The little knarr had been a gift from King Ringast when he’d left Uppsala. It had carried him across the East Sea. Smaller than most cargo vessels, it could be handled by a light crew or even one man, if he had skill. He put his shoulder to the prow. The slope worked in his favour and he soon had the stern easing into the dark waters with barely a sound.

He was tense with excitement, something inside goading him on. Seek him in the south. The phrase kept turning in his mind, more urgent with each repetition.

He unbuckled Wrathling and was about to lay it in the boat when he stopped and pulled the blade half from its sheath. The steel shimmered in the starlight. He had cleaned off Vassili’s blood. Shame he couldn’t erase the memory of what he’d done so easily. He swore and slammed the hilt back into its sheath, angry to have shed innocent blood twice that day, angry to have ever taken orders from a worm like Osvald.

It only made him more certain of what he had to do. He had been shown too much. Vassili had known things he couldn’t possibly have known, had seen things he couldn’t possibly have seen, unless. . . Well, whatever magic had given the man that sight, it was far beyond Erlan’s ken. A curse.

Was he cursed?

He almost dared not answer his own question.

More words came to his mind: ‘The blood of the demon. . . The king of kings. . . Beyond the Friendly Sea. . .’

Gods, it was a damned thin thread to follow.

He tossed the ale-skin he’d swiped under the thwarts and was about to sling his boot over the gunwale when Aska gave a low growl. Erlan turned to see what had got his hackles up.

Two tall silhouettes were coming down the path. They were armed with spears. Watchmen. He cursed. That was all he needed. He squared off to them, scouring his mind for some plausible explanation.

‘Bit dark for fishing, ain’t it?’ said one.

He recognized the voice, and saw now the two silhouettes were identical. ‘What are you jokers doing here?’

‘We could ask you the same—’

‘We’re coming with you,’ Adalrik said, cutting off his brother.

‘Like Hel you are. Go back to bed and forget you ever saw me.’

‘Our father’s been sailing us up and down this river since we could fit in his boot. The only fella knows it better than us is him.’

‘I don’t need to know the river. I’m heading west across the Gulf, then south. To Rerik.’

‘Aye, and then?’

Erlan didn’t answer because he didn’t know. Admittedly his plan needed a little refining. He meant to reach Rerik, the biggest market harbour on the south shore of the East Sea, then find a skipper who could take him to the Black Sea. For the right price.

‘The holy man said the Black Sea, didn’t he?’

‘Beyond the Black Sea.’

‘Well,’ said Leikr, pointing upstream, ‘the quickest way to the Black Sea’s that way. Up the Dagava, far as you can go, a four-day portage that’ll break your back, then three weeks with your feet up floating down the Dnipar.’

‘That’s the easy part,’ added his twin.

Erlan looked east where the first rumours of dawn were breaking up the horizon. ‘Upstream, huh? Who told you all this?’

‘Our father, of course. He’s the only man in Dunsgard ever been to the Black Sea.’

‘Does he know you’re here?’

‘Are you crazy?’ The twins looked at each other and laughed. ‘He’d flay our hides if he thought we were even thinking of it.’

‘Then go home.’

‘And if we did, how’re you planning on shifting that thing upstream?’

‘I’ve got a sail.’

‘A sail won’t get you there, bonehead! What happens when the wind turns against you?’

‘Or there’s no wind at all?’ piped his brother.

‘You’ll need to row.’

‘That’s where we come in.’

Erlan looked them up and down. They were lanky brutes, that was for sure, and they had some nerve if they thought he’d even consider it. They also had a point. He couldn’t row the knarr on his own. He remembered his father’s helmsman, Esbjorn, always said a tall man with a strong back was the best sort on the end of an oar. Here were two of them. ‘I don’t even know where I’m going.’

‘South, ain’t it?’ said Adalrik.

‘And far away from here,’ added Leikr.

‘That’ll do for us.’ The pair of them were grinning like crescent moons.

Erlan scowled. ‘Go on then. Stow your gear in the bows.’

The twins yelped with delight. Adalrik punched Leikr for good measure. There was no doubt they knew their way round a boat, and probably better than Erlan. In a short while they had everything ready. Erlan untied the bows and pushed the prow into the stream, wading along the steer-board side through the biting cold water.

There was a sudden drumming noise in the boat.

‘Yargh!’ squawked Adalrik. ‘The damn dog’s pissed all over me!’ He leaped up while Leikr cracked into paroxysms of laughter.

‘Aye. He does that. There’s a bucket under there.’ Erlan pointed forwards.

He held the boat while Adalrik sluiced away Aska’s piss. This done, Erlan was about to jump in the boat when he cast a final glance towards the hall. He noticed a small shadow crouched twenty yards up the bank. ‘Someone’s watching us.’

A small pair of eyes was twinkling in the gloom. ‘The little brat,’ Adalrik growled in disbelief.

‘Who is it?’

‘Our baby sister.’

‘Your sister! What in Odin’s arse is this? Some family migration?’

‘Tikki!’ hissed Adalrik. ‘Come ’ere!’ The shadow rose to its full height – which wasn’t much – and trotted down to the water.

‘Did you tell her what we were doing?’ Adalrik asked his brother accusingly.

‘Mebbe I did. She woke up. She knew something was up and said she’d start yelling if I didn’t tell.’

‘Idiot.’

‘I want to come with you,’ said the girl.

‘You must be mad!’ laughed Leikr.

‘Get rid of her,’ snarled Erlan.

‘So where are we going?’ she asked, already wading out to the boat.

‘I said get rid of her. Else you can all of you piss off and I’ll sail west.’

Adalrik went to the bows and rummaged around in his gear. He soon returned and crouched down so his face was level with hers.

‘We’re off to find the king of kings, little sister. But it’s too dangerous for the likes of you. Stay here and we’ll tell you all about it when we come home.’

‘Papa will come after you.’

‘Not if you don’t tell him where we went. Here.’ He produced a knife in its sheath. The haft was an elegant blend of ashwood and antler. ‘Take it.’

‘Your knife?’ Her eyes were wide as platters.

‘Yours now,’ Adalrik grinned. He tossed it to his baby sister. She caught it and gazed down at it, her mouth gaping with admiration.

‘Not a word to Father, mind. At least not until we’re long gone.’

‘Two days at least,’ said Erlan.

‘Aye. Two days.’

Tikki nodded, her eyes still on the knife.

‘Right,’ said Erlan. ‘Say your farewells.’

This they did, then told her to run off home, the knife apparently having bought her obedience. Erlan had his doubts she would keep her mouth shut for long.

‘Let’s get on with it.’ He shoved off and took his seat by the tiller while Adalrik and Leikr began their long pull on the oars. Aska perched on a thwart in the bows, his long nose sniffing at the coming dawn.

‘I can’t believe you gave her your favourite knife,’ muttered Leikr, swinging his body with the sweep of the oar.

‘I didn’t,’ Adalrik chuckled. ‘It was yours.’

The days turned into weeks and the rowing made them strong. Erlan took his turn at the oar as much as the others, levering the little knarr deeper and deeper into a fathomless land of sombre browns and greys. In the main, the river coursed south-east, although it twisted north and south like a writhing serpent.

The labour was brutal, hardening their backs into knotted muscle, shredding their hands, soaking their tunics with sweat every day. The twilight fire was needed as much to dry them out as keep them warm or cook their supper. Further inland, it turned colder despite that spring must be close. Leikr took this badly, reckoning it unjust and a sure sign the gods had taken against the whole damned business. Maybe they had.

On a bad day, Leikr could croak as hard as any of the marsh frogs that kept them awake at night, but Adalrik wasn’t much better. He griped about his hands, which had been sanded away to a mess of bloody skin and weeping pus.

Despite the physical hardship, they ate well. Leikr’s hook and the abundance of bream and trout in the Dagava, and even the odd carp in the smaller tributary streams, kept their bellies full. They drank water straight from the river and suffered nothing for it. And in time, Adalrik’s hands became hard as old leather, Leikr’s back grew strong as a yew-bow, the cold eased, the stream weakened, and the snowy floodplains melted away into sparse woodland. Then, at last, came the first buds of spring.

The folk they came across were few in number and grew ever fewer. For each, they had only one question: did they know the Dnipar? The answer was always the same: a wave of the hand upstream. ‘Further, further.’

Always further.

One night they camped at the confluence of the Dagava with a large tributary whose name they didn’t know. In the morning a swineherd approached them. Once he had overcome his amazement at the brothers’ towering height, he answered with great enthusiasm that, yes, he knew the Dnipar. But instead of further up the Dagava, he pointed up the tributary.

Whatever was the name of this smaller river, they never found it out. It grew narrower and more winding, ever more clogged with weeds and sandbars until it came to an abrupt end about four days later at the head of a broad, crooked lake fed by rock-streams with no navigable way on.

‘This is where we get out and pull, boys,’ Erlan said. ‘I hope you’re feeling strong.’

‘As an ox,’ grinned Leikr.

‘Ugly as an ox, you mean,’ Adalrik sniggered.

‘Then that makes two of us, cock-breath.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Erlan. ‘Everything on the bank.’

Willing they may have been, strong as oxen they were not. Even with the three of them, it was soon clear the knarr was going nowhere without more help. So, leaving Adalrik and Aska to guard the boat, Erlan took Leikr and headed inland. They soon saw a smoke skein curling into the sky and under it they found a small village – a miserable cluster of shacks and ox-hide tents. At first the headman was suspicious but this soon gave way to curiosity.

They led him and some of his men back to the river. He was a sharp-nosed old buzzard, grasping their predicament quickly enough – and his opportunity to make some silver – even though they could barely understand one word of his in ten. His thralls proved tough as mules, helping them drag their boat up the riverbank. Then negotiations began.

The twins’ estimate of a portage of four days would have been a blessing indeed. Instead, it took six days of butting and heaving and shoving the boat over its timber rollers, cajoling and coaxing the headman’s wretched oxen with whips and goads over the upland terrain till they were more sweat than muscle. And at long last they were sliding the hull down a silty bank into the mighty Dnipar.

In the six days past, Erlan had learned a few words of the headman’s language. When they were ready to push off, he thanked the old man and paid him his silver.

‘The big river,’ the headman intoned. ‘Runs east a while. Then south.’

‘And then the sea?’

The headman shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘It runs where it runs.’

With fair weather and the stream in their favour, the twins’ mood improved a great deal. They were good company, all things considered, and Erlan was satisfied he’d been right to let them come along. Truth was, there was no way he would have got even this far without them.

They talked about many things – family, women, wars, their father and his travels. Some days they talked without drawing breath. Others, when the rays of the early spring sun warmed their faces, they just lay back like a pair of wolves on a rock and listened to the rush of bubbles under the hull.

At night, around the fire, they badgered him for stories, about battles he’d fought, enemies he’d vanquished, kings he’d known, and offered up some of their own – mostly absurd escapades from their childhood which always ended with one or other of them getting a beating off their father.

He was happy. They all were. He found he felt a lightness in his soul he hadn’t in a long while, for as long as he could remember – until the thought crept out of the shadows of his mind: that their journey was carrying him further and further away from Lilla.

Maybe that was the best place for him. After all, why should she ever think of him? She was where she was meant to be, with the man whom fate had chosen for her. And he—

‘Hey, Erlan.’ Adalrik’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Ever heard of a place called Miklagard?’

‘The name. Not much more.’ He remembered Sviggar mentioning it shortly before he was murdered. The Sveär king had been transported by grand visions of trade with this place called Miklagard. Alas, those plans had died with him.

‘Our father used to speak of it,’ said Leikr.

‘Has he been there?’

‘Not him. But he once met a merchant who had.’

‘Hasn’t everyone?’

Adalrik flicked a piece of snot into the water. ‘He says it’s the greatest stronghold in the whole world.’

‘Aye – with temples so big they shut in the sky!’ agreed his brother. ‘Every one made of silver and gold and precious stones.’

‘Sounds like quite a place.’ Erlan yawned. ‘Pass that skin.’

Adalrik tossed him the ale-skin and leaned forward. ‘I’ve been thinking about your king of kings.’

‘Oh, have you?’ Erlan took a swig, then wiped his lips dry. ‘And I suppose you’re reckoning this Miklagard is where we’ll find him. Only the king of kings could rule a place so wondrous? Huh?’

‘Exactly!’ Adalrik’s face was beaming.

‘Brilliant. So tell me, my friend – where is it?’

Adalrik’s smile fell. ‘Well. . . I don’t know. But someone must—’

‘It’s beyond the great rivers,’ said Leikr. ‘That’s what Father says.’

‘And that’s where the Dnipar will take us. So we’ll find out. One way or another.’