He suddenly felt around his neck, then breathed easier when he found his golden torc still there. It had been a gift from King Sviggar. A mark of honour. It was about the only thing of value he possessed, apart from his sword, and he was loath to lose it.

He got to his feet and at once his shin snarled in protest. He looked down. Blood was streaming from a tear in his leggings to mingle with the river water lapping at his ankles. He bent down to inspect the wound. That was when he heard the screaming.

‘Oh, Hel,’ he said. The twins.

It took him a while to reach them, hobbling along the bank as the river flooded past. By then, the screaming had subsided into a mournful, sobbing lament. One of the twins was slumped in the water cradling the head of the other in his lap.

‘Adalrik?’

The tousled head turned and he saw it was Leikr.

‘He’s dead,’ the boy wailed. ‘Dead!’

Erlan splashed down beside him and took him by the shoulders. ‘Easy,’ he said softly, ‘easy.’ He repeated it over and over, clasping the boy to his chest. But for a long time Leikr was inconsolable.

At last he grew calmer. Together, they dragged Adalrik’s body up onto dry ground. He weighed far more than he could have done alive. Probably his lungs were full of water. The boy’s face was a horrible distortion of what it used to be: the skin slick, almost blue, the jaw twisted, the eyes staring. When they laid him out on the grass, his head flopped over and there was an ugly black crater where his skull was stove in.

Snot and tears streamed unchecked from Leikr’s nose. ‘What do we do now, Erlan? Hey? What do we do?’

Aye, thought Erlan. What indeed?

Instinctively his hand reached for the silver amulet hanging at his chest. For luck. But his fingers found nothing but skin. He’d given his luck away. He scowled, looking around, and began noticing evidence of their boat’s fate. Strakes smashed to kindling, shivers of wood lapping forlornly against the bank. Most everything else was gone.

His gaze drifted back upriver. In the distance he saw an awesome sight, a white thunder of tumbling water, its roar a constant behind every other sound.

The little knarr never stood a chance.

‘Erlan.’ Leikr wiped his long fringe out of his face. ‘I said, what are we going to do?’

‘We bury your brother. And then. . . we go on.’