The sailor was jabbering in some ratter-tatter tongue. Erlan smelled the reek of piss. His arm was high, Wrathling poised to fall. But for a second he hesitated. There was blood everywhere. His tunic was soaked red. Men were groaning out their last breath onto the salty air.

Seeing his distraction, the sailor tried to scramble free, only for a Greek to kick him to the gunwale and pin him there with his spear-point. Erlan spun, only now seeing he was on the other boat.

Where the Hel was Leikr?

The fighting was over, more or less. Ramedios was yelling for his men to cease the slaughter. Probably he wanted any marauder still alive chained and stowed in his hold; a sailor taken in battle would be worth good silver where they were going.

Erlan limped to the steer-board side of the raiders’ ship. The wreckage of battle lay strewn about the deck. Bodies and blades. Broken shields. Abandoned ropes and grapples.

Still no sign of Leikr or Aska.

Slowly, the heat in his blood cooled. He could remember almost nothing of what had happened. The stench was vile. The Greeks were congratulating each other, slapping backs and cracking jokes, but seeing him, their faces stiffened. They backed away. He tried to smile, to show them he too was glad of their victory. But he saw only fear in their eyes.

That was when he saw Leikr.

The boy’s head was flung back, his mouth wide, his skin pale as snow. There was a huge rent in his torso, half a foot wide from collarbone to belly. He was quite dead.

‘Northman.’ Erlan turned. Ramedios was picking his way across the deck. He stopped, breathing hard, and seeing the body at Erlan’s feet, he grunted. ‘Shame.’

Erlan nodded.

One of the sailors nearby started speaking to the captain, his gaze flicking warily at Erlan. Ramedios’s expression changed. ‘He says you killed three of my men.’

Erlan wasn’t sure he had understood. ‘I don’t know how many I killed—’

‘No – three of my men.’ The Greek hit his own chest. ‘My men!’ Erlan only saw anger boiling in his face but didn’t know why. ‘He says you killed him too.’ Ramedios’s finger pointed sharply down at Leikr’s body.

‘What?’

‘This was you. Esý!’ he cried. You. . .

Realization at last dawned on Erlan. He stared down at the terrible wound he’d inflicted on his only friend. ‘No,’ he whispered in Norse. ‘You’re lying.’ And yet the horror of it made his blood run cold.

That night was still and cloudless. Erlan huddled closer to Aska, and not just for warmth. He felt need of an ally. The dog, who had cowered his way through the skirmish, was the last he possessed.