But guilt weighed on him heavier than fear. He couldn’t erase the image of those twin faces, hovering in his mind like ghouls. He felt sick at the thought of what he had done, at the proof of the darkness that dwelt within him. He was cursed, then. Cursed to wander. Cursed to always be alone. An outsider, for ever.

He wanted to unwind the thread. To go back. To make different choices. To walk a different path. But the awful inevitability of it, the outworking of what he was and who he must become seemed as inexorable as the setting of the sun. At every turn, blood haunted him, blood caked his hands, blood filled his dreams. Yet how could he ever wash it away? It was all he had to offer the world – more blood. What else had he to bring?

He felt the change around him. A coldness that had nothing to do with the chill of night. He’d heard the word ‘bárbaros’ muttered in the shadows and knew the other sailors were talking about him. So he took himself off with Aska to the bows. There, he curled up with his back to the strakes and watched, a knife salvaged from the fight hidden beside him.

Long after the rest of the crew had lain down under their cloaks to sleep, Erlan was watching still. Above him, the stars glistened like jewels, but even they seemed remote and unforgiving now, looming over him in judgement. Only Aska seemed oblivious to what he had done and snored away peacefully beside him.

His lids grew heavy. He pinched himself, murmuring snatches of old skald-songs to stay alert, but it was no good. Sleep rose about him like the tide, swallowing every thought, until at last his fingers slackened and his head lolled against the strakes. . .

When he dreamed, it was of Bravik again.

He sees the hard, lifeless features on the face of the Kingshelm, feels the burn in his limbs and the squelch of muddy gore underfoot. He tries to lift his shield but it is heavy as stone. And all about him, spears fall like rain—

He awoke with a start; the blade was already at his throat. Instinctively his fist jerked shut but found no knife-haft there, only empty air.

‘Get up,’ a voice snarled. In response, Erlan slammed his boot into something solid. A man groaned but the blade pressed deeper, fingers snatched his hair and yanked his head back. ‘Hold him, fool. Hold him!’ That was Ramedios. There was a rattle of words, too fast to understand. He discerned four, maybe five shadows.

‘Chrysos,’ he gasped – their word for gold – praying they only meant to rob him.