‘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.