He felt a strange mixture of humiliation and indifference, being sized up like a bull at a fair. As if he were a mere observer, looking out from the top of the auction block over the sea of faces, with no say in the matter, nothing to do but stand there.

Most faces were uninterested. But some eyes darted and glanced sidelong, shifting from him to the crowd. He noticed a new bidder, a dark-skinned fellow, thin on hair with a shocking red beard, wrapped in a sky-blue robe like a woman. The best Erlan could tell, this man was the fourth bidder. Four different fates beckoned, and as the price rose he wondered which the Norns had chosen.

Earlier, he had watched with impotent rage as Aska was paraded back and forth until eventually a man in a wide-brimmed fur hat had won the bid. The last he’d seen of his one-eyed companion was the fur hat bobbing through the crowd. The gods only knew what fate awaited Aska. Perhaps he was destined for the man’s cooking pot.

Later, he saw Ildur sold. Now it was his turn.

The sun beat down with its merciless heat. He felt he would melt away entirely if he had to stand there much longer. There was a stick wedged between his back and his elbows, meant to control him and make him stand up straight. He rolled his shoulders, trying to find some relief from its sharp bite, but all that did was earn him a jab in his ribs from the overseer’s staff. He jerked away, his foot turned, grating the misshapen spur of bone in his ankle. The old wound. His old weakness. His knee crumpled in pain.

Silanos wasn’t surprised. He had already noticed the way the Northman favoured his right leg and the slightly twisted angle of his left foot. The barbarian hadn’t shifted it once, not until this moment, and as soon as he did his left leg gave way like the stem of a wine glass. In truth, it was rather pathetic to see how easily he was felled.

‘That man is a cripple,’ he yelled. It hardly needed saying but there had been an uncomfortable amount of interest in this one and the price was getting too high. Here was his chance to shake off the competition. ‘What do you take us for!’ He pushed forward, swelling with sham indignation. ‘Are we a herd of peasants to be gulled out of our gold?’

The slaver had been content, thus far, to watch proceedings from the back of the auctioneer’s platform, slouched under an awning. ‘I assure you, friend,’ he called back, ‘whatever the man’s defects, you’ll never find a warrior more deadly with a sword.’