“There was— That is—” stammered Audun, his face a mask of tortured memories. “I buried them all,” he said in the end. “Where your father and grandsire rest.”

Runolf rose.

“For that, you have my thanks,” he said, and, picking up his great axe, he stalked off into the night. Nobody followed.

With Runolf’s leaving, the mood around the fire lightened somewhat, and the men began to chatter quietly about what they had heard. Leofstan tugged at my sleeve. I could see the glow of discovery in his eyes, that sharp focus that seized him when he opened the pages of a new book, or unearthed a nugget of truth from the Scriptures, or an ancient tome of philosophy. He clearly wanted to speak to me about this Ljósberari, but I waved him away. Such conversations could wait for later. The news that Runolf had a daughter, and that she had been taken by Ljósberari, lit up my thoughts like a beacon. There were questions I would ask of Runolf later, but first, I must speak with the one who had seen the destruction here.

Taking the mead from Gwawrddur, I sat beside Audun and poured some into his cup.

He pulled his gaze from the embers and grunted his thanks. The old man smelt strong, the tang of his goats intermingled with sour sweat, soot, the metallic hint of blood and the sickly scent of honey.

“Do you think Aelfwyn yet lives?” I asked, grasping at the hope Audun might provide. “Like Runolf’s daughter?”

His eyes took a long time to focus on me, dulled by drink and lost in the blackest of memories.

“Aelfwyn?” he asked.

“My kinswoman. A thrall. She would have come here some months back. I believe Estrid bought her from…” I hesitated, searching my memory for the name. At last it came to me. “Kolfinn Refsson.”

“Ah, yes. I remember now,” Audun said, nodding. “A pretty little thing.” I was anxious for him to reply to my question, and yet scared of what he might say. “I know not if she lives, young man. Many died that night.” My heart sank. Perhaps seeing the grief on my features, he placed a hand on my shoulder. “But I can tell you that I do not remember her amongst those I tended to after Ljósberari and his fiends left.”

I felt light-headed with the relief of hope rekindled.

“You are certain?”

He frowned, his brow furrowed and craggy, like a crumbling cliff.

“I told you, boy,” he said, an edge of anger entering his tone, “I know not if she lives. I buried many. And Ljósberari’s nithings left little for me to tend to, after they had done.” He shivered. “I do not recall your kinswoman, but I have done my best to forget what I saw the day after Ljósberari came.”