Lord Mancas wished to continue the formal talks about opening up trade between our two kingdoms, but Hjorleif waved his hand, indicating that we should be seated and eat.

“An alliance between our two mighty and rich kingdoms would profit your majesty greatly,” I said, translating Mancas’ words.

“And you would like to see an end to my people coming a-viking on your shores, no doubt.” Hjorleif chuckled.

Mancas smiled obsequiously.

“Such endeavours are dangerous and costly, lord king. Many men die on both sides. Would it not be better for goods to travel freely across the Whale Road between our lands. The crossing is perilous enough, as I can attest to, without needing to take things by force.”

Hjorleif shrugged, sending an obscene ripple over his voluminous breasts.

“I have many men. They like to seek battle-fame and fortune and wealth. If they die, it costs me nothing.”

“Think of the ships and men lost in the last year alone,” said Mancas, his tone measured and thoughtful. “Those men were your subjects. If they had come in peace, they would have returned here with goods. As your sworn men, they would have no doubt given you a share of their wealth. So their deaths cost you silver.” I sensed a dangerous shift in Hjorleif’s mood then, the way the air feels different before the first roll of thunder in a storm. There was a pressure in the room, building and growing. King Hjorleif continued to fondle the slave girl with one hand, pushing dripping slices of pigeon breast between his slavering lips with the other and smiling at Mancas’ words, but I could feel the storm’s approach.

Lord Mancas’ next words were like the first crackle of lightning, ripping out of a darkening sky.

“Besides, I have seen the destruction on Rennisøy,” he said. “We have been told the tales of the rebel slave and his marauding band. Can you truly spare more men to be lost on the shores of Northumbria when they are being slain here by this Ljósberari?”