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Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
  3. BY MATTHEW HARFFY
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright
  6. Dedication
  7. Maps
  8. Epigraph
  9. Contents
  10. Place Names
  11. One
  12. Two
  13. Three
  14. Four
  15. Five
  16. Six
  17. Seven
  18. Eight
  19. Nine
  20. Ten
  21. Eleven
  22. Twelve
  23. Thirteen
  24. Fourteen
  25. Fifteen
  26. Sixteen
  27. Seventeen
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Twenty-One
  32. Twenty-Two
  33. Twenty-Three
  34. Twenty-Four
  35. Twenty-Five
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. Thirty-Two
  43. Thirty-Three
  44. Thirty-Four
  45. Thirty-Five
  46. Thirty-Six
  47. Thirty-Seven
  48. Thirty-Eight
  49. Thirty-Nine
  50. Forty
  51. Forty-One
  52. Forty-Two
  53. Forty-Three
  54. Forty-Four
  55. Forty-Five
  56. Forty-Six
  57. Forty-Seven
  58. Forty-Eight
  59. Forty-Nine
  60. Fifty
  61. Fifty-One
  62. Fifty-Two
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Sixty-Two
  73. Author’s Note
  74. Acknowledgements
  75. About the Author
  76. An Invitation from the Publisher

“Ljósberari is a devil,” Hjorleif bellowed. “A madman! He must be killed!” Spittle and crumbs sprayed from the king’s quivering lips. His jowls shook with his passion, and the slender thrall girl perched on his ample lap looked in danger of slipping off his knee. As if reminded of the girl’s existence, he clutched her to his wobbling chest, his pudgy hand grasping her small breast. For the briefest instant she looked terrified, but she made no sound to give away her feelings, and when the king looked at her face, she quickly offered him a smile. I could see there was no warmth in her expression, merely masked fear, but the king did not seem to notice, or care. Hjorleif held on tightly to the girl, perhaps fearing that she would escape while he was distracted with his anger. But his fumblings at her young flesh were half-hearted now, overshadowed by the rage that saw his cheeks shake, his eyes bulge and food spray from his fleshy lips.

Lord Mancas, his face a mask of courtesy and respect for the king of Rygjafylki, nodded and sipped at the blood-red wine that was a testament to the far-reaching trade links already in place with this northern kingdom.

“Ljósberari!” spluttered Hjorleif. “How that name haunts me! He comes with the moon and slaughters my people, like a night beast from the skalds’ sagas.” His eyes narrowed, almost vanishing within folds of fat. “Now I see a way that you can aid me,” he shouted, gripped by a new fervour.

“Speak, lord king,” said Mancas, eager to turn the talk in a more productive direction. “I am your servant.”

I interpreted his words and Hjorleif laughed.

“Good!” he shrieked, planting a slobbery kiss on the lips of the trapped slave. She recoiled, but he seemed not to notice. “Now I see that Óðinn in his wisdom has guided you to my hall. You will kill this Ljósberari for me. Yes, that is what you will do.”

Lord Mancas grew pale.

“My lord king, we are of course your servants, but we come in the spirit of alliance and trade. Not to fight your enemies.”

As I repeated his words in the tongue of the Norse, Hjorleif’s face darkened.

“If we are to be allies, then my enemies are your enemies.”

“My lord king—”

Hjorleif did not allow Mancas to speak.