“Ljósberari and his horde of rebellious thralls have burnt farms and villages all along the edge of the Boknafjorden,” he said, his voice harder than I would have believed possible for one with such soft flesh. “He has led them inland and up the Lågen, killing as they go. Nowhere is safe.” He held up his finger, as if to demand silence, though Mancas had already closed his mouth, deciding wisely not to interrupt the king. “And, you may ask yourself why I, King Hjorleif Hjorsson, the mighty and great ruler of Rygjafylki, do not send warriors to slay this Ljósberari and his pack of crazed dogs. Well, you may ask, and I will answer you that I have done so! I sent my own brother to lead a warband to slay the whoreson.” He reached a shaking hand to a fine glass goblet. The flesh of his bare arms quivered as he raised the glass to his lips and drained its contents. So dainty was the glass and so brawny his hand, I was surprised the goblet did not shatter. “By Óðinn,” he went on, “my own brother. Hjalti was a good man, and a strong leader of men. But this bastard Ljósberari is more cunning than a fox. Eldgrim found Hjalti’s corpse, charred and burnt like so much roasted meat.” He licked his lips at the words, and bile filled my mouth at the thought that his brother’s cooked flesh might make Hjorleif hungry. “The only thing not burnt was his head, so that I might recognise it. The man is a monster.” He slammed his fist into the board, overturning the silver goblet we had brought. “He had put out my brother’s eyes,” he said, his voice wheezing now as he was almost overcome with emotion. “Ripped them from his head.”

“Why not send Eldgrim, or others after him?” I asked, not waiting for Mancas to reply. “You no doubt have many more jarls with strong warbands on your land.”

Hjorleif stuttered to a halt, blinking at my audacity.