Raised voices distracted me and I dragged my gaze back to the wharf. The crew of the ship were milling about there. Some had begun to unload Grágás, while local men shouted at them. It seemed they had not been aware of our visit, and Eldgrim needed to bellow that he was the king’s warmaster and we had been sent by King Hjorleif Hjorsson himself, before the people of Sand would calm down.

They may not have known we were coming, but word of our arrival travelled fast, and it was not long before we were escorted to the largest building in Sand. This was the hall of Olvir, the Jarl of Sand, and he pretended well enough to be pleased to welcome us to his home.

Jarl Olvir was a slender man of perhaps forty years. He had long, plaited fair hair and a thick beard. His eyes were pinched with the hardships of long, harsh winters, and his hall was lacking in any ostentation. There were no trophies here. No rich tapestries or war gear from fallen enemies. Here there was plain, soot-stained timber and dirty rushes on the floor that looked as though they should have been changed weeks before. Olvir’s skinny wife and children were silent, watching us with round, dark-rimmed eyes.

“How long will you stay?” he asked, soon after we had been seated. That this was his first question said much about the man’s priorities. He had ordered food to be served, and each of us was given a small bowl of fish stew, and a mouthful of gritty, dark bread. The stew was more water than fish, but it was warm, and I had sympathy for the servants and thralls who needed to feed so many men with no warning.

“Not long,” replied Eldgrim, stirring his stew with a wooden spoon and looking into it, as if searching for something solid. “And we do not come as beggars. We bring provisions to share with you. And these men are here to render a great service to you and the whole of the realm.”

“Indeed?” Olvir raised an eyebrow. The mention of provisions had gone some way to alleviating his suspicion of us newcomers, but he was clearly still wary.

As we had trudged up from the wharf, I had been aware of the looks from the villagers. Several of us were obviously strangers in these lands and Olvir’s folk had whispered and openly pointed at Drosten’s tattoos. Children had laughed and shouted at us, pulling at our cloaks and asking for trinkets, but the men of Sand had scowled, watching us pass as if we were foe-men.

“And what service will these men provide me?” Olvir asked, sipping from a large horn that was decorated with silver. The sumptuous drinking vessel was out of place in the drab surroundings of the hall.

“The king has sent them to seek out Ljósberari,” Eldgrim replied.