At the mention of the name, one of the thralls dropped a tray of empty cups with a terrible clatter. Luckily, they were turned wood and so did not break, but the elderly woman who had served me my stew earlier with trembling hands, dropped to her knees and began to hurriedly stack the cups again.

Olvir glowered at her.

“That name is not uttered in this hall, warmaster,” he said.

“It is a name that with luck will be scrubbed from the memories of the land, soon enough.”

“I pray to Óðinn you are right,” replied Olvir, his face hard and pale in the firelight. “He passed this way some months back. Burnt poor Vigfus’ place. They would have burnt more, but I took my men out to meet him.”

Earlier, Gersine had pointed out a blackened husk of a building close to the river mouth. Its charred beams were jutted and jumbled like a shattered rib cage. There was no telling what the building had been before it had been consumed by flames. Fires were not rare, of course. Men dropped rush lights, or a spark blows from a bonfire, or even badly stored hay can burst into flame with no warning. But, while the burnt building might have been from an accident, both Gersine and I had suspected this was the work of Ljósberari. It seemed we were right.

“You fought them?” I asked. “How many fighting men does he have?”

Both Eldgrim and Olvir looked at me sharply.

“Yes, we fought that whoreson and his band of thrall dogs,” Olvir said. “They were many, but who can say their true number? It was dark, but my men are brave and strong.” He waved a hand at the eight warriors who sat at the benches closest to their jarl. “We made the shieldwall,” Olvir went on, “and killed a couple of the bastards before they fled into the night.” He sat up straight, boastful and proud of his exploits and of his hearth-warriors. “One moment they were there, with their howling, like Valkyrjur screaming for the souls of the slain, then they had vanished. The idiot thralls follow Ljósberari.” He spat into the rushes on the floor, as if saying the name had filled his mouth with bile. “Even now, after what he did to Vigfus and his family, still some have slipped away in the dark these past weeks. To join him, no doubt. He fills their heads with madness. It is not right that a man should fear a knife to his throat from a slave. They should all be killed, if you ask me. That would be a lesson others would heed.”

The thrall woman finished collecting the cups and bustled away. I wondered if she thought of dragging a knife across Olvir’s throat.

“We will kill Ljósberari,” said Runolf, his voice rumbling like thunder in the dingy hall. “What happens to his followers is not our concern.”