“Neither would I,” said Ingvar, the man who was to be our guide. Ingvar was a short man, slim of build, with the leathered and lined face of someone who spends their life at sea, or on the river. “And I would rather not use it to carry a dozen fools to their deaths, but the good Jarl Olvir has given me this chance to clear old debts.” He scowled, clearly unhappy to have been forced into this position. “I have no say in the matter,” he continued, “any more than you do. Or did you in fact choose to end your life at the hands of Ljósberari?”

“It will be my hands doing the killing,” snarled Runolf. As soon as he had laid eyes on Ingvar’s boat, he had appeared to have taken a dislike of the man, as if the boat reflected poorly on its owner.

The vessel was some eight paces in length, broad in the beam and, though clearly much smaller, to my untrained eye, it had similar lines to Grágás and Brymsteda. There were tholes for six pairs of oars, and I could see that with the twelve of us aboard, along with the boat’s skipper, it would be cramped. I was glad we were to travel on a river and not out to sea, for there would be no room to sleep aboard.

“How old is it?” asked Runolf with a sneer. Bending down, he scratched at the birch bark that covered the hull. Sheets of the bark were sewn with roots or sinews of some kind, covering the timber planks. In places the bark was flaking and there were streaks of dark tar sealing along the seams, or where it had torn.

As quick as a darting fish, Ingvar slapped Runolf’s hand away.

“Old enough not to have to put up with your insults,” he said.

Runolf’s face darkened and I thought for a moment there would be violence. In spite of Runolf’s huge bulk looming over him, Ingvar did not flinch. At his side, and equally uncowed, Ingvar’s small dog, a scruffy brown and white thing that was no larger than a cat, barked at the threatening giant.

“Hush, Ulf,” Ingvar said after the men’s staring had lasted long enough to become awkward. To my surprise, the dog stopped its noise. “It may not look like much, but Gullbringa will carry us wherever we need to go.”

“Gullbringa?” Runolf said. The name meant “Gold bringer” and the idea appeared to amuse Runolf, who suddenly laughed. “Skítrbringa, more like.”

Ingvar sighed and turned away from Runolf.

“Your friend is rude,” he said to me. I shrugged. I could not deny it. “Apart from the rude lump,” Ingvar went on, “you are all foreigners?”

I nodded. He sighed.