We rowed on into the afternoon, and we found that what Ingvar had said was true. The waters of the Lågen were calm and the current not so strong as to make rowing difficult. The sun was hot on the back of my neck as I took my turn at the oars. The river meandered generally towards the north-east. The southerly banks were thickly forested and steeper than the north, but in the bright sunshine of the afternoon we could clearly make out the peaks of mountains ahead of us.

The trees were noisy with the chatter of sparrows and finches, and from time to time the hammering of a woodpecker rang out. At one point we saw a herd of red deer down by the river’s edge, lapping at the water. The stag stared at us proudly as we slid by, his antlers broad and soaring above his thoughtful-looking face. But we saw no other boats and no people.

“There should be log boats and skiffs on the river every day,” said Ingvar. “There are barely any since Ljósberari has settled north of Suldalsvatnet. Those boats that have made their way down to Sand have told tales to turn your hair white. Their skippers are either desperate or brave.”

I wondered which Ingvar was, and how exactly Olvir had compelled him to lead us towards Ljósberari.

“And yet Ljósberari has let some boats through?” I asked.

Ingvar pulled gently on Gullbringa’s tiller, his left hand resting on Ulf’s sleeping form where the dog was curled on his lap.

“They say he is mad,” he said, “but I don’t think a madman would be so canny, do you?”

“Canny?”

“He charges a tithe of the value of the goods that pass his lands. He must be amassing as much treasure as the dragon Fáfnir, though what a priest needs with silver, I do not know.”

When the shadows lay long on the ground, Ingvar pointed mutely to the northern shore. I was at an oar and the sun shone in my eyes, making me sweat and squint as I rowed, looking towards our wake. So it was with initial relief at turning away from the bright, hot sky, that I looked in the direction Ingvar was signalling.

My relief was short-lived. We slid past the burnt buildings of a small settlement. We watched in sombre silence, the only sound the creaking of the oars in the thole pins. A wooden jetty projected into the river, but there was no sign of any boats moored to its timbers. And no evidence of life, apart from a huge raven that stared at us with beady black eyes from its perch atop a twisted tree trunk.