Once we all had our hands tied tightly behind our backs, Chlotar ordered a couple of his men to make a fire. With practised speed, they struck sparks to tinder, and quickly had a small blaze burning. The flickering light danced over Ingvar and Ulf, giving the impression that they both yet breathed and moved. Panic began to rise within me. Did they plan to burn us here, beside the river? I swallowed back my anxiety with difficulty, almost choking on the wool that filled my mouth. To prevent myself thinking too much on our fate, I scanned the faces of our captors, searching for any sign of weakness. I saw none. Chlotar was lithe and strong, his face scarred and hard. He licked his lips as the flames leapt up. His small eyes seemed not to reflect the growing blaze, but rather to swallow the light from the fire, making his gaze black and cold.

The rest of the dark-clad people around us were a motley throng, no doubt made up of escaped thralls and perhaps some of the children Ljósberari was said to have taken from the places he had destroyed. Several were boys, too young even to have straggly fluff growing on their lips or chins, but I was soon reminded that no matter their youth, they were deadly.

One sauntered over to Ingvar’s corpse.

“Look,” he said, laughing. “I told you my arrow was the one to slay the old fool.”

He dropped down beside the body and proceeded to cut the arrows out of the cooling flesh.

Another young archer joined him and they began arguing heatedly over who had landed the better shot.

I turned away, sickened.

There were a couple of women amongst them, and I noticed the youngest looking at me with open interest. Her face was stern, her lips set in a scowl, but her eyes were wide and expressive, and even though her fair hair was covered with a hood, and her body was hidden beneath a drab cloak, her beauty could not be completely hidden. I met her gaze and she looked away. She was little more than a girl I realised, and I wondered at the things she had seen in her short life.

“Well might you look,” sneered Chlotar.

I thought he was addressing me, but when I turned, I saw he was staring at Runolf. The massive axeman was scowling at the girl.

“She is no longer yours, Runolf Ragnarsson,” said Chlotar, reaching for her and pulling her close. “Oh yes,” the Frank went on with a dark chuckle, “do not think I did not recognise your name. But do not imagine for an instant that you will be spared. You have lived too long in the darkness and the master will watch your soul purified soon enough.”

With a glance at Runolf’s face I understood.

“Revna,” he muttered. “Daughter.”