I have faced danger many times in my life. I have stood in shieldwalls, vastly outnumbered by raving tribesman on the steppes of the Oguz il. I have fought howling pirates of the Kingdom of Kush under the harsh sun of the sea they called the Great Green. I have been attacked by cut-purses and brigands in the shadowy night streets of Byzantion, Roma and Išbīliya. I have done all these perilous things and more. And when standing before armed foes, only a madman would feel no fear. My bowels would turn to water, and the sound of my heart thumped in my ears. But at such times, it was my sword-skill, courage, God’s will, and some would say, luck, that decided who would survive and who would end their life in the swift clash of blades.

I have been held captive more than once, and the fear I have felt at such times does not compare to what I ever felt when fighting. To be bound and defenceless, at the mercy of one who means you harm, eats away at your nerve like a rat gnawing at apples stored for the winter.

As we were led into the small settlement where Ljósberari was the ruler, the terror I had managed to keep at bay as we plodded through the dawn forest gripped me in a painful embrace. I could barely breathe as the rising sun picked out details of the erstwhile thrall’s dominion.

The path we followed was lined with the twisted, blackened husks of men and women. The earth at either side of the track was dark with the ashes of countless bonfires. At some, the stakes that had supported the victims had collapsed, perhaps burnt through by the ferocity of the conflagration. On those heaps of ashes, the charred corpses were mercifully more difficult to make out. They were blackened humps of burnt bones and flesh, and it was possible to pretend they had not once belonged to people. But many of the stakes yet stood, and on several of them, the remains of Ljósberari’s victims could be seen clearly enough. Contorted and gnarled like old trees, the dead watched our passing, their empty eye sockets staring down.

Ljósberari’s people had talked to each other as we walked northward. The two young men still bickered and boasted about their prowess with a bow, while some of the others talked of inconsequential things, such as what food there might be on their return. Even the most talkative of them fell silent as we walked between the rows of burnt bodies.

A light wind rustled the boughs of the trees, lifting flakes of ash into the air, to drift about us like grey snow. The sun was warm, but I trembled as if caught in the coldest of blizzards.