The king, dressed in white furs and with the gold and silver circlet of his office resting on his head, was almost unrecognisable as the same young man who had been led out to the gallows so recently. Lann himself was dressed plainly in brown woollen trousers and a studded leather jerkin. He was also wearing the fur-lined grey cloak Astrid had insisted he have, held in place on his shoulders by a beautifully carved whalebone pin. The quality of the clothes and shoes was like nothing he had ever owned before.

He felt his aunt nudge him in the small of his back and realised the king had stopped speaking and was expecting an answer. His heart was racing in his chest.

‘My liege. I am just a boy from the Maiden’s Fingers and in no way worthy of this tribute. You do me much honour by bestowing these gifts upon me.’

Erik shook his head. ‘You are no longer the boy from the Maiden’s Fingers, Lannigon Gudbrandr. You are Jarl Gudbrandr now. You are a man, and you will govern these lands wisely. And in doing so, you will expunge the memory of the previous incumbent, the traitor Glaeverssun.’

When the king stood, Lann knew it was his cue to step forward. The Volken ruler embraced his new jarl, the act a signal that the festivities should commence.

25

The longhouse was full of music and celebrations that night. Food of every kind was brought to the tables in quantities that made Lann stare. Ale was poured into horn cups by serving girls and boys, musicians played and sang while guests laughed and shouted and argued. In a rope circle at one end of the longhouse, huge oiled men wrestled each other in competitions of strength and agility. Lann and his aunt sat at the king’s table where they wanted for nothing.

It was shortly after the festivities began that a well-built, older man approached the table and Lann. His long hair was braided on one side of his head and his beard, grey in places, reached almost down to his chest. Astrid made the introductions.

‘May I present Jarl Mardl, former Master-at-Arms at Stromgard.’ Although she spoke pleasantly enough, there was something in her tone that suggested she was not a great fan of Mardl.

‘It is a pleasure to meet you,’ Lann said, taking in the man’s imposing figure and the leather patch over his right eye.

Mardl gestured at the puckered white scar that extended above and below the patch. ‘When I lost my eye I was no longer able to fulfil my role. But I still have a keen interest in fighting skills and run a small school for young Volkenfolk in weapon-lore. I was hoping to talk to you about—’