“Three hundred years ago there was a king in Denmark called Frodi. He had, they say, a magic mill, which did not grind corn, but instead ground out peace and wealth and fertility. We believe it was the mill of new knowledge. To grind the mill he had two slaves, two giant-maidens called Fenja and Menja. But so anxious was Frodi to have continuing peace and wealth for his people that no matter how much the giantesses begged for rest, he denied it to them.”

Thorvin’s deep voice broke into sonorous chant:

“‘You shall not sleep,’ said Frodi the king,

‘Longer than the time it takes a cuckoo

To answer another, or an errand-lad

To sing a song as he steps on his way.’

“So the slaves grew angry and remembered their giant-blood, and instead of grinding peace and wealth and fertility, they began to grind out flame and blood and warriors. And his enemies came on Frodi in the night and destroyed him and his kingdom, and the magic mill was lost forever.

“That is what Vigleik has seen. He means one can go too far, even in hunting new knowledge, if the world is not ready for it. One must strike while the iron is hot. But one can also blow the bellows too long and too furiously.”

A long pause. Reluctantly, Brand got ready to reply. “I had better tell you,” he said, “what the jarl, what Skjef Sigvarthsson told me this morning of his intentions. Then you must decide how this fits Vigleik’s visions.”

A few days later, Brand stood staring at the great stone now sunk into the meadow, near the spot where the muddy causeway from Ely debouched into the fields outside March.

On it was carved a curling ribbon of runes, their edges still sharp from the chisel. Shef touched them lightly with his fingertips.

“What they say is this. I composed it myself, in verse in your language as Geirulf taught me. The runes read:

“‘Well he left life, though ill he lived it.

All scores are settled by death. ’

At the top is his name: ‘Sigvarth Jarl.’”

Brand grunted doubtfully. He had not liked Sigvarth. And yet the man had taken the death of his one son well. And there was no doubt he had saved his other son, and the Army of the Way, by enduring his last night of torture.

“Well,” he said at last. “He has his bautasteinn, right enough. It is an old saying: ‘Few stones would stand by the way, if sons did not set them up.’ But this is not where he was killed?”

“No,” said Shef. “They killed him back in the mire. It seems my other father, Wulfgar, could not wait even till he reached firm ground.” His mouth twisted, and he spat on the grass. “But if we had set it up there it would have been out of sight in the marsh in six weeks.