That was surely the answer. That Snorri was so feared that even Sköll’s failures could not hurt men’s faith in his ultimate success. Sköll possessed a sorcerer who could spy the future through blind eyes and use those empty sockets to kill men at a distance. I feared him! Men talked of Grayfang, Sköll’s sword, but his real weapon was Snorri, and it was the sorcerer’s reputation that persuaded ever more men to fly Sköll’s flag of the snarling wolf from their hall roofs, that brought ships of men from Ireland and from the western isles of Scotland to give Sköll their oaths. His power grew, and each report made me regret that we had not ridden sooner. Folk said Sköll led five hundred warriors, a week later it was seven hundred, and neither Sigtryggr nor I knew the truth, any more than we knew where to find Sköll. “Heahburh,” I said in frustration, “maybe there’s no such place as Heahburh!”

Yet Sigtryggr’s scouts had heard the same name. It seemed Heahburh existed, but where? I began to fear the rumors that Sköll’s formidable sorcerer did indeed possess the mysterious power to conceal his fortress, and then, when I was close to despairing that we would ever solve the mystery, it was unraveled in the most unexpected way. It happened on a day when a letter was brought to Bebbanburg. The letter was from Æthelstan in Ceaster and was sent to Sigtryggr who, in turn, sent it on to me, carried by the priest who had brought the letter from Mercia.

That priest was Father Swithred, Æthelstan’s confessor, who was escorted by six Mercian warriors and accompanied by a younger priest who seemed terrified of Swithred’s disapproving eyes and sour tongue. “We have been dispatched,” Swithred told me haughtily, “to make certain King Sigtryggr is keeping to the terms agreed at Tamweorthin. We were also charged with delivering this letter to the king.” He handed me the letter, but gave me no chance to read it. “Under the treaty,” he went on, “King Sigtryggr promised to protect the Christians in his realm.”

“He did,” I confirmed.

“Yet King Sköll has slaughtered every missionary in Cumbraland,” he said indignantly.

“King Sköll?” I asked, stressing the “king.”

“So he now styles himself.”

“So he now styles himself, lord,” I said pointedly, waited until he had said the word, then unfolded the letter. Æthelstan had written that he had received disturbing news from the land south of the Ribbel, “which land,” he had written, “is ours to govern on behalf of our father, King Edward, and into which territory have come Christian folk fleeing the vile persecution of the heathen who calls himself King Sköll. This same Sköll has sent troops into our land below the Ribbel and done great harm to our folk, to their livestock and to their homes. Worse, to the great sadness of all Christians, the brethren we have sent to be a light to the gentiles have been foully put to martyrdom.” The letter went on to point out that it was Northumbria’s responsibility to stop Sköll, “and if you should be wayward in that duty our good King Edward will send forces into your land to punish the malefactor.”