Snorri suddenly moaned as if uttering prophecy hurt him. He had spoken distantly till now, but Sköll’s question roused his voice to an agonizing screech. “He is the king without a crown,” he pointed a wavering finger toward me, “and the Dane and the Saxon will join forces, and Uhtred will be betrayed. He will die by the sword, his fortress will fall, and his descendants will eat the dung of humility.” Snorri crouched, moaning, and I heard him mutter, “No more, lord King, no more. Please, lord King, no more.” The small dog licked his face as Snorri groped for the rope leash.

I felt a shiver in my spine and said nothing. I had heard prophecies before, and some had come true and some had yet to come true and some seemed false, though translating the words of sorcerers always demanded skill. As often as not they spoke in riddles and any question about their meaning was usually answered by more riddles.

“Did Snorri foretell that you’d conquer Jorvik?” Finan surprised me by asking.

“He did,” Sköll surprised me even more by admitting it.

“So he was wrong,” Finan sneered.

“I was wrong,” Sköll said. “I asked the wrong question. I only asked him if I would capture the city, I did not ask how often I would need to try.” He still had his hand on the crouching sorcerer’s shoulder. “Now be brave,” he said to Snorri, “and tell Uhtred of Bebbanburg how he might escape the fate of the Norns.”

Snorri raised his face so I was looking straight into those ravaged eye sockets. “He must sacrifice, lord King. The gods demand his best horse, his best hound, his best warrior. There must be sword, blood, and fire, a sacrifice.”

There was a moment’s silence. The wind whipped the dune grass and lifted Snorri’s long hair. “And?” Sköll asked gently.

“And he must stay inside his ramparts,” Snorri said.

“And if he won’t sacrifice or stay?” Sköll asked, and the only reply was a cackling laugh from Snorri and another whine from the small dog. Sköll stepped back. “I came to tell you all this, Uhtred of Bebbanburg,” he said. “If you fight me, you die. The Norns have decided and the shears are ready to cut your life thread. Leave me alone and you live, fight me and you die.” He turned as if to walk away, but something caught his eye and he turned back to stare past me. I saw a shadow cross his face and I looked back to see that Ieremias, his long white hair blowing in the wind, had come from the Skull Gate and was watching us. He was wearing his bishop’s robes, and in the sunlight he looked as sorcerous as Snorri. “Who is that?” Sköll asked.

Ieremias suddenly began capering, I had no idea why. He danced, turned, and lifted the bishop’s crozier high, and the rising sun flashed a bright reflection from the silver crook. “I see no one,” I said. “Do you see anyone, Finan?”