“Good idea. You’ve more wit than I gave you credit for, man. Right, let’s do it quick. Look around for what’ll burn. I see that reward coming closer and closer. Might even be one of those handsome little islander girls in it, who knows?”

Eyvind relinquished Nessa’s hand and took up his stolen sword, his small dagger. He motioned again that she must keep silent, pointed to the back of the howe, where she would be least visible to anyone looking in from the entry. Go there. Hide. Wait.

Her eyes were frantic, though she kept her silence. “No!” she mouthed. “Eyvi, no!”

“I love you.” His lips made the words without a sound, and then he turned his back on her. “Thorvald!” he shouted. “Gudbrand, is that your voice, old scoundrel? I’m coming out; I’m weary and hungry, and I’ve no desire at all for a lingering death by choking. I’ll hand my weapons out before me, no tricks.” He crawled into the narrow passage as the men’s voices rose in startled reaction. Behind him all was silence. He came out into the light of morning, on his knees, half-blinded by the brightness, proffering sword and dagger hilt first.

“Thor’s hammer, Eyvind,” someone remarked in tones of disgust, “you’re not the man you once were, that’s for certain.”

“Tie his hands quick,” another man advised. “Can’t trust his kind.”

Eyvind put up a slight struggle; it was best that this be done quickly, yet to give in too meekly was to invite suspicion. The dog lay prone near the entry, perhaps dead, perhaps merely stunned. Eyvind did not look back at the howe itself.

“This all you’ve got?” Gudbrand, who seemed to be leading the expedition, stared hard into Eyvind’s face as the others bound his hands tightly behind his back. “No axe, no spear? No supplies?”

Eyvind shook his head. “I came away in haste, as you know,” he said. “My own things are gone.”

“Still,” Gudbrand mused, scratching his chin, “maybe we should have a look inside. Could be a trick. Not like your kind to give up so easily. Thorvald? Why don’t you go in and take a look?”

“Me?”

“Why not?”

“Ever heard what happened to that fellow from Hafnarvagr that went in one of those and scratched his name-rune on the stone? Spent the next three days babbling about ghosts and then jumped off a cliff into the sea. Come on, let’s go back. There’s a good pot of ale in this at least.”

“What about the dog? Didn’t you say the thing was Ulf’s?”

“Anyone volunteering to carry it? I say leave it where it lies. Offering for the spirits, keep them off our backs. Come on, then. Move, you!”