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told. They had tried several times to penetrate the ice to find some lost and significant object from their chieftain’s land, and failed. Now they sat, sullen and thoughtful, away from the warlord. They were trim-bearded and crop-haired, though each had a single, long plait hanging from the left temple. They wore new deerskin trousers and thick fleece jackets. The older man had a splendid gold half-moon breastplate, a lunula, slung around his neck. They were both better dressed than the warriors, who sat huddled in brightly patterned cloaks, woollen trousers and long, beaten leather boots that were now quite rank in odour.
    The chieftain’s name was Urtha. He was a bright and irascible man, still youthful though combat-scarred, given to both great laughter and flights of fury. Like many men I had met in my long journey, his language often sounded insulting and was peppered with obscenities. I sensed that no offence was ever intended; it was simply the way of talking.
    He introduced his companions. Two were conscripts from a neighbouring tribe from among the Coritani, with whom Urtha’s clan of the Cornovidi were currently at peace. They were called Borovos, a hot-tempered, flame-haired youngster—who alone was responsible for the aggressive reputation of this group, I discovered—and his cousin Cucallos, who huddled inside a hooded black cloak and dreamed of other days and wild-riding raids. The other two were members of Urtha’s elite band of horse-warriors, which he called his uthiin. Most chieftains encouraged such bands to ride with them, and they took a name that reflected their leader. They were bound to the warlord by codes of honour and taboo, and had a status far higher than ordinary horsemen. These two, hard-faced, war-scarred, hard-drinking but pleasant, were called Manandoun and Cathabach.
    The rest of his uthiin were guarding his fortress and his family, back on the island, under the temporary leadership of his greatest friend, and foster brother, Cunomaglos.
    ‘Dog Lord!’ Urtha laughed. ‘A fine name for that battlefield hound. The place, my fine fort, will be safe in his hands.’
    ‘What are you searching for?’ I asked him.
    He scowled at me. ‘If I tell you that you’ll search for it too.’
    ‘I have enough on my mind,’ I replied. ‘My only interest is in a ship that lies at the bottom of the lake.’
    ‘The ship that screams like a man dying?’
    ‘Yes. Are you after the same ship?’
    ‘No. Not at all. No ships involved.’
    ‘Then why not give me a hint of what it is? We may be able to help each other.’
    ‘No,’ Urtha said emphatically. ‘But I will tell you that it’s an old treasure. One of five lost treasures. The others are scattered in the south somewhere. This one is important to me, though. Very important. Because of a dream I had about my sons, and the fate of my land. I need to know a little more. That’s why I’m here. I can’t tell you any more than that, except that these one-braids,’ he gestured at the huddled druids, ‘used an oracle—dead blackbirds, if I remember…’ his warriors, who had been listening, sniggered to a man, ‘… and the oracle said to sail north. To this piss-hole place! We’ve been trying to get here for nearly a season. At least, I think that’s true. How can I tell? Nobody told me that there was only night in the north.’ He lowered his voice irritably. ‘I’m going to make sure I get some new oracles when I get home. But don’t let them know.
    ‘And I’m missing my wife. Aylamunda. And I’m missing my daughter, little Munda—little terror!—she’s nearly four, now. And I like her very much. Even at four, she teases me … and I fall for it! She already knows more about hunting than I do. She’s got the goddess in her creases, if you know what I mean. She’ll be strong, one of these days. I pity the poor bugger who’ll have to marry her. But she’s great fun. She can run with my three favourite hounds, Maglerd,