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mess of huts and muddy pens, the people shifty-eyed and half starved. Behind the settlement the mountains with their ice white cliffs plunged straight down into the fjord; the pastures were icebound most of the year, the animals lean and hollow-eyed. The chieftain was a small greasy man who called Helgi “sir” and Thorkil and herself “lord” and “lady,” his greedy eyes always on their cloaks and amulets. Helgi stayed with them all the time, and the oarsmen kept together, starting no fights and wearing their weapons conspicuously. The Jarl’s hold on the land was weakening as they traveled north; they were coming to wild country full of outlaws and hunted men.
    As the ship was being repaired, Jessa rummaged through her bag.
    â€œWhat are you looking for?” She hadn’t heard Thorkil climb aboard behind her. He looked tired, and the fine stitchery of his coat was already soiled and stained.
    She closed the bag up. “The arm ring. Gudrun’s. It’s not here.”
    â€œDo you mean it’s been stolen?”
    â€œNo.” Jessa shrugged and half laughed. “I think I threw it over the side after all. Last night. I suppose I must have been half asleep.”
    He glared at her angrily. “Jessa, that was silver! We could have found a use for it!”
    She shrugged. “I’m glad to get rid of it. I hardly thought I’d ever see you wearing her favors, either. Are you going to sell yours, then?”
    His fingers ran over the smooth silver head.
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œYou’re keeping it?”
    â€œFor now. It does no harm, does it?”
    â€œI suppose not,” she said uneasily. But she didn’t tell him about the peddler, as she had meant to.
    They were glad to leave Ost, but as they entered the fjord and turned inland, the menace of Thrasirshall was creeping nearer. And still the peddler had not appeared. Jessa tried not to think about him. What if he had been in Gudrun’s pay and had tricked her? She was furious with herself.
    All morning they rowed on the still water, watching the jagged cliffs rise up on each side, scraped sheer by the retreating glacier.
    Thorkil sat silent, fingering his arm ring. The men too were morose and watchful; they only spoke in mutters. Helgi stood in the prow, his hand rubbing the great dragon’s neck, rarely turning his head. Silent and ominous, the narrow craft slid into the harbor of Trond at noon.
    The place seemed deserted. A few boats were dragged up on the shingle. Wisps of smoke drifted from the small turf houses, their roofs green with grass. Helgi climbed out and waited. Finally he called out. No one answered. Jessa could hear the faint lap of the tidal water against the boat; skuas and gulls screamed in the crags.
    Then a dog barked, and a tall man stepped up onto a rock above them, a long fishing spear glinting in his hand.
    â€œWhat’s your business?” he asked, after a long stare.
    â€œMessengers,” Helgi said curtly. “From the Jarl Ragnar.”
    â€œTo us?”
    Helgi hesitated. Then he said, “To Thrasirshall.”
    It must have been a great shock, but the man barely showed it. “Can you prove that?”
    Helgi took the Jarl’s token from his pocket—a ring, in silver, marked with one rune—and flung it up. The man caught it and looked at it carefully. Then his eyes moved over the ship. Jessa heard the whisper of a sword slowly unsheathing behind her.
    â€œKeep that still!” Helgi hissed without turning.
    Quickly the man scrambled down the rocks, soil and pebbles slithering away under his feet. He was a tall, gray man, with a weathered face. “I’m not alone. There are many of us, as you’ll guess, so I advise you, friend with the sword, to hold your hand. Your token, master.”
    The silver ring was dropped into Helgi’s hand. Steinar slammed his sword back in its sheath.
    â€œNow,” the man said,