Chapter 1

'Undead,' he agreed. 'And with his witchcraft he guards the mound so that no one may go near it. Many men who have gone to break into the mound - some who stayed the night at my own farm - died before they could get there, or else some other misfortune has happened to them.'

'Hasn't anyone seen this troll?' Thorir asked excitedly, half believing the old man's story, half thinking that Ulf was secretly laughing at him.

Ulf shook his head. 'No one knows whether Agnar is alive or dead.'

Thorir grinned. He could feel the excitement welling up inside him like billowing surf. Here was something worth doing, he told himself; a challenge, an adventure, an achievement that would grant him the undying fame he fiercely desired.

It would be better than fishing, anyway. He said as much to his uncle's friend.

'What you've said is good,' Thorir told Ulf, clapping the man on the shoulder as he led him into the red light of the hall. He raised his voice as they entered so that he was audible to his comrades and to Ulf's huscarls. 'To go and get treasure from the troll's mound is far manlier than fishing. This is what I'm going to do.' He turned to face his men. 'Who among you is man enough to come with me?'

Ulf looked pained.

'I think you've been listening to the skalds too much,' he said with gloomy pragmatism. 'You're not Hromund Gripsson, boy. Even your Uncle Sigmund wouldn't have ventured such foolishness in his youth.'

'Are you saying my uncle is a coward?' Thorir demanded hotly.

'No,' Ulf replied. 'Just that you're a young idiot. What if the troll is still alive? What if he attacks you?'

'Then I'll fight him,' Thorir declared proudly.

'You can't fight witchcraft,' one of his comrades called out. It was Olaf, who always got cautious whenever Thorir thought things were looking interesting. 'Don't try it, Thorir,' he persisted. 'You'll only end up dead.'

'He's right,' the others agreed. 'Even the mightiest of warriors have been worsted by witchcraft.'

'You're all too cowardly to join me?' Thorir laughed recklessly. 'What a sorry crew I have with me! No one of you?'

Ketilbjorn strode forward.

'I'll join you,' he barked. 'I'm not afraid. 'It's about time we saw a bit of action.'

'You will?' Thorir said happily, glancing warmly at his fellow. Ketilbjorn had joined his thirty-strong crew when he was at Sigmundstead, replacing a rower lost at sea, and the two warriors had soon become firm friends: their hotheadedness fed each others and their lust for adventure had remained, despite the drabness of their surroundings. But better than this, Ketilbjorn had been born in this area, and knew the country as well as Ulf, who owned it as his udal land.

'Good!' Thorir added. 'We'll set out at first light.'

'Forget that,' said Ketilbjorn scornfully. 'Grab your sword and we'll go now.'

Thorir glared at him for a few seconds, put out by this rebellion. But then he grinned, grabbed his comrade's hand and shook it.

'We'll go now,' he agreed, laughing. 'Come on.'

Ulf watched the two younger men, and shook his head.

'No good will come of this, mark my words,' he said loudly. 'I won't be held responsible.'

Thorir turned on him.

'We'll be up that hill and into the burial mound before you've wet your lips from that mead-horn over there. And while you fawn over your wife, I'll be wrestling the troll to the ground and robbing him of all his treasure.' He laughed again.

'Oh, and can we borrow a couple of spades?'