THEY SAILED SLOWLY UP TO THE VERY HEAD of the firth. Standing in the prow, letting the late morning breeze ruffle his long hair, Erik gazed towards the huddle of buildings surrounding the stream that fed the firth. There were two fishing boats tied up by a short wharf in front of the village. To starboard, a cliff rose swiftly upwards, topped by one of the crumbling stone towers often to be seen in the Isles; a broch, the natives called them.

The village they were approaching lay strangely silent in the morning haze. This close to noon, most towns and villages would be busy  - if not a hive of activity, at least betraying some signs of inhabitation. But not a plume of smoke troubled the grey skies above the thatched roofs.

‘Do you think the place might be uninhabited?’ asked Halldor, stepping up beside him.

Erik looked troubled.

‘This was where those noises were coming from, last night,’ he murmured. ‘Could it be a dead village?’

‘And is it haunted?’ asked Gudrun, appearing from behind them.

‘Look!’ said Halldor, and the other two followed his pointing finger. A man had appeared by the strand, near where the stream poured into the sound. He was waving at the ship.

‘Ahoy there!’ His voice travelled thinly towards them.

‘Ahoy there!’ Erik shouted back. ‘May we come ashore?’

‘And welcome!’ called the man. ‘Tie up at the wharf.’

‘Friendlier than your average ghost,’ remarked Gudrun with a straight face. They directed the crewmen towards the wharf.

The man came running up to seize their rope and help them tie up. He was a tall, burly man with a red beard, suggesting some Norse blood. And he spoke the Norse tongue without trace of an accent. Erik greeted him as he stepped ashore.

‘I am Erik Sigurdsson, of Wirral, in England,’ he said. ‘And these are my two companions Gudrun Ragnarsdaughter, and Halldor Kalfsson. The rest of the men are our crew.’

The man nodded his greeting.

‘I am Bjorn Sveinnsson, named Axehand,’ he replied. ‘And I am chieftain of the folk of Skadhey, the island you see before you.’

Halldor looked about him, noticing the battered buildings and sate of disrepair in the village.

‘But where are your people?’ he asked. ‘You seem to be a chieftain without a clan.’

Bjorn sighed wearily.

‘I am a Norseman, like yourself, and came to be their chieftain after I retired from the Viking way. I fear little. But my people are superstitious Hebrideans, and after the events of last night, they are afraid to leave their houses for anyone...’

‘What happened last night?’ asked Halldor, curiously, but Erik interrupted him with what he felt to be more important than ghost stories and gossip.

‘We are on a trading voyage, heading for Denmark by the northern route. But we've lost our way among the Isles. Could you possibly help us find a way through the isles and continue our journey?’

Bjorn looked thoughtful. He nodded.

‘I shall. But…’ He glanced at the crewmen, who were now tending to their weapons and tools. ‘But on one condition.’

‘Which is?’ asked Erik.

Bjorn sighed again.

‘I would not make such demands of you if the situation was a normal one,’ he said slowly. ‘But understand that I am desperate.’ He glanced around again. ‘Come to my hall, and bring your men with you,’ he added. ‘I will explain it all there.’

Leaving a few men to look after the ship, Erik and the others led the crew up the debris-scattered street of the run-down little village and followed Bjorn into his hall, which stood near the centre of the place. Within, they saw three or four Hebrideans, small, dark-haired, silent fellows, who stared up at the Norsemen with something like awe.

Bjorn sat himself down on the high-seat, and told his vassals to bring in benches for the Norsemen. Once they were seated, Erik faced his host, and asked the question they all wanted answering.

‘What has happened to your village?’

On the way up to the hall, they had seen many broken walls, shattered roofs and other signs of destruction. Not as if the place had been attacked by raiders, who would be more likely to burn it to the ground; more as if a giant had stumbled through the place, kicking at everything in its path. Erik had found himself associating the destruction with the noises of the night before, but quite what had happened, he was anxious to discover.

Bjorn’s face grew longer.

‘Our island is haunted,’ he said quietly. ‘Near the centre of the island lies a long-barrow, a burial mound dating back to ancient times. The old people must have built it to house their dead, but recently it has become the haunt of a savage and malevolent drow.’