The room stood foetid, the stench of stale sweat permeating every fold of material, every splinter of wooden floor. Even the walls dripped with it and Andreas sat on the single, rickety bed, face in hands, searching for some sign, an inner voice, a message to guide him through, along the twisting path of treachery before him.
Nothing.
He allowed his hands to drop and slowly drew his sword, laid it across his knees, and stared at the sharpened blade.
On the ship, Hardrada stood like a solid pinnacle of granite; the men had shied away, terrified at his presence. None of them so much as took a step when the Viking levelled his axe at Andreas and bellowed, “I want my men back on this ship by nightfall, or your head will be floating in the dock.”
Andreas would have liked to kill him then. T
