‘The general,’ he screamed at Davit. ‘Secure the general.’ There was no hope for the ship. The stern of the Belisarius was submerged in the churning sea. Her bows were a nightmare of fire and blood and screams and death.

‘You save him, Northman!’ shouted Davit in reply. Then Erlan saw Einar, crawling to his knees. He looked dazed, his helmet gone, fire was licking up his torso and catching in the long braids of his rust-brown hair. ‘No!’ Erlan cried. ‘Einar!’ The fat man stood blinking in disbelief at the fire swirling up him. He gave a ragged laugh, swung his axe into the neck of an Arab coming for him, then staggered backwards and toppled over the rail. ‘NO!’ Erlan roared in anguish, raging at his impotence to save his friend. He glanced left and saw the flames on the general were spreading all over him even as he tried to beat them out.

His mind made up, Erlan seized the general by his collar and dragged him to the rail. Davit was a hulking shadow, hedged in by Arab spears, his sword rising and falling against the flames. A saga death for you, thought Erlan, then hurled the general into the sea and dived after him.

Water crashed around him. He grabbed hold of the general’s armour, kicking madly to stay afloat. Arbasdos was thrashing around like an eel on a hook, still alight under the water. The flames scorched Erlan’s hand with pain, shocking him, and in a moment which he would curse a hundred times over, Wrathling’s hilt slipped from his grasp. He roared in frustration, his mouth filling with salt water as the blade of his forefathers sank to the seabed.

His sword was gone but just beyond his reach was a broken oar. He clawed at the water with his empty hand till he had it and hauled Arbasdos over it. ‘The fire!’ wailed the general. ‘For God’s sake!’

‘Stay still,’ Erlan snarled, then reached down into his boot where his hand found Gerutha’s knife. Quick as he could he slashed through the straps of Arbasdos’s armour and pulled it off, then it was his tunic. Further down the hellish oil still burned as strong as ever. Arbasdos wailed, half-mad with pain, while Erlan tore at the wool until it was off him. The remains floated to the surface, burning more weakly, although the oil on his leg seemed mercifully to have gone out. The broken arrow-shaft still protruded from his shoulder. ‘Hold on,’ Erlan gasped. ‘Whatever happens, hold on.’

There were hulls aflame all round them. Men burning in the water, charred bodies bloated with death drifting by, the dross of battle bobbing with the choppy waters. If he could somehow kick them clear of it all. . . but he was confused and could see no sign of the sea walls nor any other marker in the blazing black.

‘Northman—’

‘Save your breath, damn you!’

‘Behind. . . behind. . .’