Runolf’s axe hacked into a man’s thigh and he fell. I could see that Runolf wished to finish the man sprawled on the earth, but with a growl at the enemies surrounding us, and the thicket of spears that now threatened from all sides, the axeman was forced to retreat.

There were well over a score of warriors around us now. Several of them were the seasoned armoured men we had seen at the hall. A quick look showed me what I had suspected. We were cut off from the river, and the path behind us was blocked.

“It seems this is the end of the path, Killer,” Runolf said, glowering at the warriors who had not yet worked up enough nerve to attack us. I looked at their sharp spears and the long blades of their swords and axes that gleamed in the grey dawn light. The smell of the smoke on the air brought back memories of the battle of Werceworthe. We had been through much, Runolf and I.

“I am glad God sent you into my life, Runolf Ragnarsson,” I said.

“Whether it was your Christ, or Óðinn, I too am glad to have called you my friend, Hunlaf of Ubbanford. I hope we meet again in the afterlife.”

Runolf’s voice was thick with emotion and I glanced askance at him. His eyes brimmed with tears, gleaming like gems in the early morning light and the flicker of the flames that now tore through the roof of the hall.

“Going soft, are you?” I asked, grinning despite the knowledge that death awaited us both in moments. At least I would not die alone.

Runolf smiled, his teeth bright in his thatch of fire-red beard.

“Anything is possible,” he said, and then, with a scream from their young leader, the circle of men around us surged forward.

*

We were certain we would die, but neither Runolf nor I would go easily. Back-to-back we stood. I could feel his movements behind me, hear his grunts and the sounds of his axe connecting with weapons, armour and flesh. But I could not turn to see how he fared.