“I don’t know who he is,” Gwawrddur said in his lilting, sing-song voice, “and I didn’t understand what he was saying. But I could tell that he would be better off dead.”

With the death of their new leader, and so many of their number slain, the desire to fight fled, and the men around us began to back away, slinking off into the smoke-hazed dawn light. The hall was an inferno now, its flames lighting the whole settlement and the grisly reminders of Ljósberari’s reign that still hung on stakes along the path and down by the river.

“We cannot tarry here,” said Hereward, not taking his eyes from the warriors that were still moving away. “They will soon realise that we are few and they are yet many more than us.”

“Help me carry Runolf,” I said, hurrying to the giant Norseman’s body. “I cannot bear him alone, but I will not leave him here.” I reached my hands beneath his arms, preparing to lift his bulk. To my amazement, he sat up with a groan. Wiping the blood from his face with one of his huge hands, he looked about him, blinking.

“What did I miss?” he asked.

I saw that the blood came from a cut on his forehead. His skull was strong, for whatever had struck him had only knocked him senseless for a short time.

“You missed us rescuing you,” replied Hereward. “Next time you decide to run off, you’re on your own.”

Runolf snorted and spat.

“Can you stand?” I asked, offering him my hand.

“I’m not dead, am I?” he replied, allowing me to pull him to his feet.

I retrieved his axe and handed it to him, relief running through me at seeing him alive.

“Don’t forget that,” he said, pointing to Ljósberari’s head. “We’ve come a long way to leave it behind now.”

Drosten picked it up, looking at the features with disdain.

“This is the mighty Ljósberari?”

“The same,” said Runolf, “though after a talk with Hunlaf he is a little less mighty.”

“And shorter,” observed Drosten drily.

We hurried down to the river. I was astonished at what had happened, and I could scarcely believe I yet lived.

“Yours, I believe,” said Gwawrddur, dragging my attention away from the boats and the two figures that awaited us on the water. I looked at him with a frown.

In his hand he held the ornately-handled seax that he had taken from the young warrior’s corpse. That blade had a way of finding its way back to me no matter how many times I lost it. I took it and slipped it into my belt.

“I had prayed for a miracle,” I said. “I should just have called for you. My friends.”

Gwawrddur sniffed.

“What’s the difference?” he said.

Sixty-Two