For an instant again, as the battle cleared, two warriors showed in black silhouette, each leap of flame seeming to catch them in another contorted pose. The swords whirled, each blow parried forte à forte, the strokes coming forehand, backhand, at all angles, each one meeting a precisely timed counter. The warriors twisted and stamped, raising their shields, leaping over low strokes, moving with each blow into position for the next, trying to gain leverage even from the strokes of their enemy for a tiny advantage on the next counter, a weakened wrist, a strain, a hesitation.

The thane’s voice was almost affectionate. “Look at them, both sides. Those are the king’s warmen and the best of the pirates. They are the drengir, the hard here-chempan. How long would we last against them? Me—maybe I could give one a little trouble for half a minute. You—I don’t know. These—” He gestured with his thumb at the peasants behind him. “Make sausage meat of them.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Alfgar abruptly. The peasants stirred and muttered.

Suddenly the thane had Alfgar by the arm, fingers sinking deep.

“No. Listen. That is the king’s voice. He is calling on his true men. Hear what he wants.”

“He wants the head of Ivar,” snarled a peasant.

Suddenly they were all moving forward, raising spears, bracing shields, the thane among them.

He knows it won’t work, Shef realized—but I know what will!

He leapt in front of them, pointing, gesturing. Slowly the men caught his meaning, turned away, dropped their weapons, headed for the nearest of the blazing longships.

Over the clash of steel the Vikings too heard the king’s voice calling, and understood him—many of them had had English bedslaves for years, and their fathers before them.

“King Jatmund wants your head,” cried one of the jarls.

“I don’t want Jatmund’s head,” Ivar called back. “He must be taken alive.”

“What do you want him for?”

“I will give that much thought. Something new. Something instructive.”

Something to put heart back into the men. This had all been much too close for comfort, Ivar reflected, edging from side to side to keep a clear view of the action. He would never have thought that the king of a little kingdom like this would have had the guts to challenge the Great Army in its own base.

“All right,” he said quietly to the Gaddgedlar, waiting behind the battle-line as his personal reserve. “No need to wait much longer. They aren’t going to break through. Over here, between the tents. Now, when I give the word we are going to charge. Go right through them, don’t bother to fight. I want you to catch the kinglet, King Jatmund. See him. There. The little man, the one with the war-mask over his face.”