Ivar filled his lungs to shout, over the din of battle, in mockery of the cry of Edmund. “Twenty ounces, twenty ounces of gold to the man who brings me the English king. But don’t kill him. He must be taken alive.”

But before he could speak he felt Muirtach and the Irish gasp and stiffen around him.

“Will you look at that!”

“It’s a fiery cross coming for us!”

“Mac na hoige slan.”

“Mother of God be merciful.”

“What in the name of Othin is it?”

Over the heads of the struggling men a giant shape rushed toward them like a cross, a monstrous, blazing cross. The ranks of the English parted, Killer-Brand leapt forward with his axe raised. Then the huge timber fell forward, half hurled by the capering furies who grasped it.

Brand sprang aside, tripped over a rope and fell with a clang to the ground. Something struck Ivar a numbing blow on the shoulder. The Gaddgedlar scattered in all directions as the waxed flax walls of the tents started to blaze. The shrieking of women rose to add itself to all the other noises of the battle.

And instantly, running along the blazing timber itself, his face contorted with rage and delight, there came a half-naked churl, the slave manacles still on his wrist, hurtling through the scattered ranks of his captors. A spear stabbed at Ivar’s face. Without thought he parried it, slicing the point from its shaft at the same moment his shoulder shrieked protest. The peasant raced on, reversing his clumsy weapon and smashing it at the side of Ivar’s head.

The blow, the ground rising up, the fall into burning wax and skin. Struck by a peasant, Ivar’s brain thought in the last instant of consciousness, darkness embracing him. But I am the champion of the North.

Through the flames other figures came leaping. It’s that boy, thought Ivan, the one who fought the duel by the washing-place. But I thought he was one of mine … .

A bare foot landed in his testicles, and his body gave up the fight.

Shef raced along the still-smoldering timber of the longship’s mast. He was aware that his hands were burned, swelling, puffy already with blisters. There was no time for that. He and the thane and Alfgar had seized the smoldering timber, its yard still attached, as soon as the peasants had pulled it from the flame, had grasped the upper end and had run toward the fighting battle-line, struggling desperately to keep it upright till they could throw it into the warriors. But the instant they hurled it a wave of furious peasants had run straight past them and over them. And behind him, he knew, came King Edmund’s champions, all beside themselves with rage and fear and the passion to kill. He had to reach Godive first.