I remembered passing the church. It had an open door and was lit by rushlights and candles, and it made sense for my enemies to wait there. In this darkness they would never see me, let alone recognize me, but the small light cast through the church door would be enough for them, and once in the street seven men would make short work of us.

“Back to the road,” I said, “and we’re drunk. Rorik? Stay out of trouble’s way.”

We went back to the fort’s approach road and started singing. If Eadgifu could provide Tamweorthin with a dumb show, I could provide another kind of pretense. I bellowed the song of the butcher’s wife, a favorite with drunken men, and staggered to hold Finan’s arm. We came to the crossroads at the foot of the hill, and now the metalworkers’ street with its smithies was to our left. I could see the wash of light from the small church through which the rain made silver streaks. We stopped for a moment and I sang louder, then dashed into a shadow and made the noise of a man vomiting. A dog howled and I howled back as Finan lurched toward me, keening a song in his native Irish. “I want a prisoner,” I told him, then howled again, provoking a half-dozen dogs to bark frantically.

I pushed Rorik into the shadows on the uphill side of the street, told him to stay there, then Finan, Berg, and I staggered along the street’s center. The dogs still barked, but men were shouting at them to be silent. The people who lived there must have been aware of men moving in the night, and sensible folk made sure their doors were barred as they prayed for the noises to move away. We three just sang louder, and I saw a man appear in the church doorway. He drew back, waiting for us to come into the dim wash of light. “I want to be sick,” I said loudly.

“Not on my boots again,” Finan answered just as loudly.

I put my hand on Serpent-Breath’s hilt as Finan loosened Soul-Stealer. “Sing, you Irish bastard,” I slurred at him as we staggered past the church, “sing!”

And they came. The church door darkened as they pushed through, seven men with seven swords, and we turned, and I was aware of other men coming from the shadows behind me. Sigtryggr led them. He was shouting a challenge in his native Norse, but the first of the attackers was closer. He leaped for me, still convinced he faced a drunkard. He lunged, trying to run me through with his blade, but I had drawn Serpent-Breath and she slid his blade aside, I stepped closer and punched my sword’s hilt into his face and felt the crunch of breaking bone or teeth. A Norseman’s spear came past me and buried its blade in the man’s belly. I turned to avoid a second lunge and back-swung Serpent-Breath into a bearded face, dragging her edge back to cut into the man’s eyes. He dropped his sword and screamed. Finan had driven Soul-Stealer into a man’s throat while Berg, with Bone-Ripper, was standing over a fallen man. I saw Bone-Ripper’s bright blade go down and the dark blood spurt, then Sigtryggr’s Norsemen were past us, driving the survivors back toward the crossroads, but still more men appeared from the alley by the big tavern. They were the last of Sigtryggr’s men, led by Svart, and the three surviving attackers were now trapped between their enemies. One hesitated, and Svart bellowed in fury as he drove his heavy sword down through the man’s neck and into his rib cage. The remaining pair fled into the church.