But Sköll too had his problems. I suspected he had never been to Bebbanburg before, and, though he had doubtless heard of its strength, he was now seeing the fortress in all its grim glory. I doubted he had any ships on Northumbria’s eastern coast, so the only way to attack us was along the narrow neck of land that led to the massive defenses of the Skull Gate, and if he somehow managed to capture that outer bastion he still had the Inner Gate and its mighty wall to overcome. So far as I could see he had brought no ladders, so in truth he stood no chance of capturing the fortress because even his fabled úlfhéðnar could not overcome Bebbanburg’s defenses without some means of scaling the ramparts. Unless, of course, his sorcerer had the power to defeat us.

And was that possible? I touched my hammer. I could fight men, but I could not fight the gods, and surely, I thought, Sköll must have known of Bebbanburg’s legendary strength before coming to the fortress, so what gave him the confidence to come so boldly? “Oh, dear Christ!” Finan interrupted my thoughts. He was staring at the far hill.

His eyes were keener than mine. “What is it?” I asked.

“Prisoners, lord.”

It was my turn to swear. I could see the prisoners now, four men wearing nothing but long shirts, their hands tied, their bodies draped over packhorses like sacks of grain. “My son’s men,” I said quietly.

“Like as not.”

By now there were almost three hundred men on the far hill, and Sköll had raised his standard, the flag of the snarling wolf. I could see him clearly, his white cloak bright in the early sunshine. He was waiting, knowing we watched him, and ignoring the fugitives panicked from the village who had almost all reached the fortress. He was gloating, I thought. He had not come to capture a fortress, but to show how little he feared us.

And when he did approach he came slowly, his whole line of men riding sedately downhill and threading its way between the houses that lined the harbor. I thought men would dismount to plunder the abandoned village, but instead they all followed Sköll onto the narrow neck of land. The prisoners came with them. “Can you see who they are?” I asked Finan.

“Not yet.”

The approaching warriors stopped at the causeway’s narrowest point, where Sköll dismounted. He handed his helmet to one of his followers and then, accompanied by just one man, walked toward the Skull Gate. He stopped after a few paces, drew his great sword, Grayfang, and rammed it into the sand, then spread his arms wide to show he came to talk, not to fight. He walked on another few paces, then stopped and waited. His companion was Snorri.

I had only seen Snorri at a distance, now I could see him clearly, and he was far more frightening than Sköll. He was as tall as Sköll, but where Sköll was broad and heavily built, the sorcerer was thin as a wraith, his gray and white striped robe hanging loose from his shoulders like a shroud. His eye sockets were red scars in a bony face that was framed by a long tangle of white hair that hung past his white beard that was plaited into three ropes. He was led by a small white dog on a leash. He carried the leash in his right hand, while in his left was a wolf skull. I touched my hammer and saw Finan clutch at his cross.