“We Christians know what is to come. Christ will return in His glory, the great horn of heaven will sound, the dead will rise, and the Kingdom of God will rule on earth. Of that much we can be certain.”

“Or the sun will turn dark, the warriors of Valhalla will fight for the gods, and the world will fall into chaos,” I said. “Tell me something useful, priest, like what will happen three or four days from now.”

“Three days, lord?”

“We’re two days from Sköll’s stronghold,” I said, “so three or four days from now those warriors,” I nodded into the church, “will probably be fighting for their lives.”

Swithred watched as the worshippers stood. The chanting had stopped and an elderly monk was standing in front of the altar, presumably to preach. “In three or four days, lord,” Swithred spoke low, “your men will fight to defeat a pagan tyrant. God will be on their side, and if God is with you, how can you lose?”

“Have you ever assaulted a fortress?” I asked, but did not give him time to answer. “It’s the most brutal kind of fighting there is, worse even than a shield wall.” I touched my hammer again. “Go tell King Edward that our men will die to keep the promises we made him at Tamweorthin.”

“Ten days ago,” Swithred still spoke quietly, “the king fell from his horse while hunting.”

I had thought that this meeting with Father Swithred had been an accident, but those last words told me he had wanted to find me. He had brought me the formal letter complaining of Sköll’s raids south of the Ribbel, but I now understood he had also brought a second message, one that could not be written down, and one that he had waited to deliver. “I’m surprised the king still hunts,” I said, “he looked an ill man to me.”

“King Edward loves to hunt,” Swithred said.

“Women or deer?” I asked.

“Both,” he said sharply, surprising me with his honesty. “He fell from his horse,” he continued his tale, “and broke two ribs.”

“Ribs mend,” I said, “it’s painful, though.” The elderly monk had begun preaching, but his voice was weak so I could not hear him, not that I wanted to, but the men in the church shuffled closer to listen, making it even less likely that anyone could overhear our conversation. One of the four tall candles on the altar had begun to gutter, spewing a tangle of dark smoke. If it goes out before the service ends, I thought, then we will fail. The flame must stay lit, I convinced myself, to prove that Sigtryggr was right in thinking that Snorri had foreseen Sköll’s death. If the candle went out, then Sigtryggr was wrong, we would fail, and Sköll would defeat us. I hated myself for such impulsive thoughts, for seeking an omen about life and death in the ordinary incidents of life, but how else could the gods talk to us without a sorcerer? I could not take my eyes from the struggling flame. “Have you ever broken a rib? I asked Swithred.