“And do what?” I asked.

“He must have farms, his lead mines. Destroy them, force him to come out and fight for them.”

I looked northward to the valley of the Tine and guessed most of Sköll’s steadings were in the valley’s depths. “And if he refuses to fight?” I asked.

Sigtryggr did not answer. Sköll wanted us to attack him, which was reason enough not to make an assault on his fortress. Our wisest course was to withdraw, but that gave him a victory he needed, a victory that might attract even more men to his banner of the wolf. And as we retreated he would follow us, eventually forcing us to turn and face him. “If we go south,” Sigtryggr suggested, “we could combine with Boldar’s men.”

None of us said anything. None of us wanted to retreat, but nor did we want to carry our spears against that formidable fortress. “It will have to be fast,” Sigtryggr said.

“The journey south?” Svart spoke for the first time.

“The assault,” Sigtryggr said. “There’ll be precious little water on that hill,” he nodded to the land to the west of the hill, “and no shelter. We’ll have to reach that hill, form the wall, and attack.”

“There are horses in the fort,” Finan said.

“Why wouldn’t there be?” Sigtryggr asked irritably.

“We make a shield wall, lord King, and the bastard could release horsemen onto our flanks.”

Sigtryggr grunted, plainly unhappy at Finan’s words, but unable to deny their truth. “What choice do we have?” he asked. He was plainly reluctant to abandon an assault. We had marched so long, we had Sköll in front of us, and to retreat was to gamble on finding a friendlier battlefield.

“The Lord of Hosts is with you! You cannot fail!” a voice called from lower down the slope, and I turned to see Ieremias spurring his horse Beelzebub to join us. Sigtryggr, who had less patience than I for the mad bishop, groaned. Ieremias was holding a stout staff on which he had managed to tie the ram’s skull that, as he joined us, he pointed toward the fort. “The far corner, lords,” he said, “that is where the heathen can best be smitten.”

Sigtryggr looked annoyed, Svart was puzzled, but Finan knew that Ieremias had moments of sense. “The far corner?”

“Ragnar assaulted from there!” Ieremias was pointing the ram’s skull at the northernmost corner of the fort, “and by God’s grace we smote Halfdan the Mad.”

“How many men did Halfdan lead?” I asked.

“A host, lord, a host,” Ieremias said. Plainly he did not know.

“There’s a host and a half down there,” I pointed out.

“The Lord of Hosts is with you, how can you lose?”

“Easily,” Sigtryggr snarled, but I could see he was still reluctant to abandon an attack on the fort. He twisted in his saddle to look at me. “Ragnar?” he asked.

“Knew what he was doing,” I answered. “He was good.”

He turned to stare at the fort again. We could not see the ground beyond the northern corner because the land there dropped away, which meant it would be an uphill attack from ground we had not yet seen. “We can’t do it tomorrow,” Sigtryggr said, “we need to scout it first.” He paused, wanting someone to agree with his suggestion, but none of us spoke. “And if it looks impossible,” he finished, “we’ll march away.”