Svart came like an úlfheðinn, maddened with battle-rage, a huge man, his beard hung with bones, and with a great war ax in both hands. At least a score of men were with him, their shields clashed against Sköll’s shields, it was Norseman fighting Norseman in a fury of blades. “Forward!” I shouted and my shield wall went into the fight. There were men beside me, men behind me, men screaming, as much from fear as defiance. But we were a shield wall, as were Svart’s men, and Sköll’s men had attacked in a frenzy that left them scattered. Their battle-rage was singing in their heads, they were slaughtering, they could not be beaten, except by a shield wall, and we struck them hard. Spears lunged. Svart had killed two men before my shield wall hit the Norsemen, but we added two more dead, both pierced by spears, and I saw a black-bearded man bellowing at Sköll’s men to make a wall. More of my men were coming, more of Sigtryggr’s were joining Svart. Beornoth, beside me, rammed his spear at the black-bearded man, who fended it off with his shield. I saw a new scar of wood slash across the snarling wolf daubed on the man’s shield, he lunged with his own spear, aiming at Beornoth who, in turn, caught the blade on his shield and I stepped forward and rammed Serpent-Breath at the big beard and felt her point cut into his throat. He half fell backward, held up by the men behind, and Finan cut at the man next to him, slicing Soul-Stealer into his mail-clad shoulder. A hammering of shields to my left and I saw my son had extended our wall, was leading new men into the fight, and then we could go no further. The Norse had made their wall, our heavy shields crashed together, and we heaved against each other.

Serpent-Breath was the wrong weapon for this fight. Her blade was too long for the deadly embrace of shield walls. I dropped her and drew Wasp-Sting, my short seax, and slid her between my shield and Finan’s. She struck wood, I pushed on my enemy’s shield. Above the iron rim my enemy had fair hair, a dirty pox-scarred face, gritted teeth, a slit up the side of one nostril, and a short beard. He was young enough to be my son, he was shouting his hatred at me. A spear came from behind me, over my shoulder, and sliced open his cheek. Blood started fast, his shield faltered, and I skewered Wasp-Sting again, this time feeling her strike and pierce mail. The hatred on the young man’s face turned to surprise, then fear. Something struck my helmet, and for a heartbeat I was dazed. I did not see the blow, nor knew whether it was a spear or a sword that gave it, but the blow forced me back and Wasp-Sting slid free. I pushed forward again, shield high, and kept pushing, kept stabbing. Svart, disdaining to use a shield, was roaring to my right, swinging his massive ax to drive Sköll’s men back. The young man opposite me was shouting again, every bellow bubbling blood from his sliced cheek. Our shields grated together and I spat a challenge as I felt Wasp-Sting bite again, and this time she sank deep into the flesh beneath the mail and I twisted her, tried to rip her upward, and felt an enemy’s sword pushing at my waist, then that pressure suddenly vanished. A horn had sounded from the ramparts and it must have been some kind of signal because the men opposing us went backward, then turned and ran back along the ditches toward one of the fort’s three remaining entrances. The fourth, which faced Sigtryggr’s men across the western ditches, had been blocked with thick timbers.