The fog was almost gone, leaving slow tendrils that writhed above the bloody turf. Heavy spears were thrown from the ramparts and one hammered into my shield, weighing it down. I stepped away from the men hurling the spears and wrenched the blade free from the willow board. I picked up Serpent-Breath. Neither my men nor Svart’s had followed the retreating Norsemen. I saw that the young man with the wounded cheek had gone with them, but he was limping and staggering. I wiped Wasp-Sting on the hem of my cloak and looked at Finan. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, lord?”

“I was slow. You weren’t. I’m sorry.”

“They were quick, lord, they were quick.”

“Maybe Sköll’s right. I’m getting old.”

The Norse in the fort were jeering us. “Welcome to Sköllholm,” they shouted.

I looked at our dead. “Did Wulfmaer have children?” I asked and should have known the answer.

“Two,” Finan said. “The oldest was that little red-headed bastard who pushed his sister into the cesspit.”

“You’re bleeding.”

He looked at his shield arm. One of his arm rings was almost severed, the mail sleeve beneath was ripped, and blood was seeping through a rent in the leather liner. “I think I killed the bugger who did that.” He flexed his fingers. “No real damage, lord.”

It is strange how there is sometimes a sudden calm in a battle, not that it was quiet, because Sköll’s men were still shouting and banging sword-blades against their shields, but for a moment neither side was trying to kill the other. We had made a long shield wall that straddled Heahburh’s high spur, but were making no attempt to advance, while the enemy was content to wait behind their ramparts. I counted seven dead from my men and four from Svart’s troop. Seven Norsemen had joined them in death, and Berg was missing.

Berg, whom I loved like a son. Berg, so eager to please and so fearsome in battle. Berg, whom I had saved from death and who had proved so loyal a companion. He had been at the left-hand end of our line when I last saw him, and I walked there to ask if anyone had seen him. “He went down the hill, lord,” Redbad told me.

“He escaped?”

Redbad, a Frisian, shrugged. “Lost sight of him, lord. Bastards were on us.”

I walked a few more paces to gaze down into the next valley where another fast stream tumbled on its stony bed. The valley was empty. Berg and his precious eagle flag were both gone. I supposed Sköll’s men had taken the banner as a trophy, but had they taken Berg too?

My son had the same fear. “You think he’s a prisoner?”

“I hope not,” I said, then wished I had not expressed the hope. Better to be a prisoner, I supposed, than dead, but any prisoner of Sköll’s might expect a foul death. I had seen enemies carve a screaming man to a slow death as a taunt to his watching comrades, and Sköll was more than capable of the same cruelty.