Sigtryggr and Svart led that attack. They took their shield wall forward and the spears began coming as soon as they reached the outer ditch. Very few arrows, I noticed, it was mostly heavy spears that were being hurled from the ramparts. I could hear the blades thumping into shields. Sigtryggr’s rearmost ranks were throwing spears back, not really in hope of killing any of the defenders, but trying to force them to shelter behind their shields.

Cuthwulf, a hunter from Bebbanburg who led my archers, came to join me. “Should we be using the bows, lord?” He was a sinewy, sun-darkened man, whose limp did not prevent him from being the most deadly of my hunters.

“How many arrows do you have?”

Cuthwulf spat. “Not enough, lord. Fifty apiece?”

I winced. “Save them.” I jerked my head northward. “You see that far corner?” It looked a long way off. “Use the arrows when we attack there. Not until then.” I glanced up and saw a watery sun showing through the lifting fog. “That’ll give your bowstrings time to dry out.”

“I kept them under my hat,” Cuthwulf said, “so they’re dry enough, but God save you, lord.”

My shield wall overlapped the fort so that we could look north down its long side toward the Tine valley. The lower part of the wall was made of stone, but over the years men had removed the upper courses to build barn or hall foundations, and the upper part was made of coarse thick timbers. There were plenty of defenders on that long wall, too many, but I had promised Sigtryggr to do my best to draw men from the rampart he was assaulting and it was time to keep that promise. Sigtryggr’s men were crossing the ditches, assailed by spears, trying to protect themselves with shields made even more unwieldy by the spears lodged in the willow boards. I could hear Svart shouting them forward. It was a struggle. The ditches were deep and the banks between the ditches were steep and slippery. Two of Sköll’s men were in the short tower at the fort’s corner and were hurling spears that were being handed up to them from inside the fort. “Cuthwulf,” I called him back. “You can kill those two bastards.”

Cuthwulf selected an arrow, notched it on the string, took a deep breath, drew his short bow, held his breath, and loosed. The closest man on the tower was about to hurl a spear and the arrow struck him on the helmet. He jerked back, turned, and the second arrow pierced his nose. He sank down, clutching the wound. The other man ducked behind the parapet, and Cuthwulf grunted. “I meant to kill them both.”

“You did well,” I said, then saw that Sigtryggr’s wall had crossed five of the seven ditches. Time to go, I thought. I had never felt so little enthusiasm for a battle, even the thought of revenging Stiorra’s death left me cold. It was the curse, I thought, and I remembered Snorri’s prophecy of the two kings dying, and I drew Serpent-Breath, tried to forget the curse, and shouted at my men to follow.