Sköll’s men gained a far greater triumph. Sigtryggr, filled with a battle-fury born of desperation, had collected spears thrown from the ramparts and had twenty of his men hurling the weapons back at the defenders. I watched, impressed by the number of missiles his men were raining on the wall, and, as the defenders crouched beneath their shields, Sigtryggr led a rush of men across the ditches. They carried two ladders that they rammed against the wall. A brave Norseman leaned down to throw one ladder aside and succeeded before a spear raked into his shoulder. The ladder fell, but Sigtryggr was already mounting the second ladder when Svart unceremoniously threw him off the lower rungs and climbed himself. He swung his huge ax one-handed, driving back two defenders. I could hear Svart bellowing, hear Sigtryggr yelling at his men to put the first ladder back, saw the spears still flying at the ramparts, and Svart was almost at the short ladder’s top, flailing his ax. He was a huge man, terrifying, and the defending Norsemen were backing away from that massive blade as Svart climbed another rung, was almost over the wall, and then the ladder’s rung snapped. He jarred down, almost fell, and had to reach out with his ax to steady himself and a Norse defender darted forward and rammed a spear at Svart’s neck. The defender was immediately struck by a thrown spear and fell out of sight, but not before his long blade had pierced Svart’s throat. I could see the sudden blood. Somehow Svart stayed upright, swaying. He tried to lift the ax, but another defender, screaming defiance, swung a sword that bit into the bleeding wound, and Svart, a warrior of a hundred victories, fell back into the ditch.

The death of Svart gave the defenders new confidence and drained Sigtryggr’s men of their defiance. I did not know it, but Sigtryggr had also been wounded. A spear had bitten into his shoulder. His men pulled him back, and Finan, seeing the retreat of that larger group, called an end to his own futile attack. Sköll’s men were laughing again, cheering, calling us cowards, inviting us to surrender and telling us they would enjoy our women and enslave our children. Sköll himself came to the wall, the first time I had seen him that day, and he stood, massive in his white fur cloak that he wore above his shining mail. His helmet, I saw, was ringed with a circlet of gold, his sign of kingship. He mocked us. “Have you had enough? You want to come to my wall again? You’ll be welcome! If you try harder maybe I’ll have to wake some of my other warriors.” One of Sigtryggr’s men threw a spear and Sköll took one contemptuous sideways step so that the weapon flew past him. “You have to do better than that!” he called. He was searching the hundreds of men gathered on the far side of the ditches. “Is Sigtryggr Ivarson here?” No one answered, and Sköll laughed, still searching among his enemies. Then he saw me, sitting off to one side. He pointed. “The old man’s here! Are you hurt, old man?”