Not all the enemy were mad and some lost their bravery. They saw their companions die, they smelled the blood and shit of dying men, they saw the grim wall of shields coming, a wall glinting with spears and swords. The right-hand end of that wall was being assailed by spears thrown from the ramparts, and I shouted for Cuthwulf. “Use your arrows on them!” I called, pointing at the men throwing the spears.

“All of the arrows, lord?”

“All of them!” I had realized that we had no chance of overcoming the fort’s walls. There were too many defenders. Even if the northern corner was easier to approach, we would still face a rampart packed with warriors. We would have to be content with this small victory over Sköll’s vaunted úlfhéðnar, though once they were killed it would be our turn to face the slaughterers.

Our shield wall advanced inexorably, step by slow step, to drive Sköll’s men back, and Sköll, it seemed, decided enough was enough because a horn sounded urgently from the ramparts, a signal to recall the surviving úlfhéðnar. Most of the wolf-warriors ignored it, too crazed to abandon the fight and too crazed to obey an order, and so they kept trying to break our wall, kept stabbing and screaming, and the screams turned to cries of agony as they were cut down. But some few turned to retreat, and most of the young men who had joined the charge of the úlfhéðnar also obeyed the summons. They ran back to the gate.

And it was closed.

Men beat on the gate. It did not open. Maybe half the men who had charged us were now bunched at the entrance, screaming at its defenders to let them in. My son saw the opportunity before anyone else and shouted, “Kill them! Kill them!” He broke out of the shield wall, and, followed by his closest companions, charged at the gate.

The mad bravery of the úlfhéðnar can turn to terrified panic in a heartbeat. Men who a moment before had thought themselves unbeatable were suddenly turned into sobbing, desperate fugitives. They beat at the gate, they screamed for it to be opened, they screamed even more when my battle-maddened men began their slaughter on the causeway that crossed the ditches. I was hurrying after them, all of us were going toward that gate, and I looked above the arch to the fighting platform where I expected to see Sköll’s men hurling spears into our ranks.

And instead I saw the eagle.

And men fighting.

Almighty God

Lord and ruler, gave them wondrous aid.

The valiant heroes with their precious swords

Then hacked a bloody passage through

The host of foemen; they split the shields,

Cut through their shield wall.

“Almighty God?” I asked.

“The archbishop asked for the poem, lord,” Father Selwyn said very primly, “and I don’t think he’d be pleased if I gave the credit to Odin.”

I grunted. “I suppose not. But you don’t even mention the eagle!”