And so he came to find us. To find us and to kill us.

Sigtryggr had joined me at the center of the fort where an open space made a wide square in front of the largest building, which I assumed had been the Roman commander’s quarters. He had grinned at me. “How’s the leg?”

“Stiffening. Your arm?”

“Numb.” He turned and frowned as men started to shout. The sound grew louder, and it could only mean that Sköll was coming and that to the Norse this was more than a contest, it was an entertainment.

Finan led his men into the square and frowned when he heard the shouting. “They’re drunk,” he said.

“Probably.” Sigtryggr watched the alley opposite us. More and more men were coming from its shadows to line the edges of the open space. “He’s coming for a fight, isn’t he?”

“He is,” I said.

“And you let me fight him,” Finan insisted.

“No,” Sigtryggr said.

“Your shield arm, lord King—”

“I fight with a sword,” Sigtryggr interrupted him, “not a shield.”

“Stiorra!” I said, and they both looked at me. “For my daughter’s sake, he’s mine.”

“No, lord!” Finan said, and just then men parted on the far side of the square and Sköll appeared with Snorri. The blind sorcerer was plucking at Sköll’s arm, talking low and insistently. Sköll seemed to be listening, but then saw us, stopped, and put a hand over Snorri’s mouth to silence him. He stared at us for a moment, and then, very slowly and very deliberately, he drew his great sword, Grayfang.

The excited shouts died. Sköll, aware that every man watched him, stepped into the center of the square. He wore his great white fur cloak over unscarred mail. His helmet shone, ringed with the gold of the kingship he claimed and crested with a wolf’s tail. He held Grayfang in his right hand, and with his left he guided Snorri so that the two of them stood at the center of the circle of men. He looked at Sigtryggr, then at me. “Who do I give the sword to?” he asked.

We were all so surprised by the offer to surrender that, for a heartbeat, no one answered. Then I found my voice. “To King Sigtryggr,” I said, “of course.”

“Lord King,” Snorri said, pawing at Sköll’s arm, “lord King!” The sorcerer’s eye sockets were shadows.

“Quiet, my friend,” Sköll said, patting Snorri’s shoulder. The sorcerer was shaking slightly. He wore long, grubby white robes. He had lost his wolf’s skull and seemed bereft without his small dog. “All will be well,” Sköll told him, then looked at Sigtryggr. “I have one thing I must do before I give you the sword.”

“One thing?” Sigtryggr asked, puzzled.

“Just one,” Sköll said, and with that he took one pace away from Snorri, turned quickly, and struck with Grayfang. Snorri had no warning. One moment he stood, frightened, then Sköll’s blade slashed across his throat with sudden savagery. Sköll kept the sword moving, driving it and pulling it back to saw Snorri’s gullet, and he opened the sorcerer’s neck to the spine. Snorri’s long white hair and plaited beard turned red. He made no noise, he just fell, crumpled, a mess of blood, hair, and robes. An astonished gasp went up from the men watching. For a moment Snorri’s body twitched as his blood soaked into the earth, and then he was still. “He failed,” Sköll said. “What use is a sorcerer who fails?”