“Give me your sword,” Sigtryggr said coldly.

Sköll, who seemed to be the calmest man in Heahburh, nodded. “Of course,” he said. He took Grayfang into his left hand, holding her by the blade just beneath the hilt, and walked toward Sigtryggr. And I could see the treachery. He was right-handed, yet he held the sword with his left, leaving the hilt free and his right hand empty. A drop of blood fell from Grayfang’s tip as he walked toward us. He was smiling. “You won,” he said to Sigtryggr, who took one pace forward to accept his enemy’s sword.

And Sköll snatched the hilt with his right hand and swept Grayfang in a mighty back-handed slash that should have broken Sigtryggr’s one good arm, except that the instant I saw Sköll’s hand take Grayfang’s hilt I stepped forward and shoved Sigtryggr hard so that he fell to his left, and I kept moving so that my borrowed shield crashed into Sköll and drove him back so forcefully that he tripped, and suddenly both he and Sigtryggr were on the ground.

And I drew Serpent-Breath, her long blade hissing as she came from the scabbard’s throat. “He’s mine!” I shouted, because both my son and Finan had started forward, and Sigtryggr, recovering from his surprise, was climbing to his feet. I stepped forward, ignoring the pain in my left leg, and I kicked Sköll’s booted foot. “You’re mine,” I said.

“Stupid old man,” he snarled. He was still on the ground, but tried to swing Grayfang at me, but only hammered her into my shield’s iron rim. “You want to die here?” he asked.

“You will die here,” I said, and stepped away from him, letting him stand.

And I remember thinking that maybe Sköll was right; that this was stupid. I had dozens of young sword-skilled warriors who were faster and maybe stronger. Finan was old too, but he was still one of the most feared fighters in Britain. But I was Uhtred of Bebbanburg, and I had reputation, and the vanity of reputation made me want to kill Sköll. And I would kill him for Stiorra’s sake. For my daughter, and the memory of her face gave me an anger that overcame the stupidity. It was a cold anger, underlaid with fear. Sköll was formidable, and, as he scrambled to his feet with the bloodstained Grayfang in his hand, he looked confident. “Keep your shield, old man,” he sneered.

He had no shield. I let mine hang at my side, exposing my body, and stepped backward, away from him, as if I feared him. I exaggerated my limp. My mail coat was torn, and the bloody bandage around my left thigh showed, and I wanted Sköll to see it. I kept Serpent-Breath low.

“Your daughter screamed when she died,” Sköll said. He was circling to his right, my left.

“I hear your son drools now,” I said. I had heard no news of the son whose skull I had broken, but it seemed I touched a raw place in Sköll because he looked furious for a heartbeat and took three quick paces toward me. I did not move, reckoning his steps were a feint, and he went back again, but still moving to my left. I turned, deliberately wincing when my weight was on my left leg. My vision on that side was still blurred, but it was clearing. “Can your son speak?” I asked. “Or does he just make noises like a pig farting?”