We were four or five paces apart as Sköll caught his breath. His attacks had driven me close to the southern side of the open space so I walked back to the square’s center, again exaggerating my limp. He followed me, eyes narrowed, both hands on Grayfang’s hilt, and I saw him glance at my leg. The watching crowd had fallen silent, but one man, an úlfheðinn judging by his gray cloak, called out for Sköll to kill me. “Slaughter the old bastard, lord!” he shouted.

“Lord King!” Sköll corrected him, and my men began jeering.

“Lord King!” they shouted mockingly. “Lord King!”

And I took one pace forward, lifting Serpent-Breath, and Sköll came for me. He roared a great challenge, a wolf-howl of defiance, and he put all his strength into a swinging cut that should have struck my left side, and I watched his eyes, saw them glance at my waist, and I guessed the massive swing was a feint, and, suddenly, with a quickness I had not seen in him before, he turned the sword in his hands so it was not coming in a wild hacking cut, but was a lunge to my right that would force me onto my weak left leg if I wanted to avoid it, and it did force me onto my left leg, but I had seen the feint, my leg was not as weak as Sköll believed, and I lunged in turn.

Sköll’s lunge missed. Mine pierced his mail at his bottom rib. I felt Serpent-Breath break the links of his armor, felt her burst through the leather beneath, felt her grate on and then break the bone, and then I twisted her as she went deeper, and Sköll’s face was already grimacing, he was trying to wrench his body away from the pain, and I kept Serpent-Breath twisting and turning, ripping flesh and bone, and then I barged him with my right shoulder and he went down. I let go of Serpent-Breath and let her fall with him. Sköll tried to bring Grayfang back in a cut, but I stepped on his right arm, then stamped my left foot on his face. He was shuddering, and Serpent-Breath, still buried in his body, quivered.

“Greet the Norns,” I told him, “and give them my thanks.” Then I tugged Serpent-Breath free and Sköll whimpered in pain, shuddered, and blood welled up through the rent in his mail. I held the sword’s bloody tip at Sköll’s throat. “Lord King!” I called to Sigtryggr.

“Lord Uhtred?”

“You want to kill the bastard who killed your wife?”

I heard Sigtryggr draw his sword. Sköll was staring up at me, weakening. His eyes widened as Sigtryggr lifted his blade. “Wait,” I told Sigtryggr, then leaned down and prised Grayfang out of Sköll’s grasp. I threw it toward Finan. “That,” I said, “is for my daughter.”

“No!” Sköll cried. “Please, no! Give me my sword!”

And Sigtryggr struck.

And so Sköll went to Niflheim where he is a feast for the Corpse-Ripper.