up around him.
Vallon glanced round and saw an Icelander tottering away clutching the shaft of a spear that skewered him through the belly. The warrior who’d killed him avoided Vallon’s blow and darted off to join the group around the chieftain. Vallon dragged away two Icelanders chopping at a fallen Viking.
‘He’s dead, you fools. All of you, form up on me.’
Only seven Icelanders joined him, leaving two of their number dead. He counted five dead Vikings, but the rest had thrown a shield wall around Thorfinn and were holding off the cavalry with their spears.
‘Drogo, you have to break the wall! Back off and charge. This time do it right.’
Drogo cast a desperate look at him, seemed to shake his head, then wheeled away shouting at the others to follow. Twenty yards from the enemy they turned and bunched up. One of the horses was badly injured and slumped to its knees, spilling its rider. The Vikings knew that their position was almost impregnable and roared defiance.
Drogo whirled his sword above his head. ‘Charge!’
Vallon grabbed the nearest Icelander. ‘Follow me,’ he shouted and plunged straight at the enemy.
The cavalry clashed before he reached them. Head and shoulders above his companions, Thorfinn leaned forwards and delivered a mighty blow. One of the horses galloped away with its rider lolling in the saddle.
Then Vallon was eye to eye with the foe. A spear lunged at him and he only just deflected it. He tried to follow up, but the shields closed again and he couldn’t find a way past. Over to his right an Icelander maddened by battle tried to kick his way through. A Viking rammed his shield into his face, darted out and stabbed down, his victim dying with a bubbling scream. Almost in the same moment Thorfinn burst through the wall, his eyes burning with battlelust. His sword thrummed and an Icelander folded over like a cut sapling, his trunk almost severed.
Vallon knew that he’d lost all advantage and so did Drogo. He wrenched his horse away from the melee. ‘It’s no good,’ he shouted. ‘We’ll try to cover your retreat.’
Vallon backed away. ‘Withdraw in close order. Look out for each other.’
He’d retreated only a few yards when one of the Icelanders broke and ran, provoking a rout. Vallon found himself facing the Vikings alone.
‘Flee!’ Drogo shouted.
But Vallon stood his ground. His strategy had failed. This was his doom. He watched the Vikings, heard their exultant cries, saw them swell and surge towards him.
Drogo galloped across his line of sight, cutting down with savage precision. A gap opened in the Viking line. Through it ran another opponent.
Vallon adjusted his sword grip, his face an ugly snarl. ‘Come and join me in hell.’
Six feet away his attacker stumbled and fell forward, an arrow wagging in his back. He struggled upright and twitched as another arrow thwocked into him.
‘Run!’ someone shouted, and Vallon glimpsed Wayland bending his bow for another shot.
Vallon fled after the Icelanders, the Vikings chasing in a screaming pack. Thorfinn’s shout shivered the forest. His men stopped. Through the trees Vallon saw the warlord shake his axe above his head. His men left off their pursuit and ran to join him.
Vallon spotted Drogo. ‘They’re after our stores. Round up the Icelanders.’
Drogo spurred his maddened steed towards him. ‘Impossible. The nearest is half a mile away and still running.’
‘We would have routed them if you’d kept Helgi in check. Why didn’t you follow my orders?’
‘Don’t blame me for your failure. It was lack of numbers that cost us victory.’
Vallon swore and staggered after the enemy. They were gone, the ridge empty. Vallon stood alone surveying his defeat when the distant blast of a horn rose up over the forest. It came again, drawn out and desperate. Vallon turned. For a moment everyone stood suspended, taking in the message signalled by the horn.
A roar from ahead and the chieftain came lumbering back. Vallon was standing in his path and didn’t wait to contest it. He sprinted into the trees. The Vikings raced past and disappeared over the skyline.
Drogo spurred towards Vallon. ‘Does that mean the German found the ship?’
Vallon folded over, fighting for breath. ‘What else?’
The horn was still blaring. Vallon pulled himself upright and turned to survey the slaughter. Moonlight was giving way to grey dawn. Steam wafted from the wounds of the littered dead. Vallon found the Viking whose arm he’d all but severed writhing around the useless limb. Vallon reversed the grip on his sword and raised it above the man’s chest. The man fell still and their eyes met, staring down opposite ends of a corridor that each must travel at the allotted time. Vallon brought the blade down and the Viking convulsed and then relaxed, stretching out one updrawn leg as if falling into slumber.
Drogo rode among the dead, taking stock.
‘What’s the count?’ Vallon called.
Drogo looked over his shoulder. ‘I make it six of them and five of us.’
‘Don’t forget the two scouts we killed.’
‘There may be more dead on our side. Helgi’s missing. He took a bad hit.’
Vallon remembered the rider swaying on the runaway horse. He pointed. ‘His horse bolted in that direction.’
Fulk went in search. Drogo dismounted and wiped the blade of his sword with a handful of pine needles. He glanced at Vallon, shook his head and rammed his sword into its scabbard.
Vallon wandered away and faced the rising light. He filled his lungs with resin-scented air, astonished to be alive.
One of the Icelanders trotted out of the trees and called out.
‘They’ve found Helgi.’
His horse had carried him a long way before he toppled out of the saddle. A circle of Icelanders surrounded him. He lay on his side with his back against the trunk of a fallen birch. His face was as white as clay, his eyes blank, blood dribbling from one corner of his greying mouth. Vallon began to crouch beside him, but Drogo pulled him back.
‘Your face is the last thing he’d want to see.’
Drogo knelt and lifted Helgi’s limp arm from his chest. Vallon grimaced. Thorfinn’s axe had inflicted appalling damage. It had struck under his armpit and sliced diagonally through his torso, exposing the barely beating heart in its broken cage, cutting through entrails, releasing a fetid liquor from the torn bowels. Drogo took Helgi’s hand.
Vallon looked at the Icelanders. ‘Have you sent for his sister?’
‘His spirit will have flown long before she gets here.’
Vallon sat down on the dead tree and mouthed along to Drogo’s prayer. ‘
When he looked again, proud and handsome Helgi was quit of this world. Vallon took no satisfaction in his death; he’d been a nuisance, not a foe. Vallon walked away and looked across the river. A fine day in the dawning, sunlight dappling the trees, splashes of gold among the conifers. A woodpecker jarred in the distance.
A shout went up. Someone else called out and by the time Vallon had dragged himself back to the ridge a chorus of excited cries rang through the forest. The sight that greeted him stopped his throat. From the direction of the Viking camp a column of sooty smoke rolled into the sky.
He shot a grin at Drogo. ‘Not such a crackpot plan.’
Drogo gave the gusty laugh of a professional gambler beaten by the most improbable of flukes. ‘One day your luck will run out and I’ll be waiting.’
‘Luck favours the bold.’
‘Try telling that to Helgi’s sister.’
Vallon sobered. ‘You’d better break the news to her.’
Drogo nodded and mounted. Wayland was standing near them and when Drogo turned his horse, their eyes met. Drogo looked back at Vallon and gave an odd smile, then he rode away.
The Icelanders bore their fallen back to camp, leaving the slain Vikings stripped of their arms to be burned by their companions or abandoned to wolves and gore-crows. When the field was empty, Vallon and Wayland
