The Scotsman was a fool. He had been trained with sword and spear, the axe was an unfamiliar weapon and he swung it wildly, thinking that brute force would smash Egil’s shield aside, but Egil checked his rush, swayed back, the axe went on swinging and he lunged with Adder as the Scotsman desperately tried to check the axe’s weight. Adder slid into the man’s belly, he folded over the pain, Egil hammered his eagle-painted shield into the man’s face, twisted the sword, ripped it up and dragged it out to spill the man’s guts onto Thorolf’s corpse. The axe flew into the stream as Egil struck with Adder again and again, slashing the dying man’s head and shoulders until one of his men pulled him back as the Scots came to avenge the bloodied man.
‘I feel useless,’ I snarled at Finan.
‘Leave it to the youngsters,’ Finan told me patiently, ‘you taught them.’
‘We need to fight!’
‘If they need old men,’ Finan said, ‘then things will be desperate.’ He turned to watch Æthelstan’s West Saxons. ‘They’re doing well.’
The West Saxons were still retreating, but steadily, bending the line back and drawing the Mercians in the centre back with them. Anlaf, I reckoned, must think this battle won. His larger force had not broken Æthelstan’s shield wall, but he was forcing it back and soon he would have us trapped against the larger stream. I could see Anlaf now, galloping on a great black horse, bellowing at his men to attack all along the line. His sword was drawn and he pointed it towards us and his ugly face was distorted by fury. He knew he had won this battle, his plan had worked, but he still had to break us and he was impatient. He neared Constantine and shouted something I could not hear over the battle-rage, but Constantine spurred his horse forward and yelled at his men.
Who came again. It was pride now. Who could be first to break us? The Norse were hammering at Æthelstan’s left and centre, and now the Scots came to prove they were the equal of Anlaf’s wild warriors. I saw Domnall bully his way to the front rank, an axe in his hand, and he led a charge against Egil while Prince Cellach came against my men. Cellach’s men screamed as they charged, and again some tripped in the holes, and others were pushed from behind and stumbled on corpses, but they came with levelled spears and bright axes, and I glanced once at the ridge to the west, saw nothing, and went to join my men who were being pushed back by the Scots. Berg, who commanded my left wing, was shouting at men to keep their shields firm, but there was an anger in the Scots that made them terrible. I saw Rolla go down, his helmet split by an axe, saw Cellach move into the gap and kill Edric, who had once been my servant, and more men were following Cellach. The prince’s sword was bloodied and he now faced Oswi who blocked a lunge with his shield and rammed his seax forward, only to have it knocked aside by Cellach’s shield. Cellach was in a battle-rage. He slammed Oswi with his shield, throwing him backwards, then bellowed a challenge at the men in the third rank. One swung an axe, Cellach knocked it aside with his sword, lunged at Beornoth who managed to parry the blade with his seax, and Cellach thrust the shield again. Oswi somehow wriggled free, his right leg mangled by a spear thrust, and Cellach drew his sword back for another lunge. His furious attack had served as a makeshift swine-wedge, and it had gored through my two front ranks. Cellach only had to break through Beornoth and he would be through our line, followed by a mass of men. Our shield wall would be pierced, the battle lost, and Cellach knew it.
‘To me!’ I called to Finan’s men we had kept in reserve, and I ran to the shield wall where Cellach was screaming victory as he hammered Beornoth with his iron-bossed shield. I pushed Beornoth aside and rammed my own shield forward, throwing Cellach back. I was bigger than the Scottish prince, taller, heavier, and just as savage, and my shield hurled him back two paces. He recognised me, he knew me, he even liked me, but he would kill me. He had been my hostage as a child and I had begun his education, teaching him shield-craft and sword-skill, and I had come to like him, but now I would kill him. Finan was beside me, his men behind us, as we pushed forward to fill the gap Cellach had opened. Cellach was fighting with his long-sword, I had Wasp-Sting. ‘Go back, boy,’ I snarled at him, though he was no longer a boy, he was a grown warrior, heir to Scotland’s crown, and he would win this battle for his father and for Anlaf, but a long-sword is no weapon for a shield wall. He stabbed it at me, my shield caught it and I kept the shield going forward, driving his blade back, and that turned him and I rammed the heavy shield further forward and Finan, now on my right, saw the opening and lunged his seax to pierce Cellach’s mail at his waist. Cellach instinctively rammed his shield down to knock away Finan’s seax and so opened his fate to Wasp-Sting. He knew it. He looked at me, he knew he had made a mistake, and there was almost a look of pleading on his face as I slid Wasp-Sting over his shield’s rim to slice his gullet. The blood sprayed into my face, momentarily blinding me, but I felt Cellach drag down Wasp-Sting’s blade as he fell.
‘So much for old men,’ Finan said, then slashed his seax at a bearded, blood-soaked man trying to avenge Cellach. He cut through the man’s wrist, then sliced his blade up to
