“How many men?” asked Guthmund.
“They thought—the ones who escaped and rode to meet us—about two thousand. Not the whole York army. None of the other Ragnarssons there. Only Ivar and his lot.”
“We could take them if we were at full strength,” said Guthmund. “Bunch of criminals. Gaddgedlar. Broken men.” He spat.
“We aren’t at full strength.”
“But we will be soon,” went on Guthmund. “If Ivar knows about the gold, I bet everyone in that camp knew about it first. They were probably all pissed drunk celebrating when he turned up. As soon as their heads clear, the ones who got away will head straight for the meeting ground at March. We meet them there, we’re at full strength, or damn near. Then we’ll settle Ivar’s lot. You can have Ivar yourself, Brand. You have a score to pay.”
Brand grinned. It was hard, Shef reflected, to scare these people. They had to be killed, one at a time, till they were all dead, to defeat them. Unfortunately that was what was likely to happen.
“What about the English behind us?” he asked.
Brand sobered again, drawn from his dream of single combat.
“They should be a lot less of a problem. We’ve always beaten them. But if they come up on us from behind while we’re engaged with Ivar… We need time. Time to pick up the rest of the army at March. Time to settle Ivar’s hash.”
Shef thought of his vision. We have to throw them something they want, he reflected. Not treasure. Brand would never let go of it.
The old king’s whetstone from the barrow was still in his belt. He pulled it out, stared at the bearded, crowned faces carved on each end. Savage faces, full of the awareness of power. Kings have to do things other men would not. So do leaders. So do jarls. They had said there would be a price to be paid for the hoard. Maybe this was it. When he looked up he saw Sigvarth was staring round-eyed at the weapon that had beaten out the brains of his son.
“The causeway,” said Shef hoarsely. “A few men can block it against the English for a long time.”
“They could,” Brand agreed. “But they will have to be led by one of us. A leader. One who is used to independent command. One who can rely on his own men. Maybe a long hundred of them.”
For long moments the silence was unbroken. Whoever stayed behind was as good as dead. This was asking a lot—even of these Vikings.
Sigvarth stared at Shef coldly, waiting for him to speak. But it was Brand’s voice that broke the silence.
“There is one here who has a full crew to back him. One who made the heimnar that now is carried toward us by the English….”
“Do you speak of me, Brand? Do you ask me to set my feet and those of my men on the path to Hell?”
“Yes, Sigvarth, I speak of you.”
Sigvarth started to answer, then turned and looked towards Shef. “Yes, I will do it. I feel that the runes are already cut that tell of this. You said my son’s death was the will of the Norns. I think the Norns are weaving fates together on this causeway too. And not the Norns alone.”
He raised his eyes to meet his son’s.
The front ranks of the army of the Mark, hurrying on through the night in pursuit of their fleeing enemies, fell into Sigvarth’s trap an hour after sunset. In twenty heartbeats of slaughter the Englishmen, packed ten abreast on the narrow causeway through the marsh, lost half a hundred picked champions. The rest—weary, wet, hungry, furious with their leaders—fell back in confusion, not even coming on again to recover the bodies and their armor. For an hour Sigvarth’s men, standing tensely ready, heard them shouting and haranguing each other. Then, slowly, the noise of men retreating. Not frightened. Unsure. Wondering if there was a way round. Waiting for orders. Leaving it to the next man. Ready for a night’s sleep, even in a sodden blanket on the ground, before risking precious life against something unknown.