One of the slaves from the stone-throwers was tugging at Sigvarth’s sleeve, talking in broken Norse.
“We go now,” he said. “No more rocks. Master Shef, he said, shoot till rocks gone, then go. Cut ropes, throw machines in swamp. Go now!”
Sigvarth nodded, watching the puny figure scamper away. Now he had his own honor to think of. His own destiny to fulfill. He walked forward toward the front line of the fighters, clapping men on the shoulder. “Move,” he said to each one. “Get your horse. Get out of this now. Ride straight for March and they won’t catch you.”
His helmsman Vestlithi hesitated as Sigvarth tapped him, “Who’s bringing your horse, jarl? You’ll have to move quick.”
“I have something to do yet. Go, Vestlithi. This is my fate, not yours.”
As the feet splashed away behind him, Sigvarth faced the five leading champions of the Mark, probing suspiciously forward, made wary of every opportunity by a long day of slaughter.
“Come on,” he called to them. “Only me!”
As the foot of the center man slipped, he leapt forward with appalling speed, slashed, countered, thrust sword through beard, leapt back again, feinting from one side to the other as the enraged Englishmen closed in.
“Come on!” he shouted, yelling again the words of Ragnar’s death-song, which Ivar Ragnarsson’s skald had made:
” ‘We struck with the sword. Sixty times and one
I have fought in the front when foemen clashed.
Never yet have I met—young though I started
To mar the mailcoats—my match in battle.
The gods will greet me. I grieve not for death.’ ”
Over the clash of combat, one man against an army, Wulfgar’s deep tones carried.
“Take him alive! Pin him with shields! Take him alive!”
I must let them do it, thought Sigvarth as he whirled and slashed. I have not bought my son quite enough time. But there is a way to buy him yet one more night.
It will be a long one for me.