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and stepped forward grimly. The Norsemen stood by wordless, their faces showing nothing of what they might feel.
    To his credit, Sweyn faced his death with seeming stoicism, with his lips still pulled back from his tarnished teeth.
    But into the silence of that moment the maiden spoke:
"Don't, Viking! Please!"
Three words in Saxon which no one but he understood. His head moved imperceptibly. He saw her eyes . . . green, eyes the silver-green color of sea swirl. A man could willingly wade neck-deep in such threshing froth. He felt an appeal to something inside himself, a knowing somewhere deep, but failed to comprehend it.
    He looked back at Sweyn, then moved in on him, leading with his left leg again, ready for the closing blow. His sword, gleaming red in the torchlight, swept around.
    But in the last inches he turned it, so that the flat of the weapon, and not its edge, struck Sweyn's neck with a smacking sound.
    There was a moment of confusion among the Norse. They had seen their jarl poised for the death blow that would have ended Sweyn.
    But Thoryn had heard those faint, foreign, feminine words, and now, to his own surprise, he was stepping back from his victim.
    Sweyn's face changed. "Finish it, Jarl! I wish to feast this night with Odin in Valholl, on benches covered with the corselets of my brothers!"
    Thoryn looked at the man unpityingly, then at the maiden. She stood in Rolf's hold, nearly naked except for that thin shift, wrapped in her hair, rampantly feminine, motionless. He felt like a man between two horses, being pulled two ways at once. The feeling made him angry.
    He said, "The fair Saxon pleaded for you, Berserk. Mayhap she wants you to live to bed her after all. Come up with enough gold and I'll sell her to you. Then you can smother her beneath you anytime you wish."
    Sweyn's face, deathly wan, swiveled to the maiden. "Aye, I would smother her. How much?" he growled.
    "Eight half-marks of pure gold." Thoryn knew the price was far beyond anything Sweyn could afford, yet it was close to the price he expected to get for her.
    He signaled the others to help the wounded man before he turned away. Sweyn snarled, "
Barknakarl!
You insult your namesake Thor. I broke my oath to you! Deal me my punishment, Jarl! Is Sweyn Elendsson so much your underling you can't stoop to give him the death he deserves? You've crippled me —now do you leave me to endure pity?"
    But Thoryn, his eyes hooded against all outsiders, only gave his sundered shield a kick as he stalked off to oversee the looting.
    Beware, a voice chimed in his ear, beware, Thoryn, this maiden with sea eyes and hair like tangled, amber water weed!

Chapter Three
    Redheaded Rolf pulled Edin away from the scene. She didn't resist. Her head throbbed; she still felt dazed —and sick. The blood of too many spectacles had been offered to her undiluted.
    On the staircase, where now the air was heavy with the smell of spilled wine, one of the last battles was taking place. An ill-armed housecarl was being backed up the stairs by a great fellow with a barrel chest and four long yellow plaits bound with copper wire. The viking's bare arms, from fingernails to neck, were tattooed with pictures of trees and other things. The iron of his weapon rang like a bell against the housecarl's shortsword. Edin could hear the young man's raw panting. Then to her dismay, he was distracted by the sight of her. He turned his head slightly.
    That was all his golden-bearded attacker needed. The viking swept the man's feet out from under him. As he fell, he spat a perfectly comprehensible profanity . At the same time, the Viking threw his batte-axe back over his head, and with uninhibited cruelty the broad blade came down, swiftly, exact as a drawn line —without feeling, without charity —and clawed the man's skull.
    Edin cried out. The surprise drove her backward. The dead man's legs twitched, then he was quite still. A clinging grayness surrounded Edin, a ringing void came rushing