The Wolf Sea. Robert Low

about how this boy would not take long.

      He had a shield and a sword and a leather helmet, same as me, but you could see the sword hilt was awkward in a hand that had held only a pick and hammer for five years and he knew it, was fighting the fear and needed to bolster himself as Kvasir shouted: ‘Fight.’

      He half turned his head, to seek the reassurance of his men once more, before bracing for the first stroke – but I was fighting with Gunnar’s best advice ringing in my head.

      Be fast. Be first.

      I was already across the space between us, that perfect, water-flowing blade whirring like a bird startled into flight.

      It was as near perfect a stroke as I have ever done: it took him right on the strap of the helm and cut the knot of it, sliced into the soft flesh under his chin and kept going, even after it hit the bones at the back of his neck.

      I almost took his head in that one stroke, but not quite. He must have seen the flicker of the blade at the last, was trying to duck and draw back in panic, but far too slow, for the blade was through him and he dragged it out by staggering back.

      Then his body fell forward and his head fell down his back, held by a scrap of skin. Blood fountained straight out of his neck, pulsing out of him in great gouts, turning the dust to bloody mud as he clattered to the ground, spattering my boots.

      There was a stunned silence, followed by a brief: ‘Heya,’ from Finn.