In unison, a roar of defiance came back. "Cifesborren!" (Son of a whore!" jeered all from the ranks of Sigurdsson's men.

Harold called out the order to attack. "Oraes!" Brithnoth repeated Harold's call. "Oraes!"

The Saxon lines moved in with spears and axes, cutting and thrusting. The lines of Norse warriors stood firm, yet they fell one by one, in man-to-man, hand-to-hand fighting. Men with scramseax and two-handed battle-axes took turns to stab and hack each other to pieces. The Norwegians, with so little armor and too few shields, countered with a fierce resistance that any soldier would be proud of. Heads rolled off shoulders, arms were sliced off as axes swung viciously, and swords swiped and thrust on both sides, giving and taking no quarter. They fought like men possessed by devils, each the focus of the other. The cries of pain were never noticed; only the anger of men in the heat of battle was suffered, as they ferociously hacked away at each other, oblivious to all except their personal survival at any one moment. The blood of the dead and dying washed the field up to the ankles of those still standing. The spilled intestines of sometimes, still alive men, caught in the feet of those reaching for glory, often being entangled in the gory, filth ridden organs, causing them to fall; allowing them to be hacked down from above. The strewn brains of once brave warriors made the ground slimy as if walking on a field of jelly.

Sigurdsson stood firm next to his Land-Ravager standard waiting for Eystein Orri to arrive, hopefully soon, with armor and fresh troops, but they were at least three hours away.

Just thirty paces away. King Harald Sigurdsson espied Harold, King of the English, in the thick of the battle, cutting down all before him.

Harold Godwinson noticed the Norwegian king. Godwinson stared briefly in fierce defiance; when both men made a swath toward the other, hacking and cutting their way free, each trying to make a route to the other so that they could fight it out personally.

A hail of arrows filled the air from the Saxon forces as the killing continued apace. Having no recognition of friend or foe, the arrows pierced the flesh of both sides indiscriminately.

Sigurdsson was grinning, clearly enjoying the hand-to-hand fighting, and taking the lives of brave men as they fought to subdue him. He sang as he swung his mighty battle-axe, spurring his personal bodyguard to further efforts of bravery.

"Odin will see you in Valhalla. His housecarls will welcome his brave new warriors. The fields green, and pain, hunger and strife will no longer taunt you. Riches abound for the bravest of you!" the Norwegian king sang as he cut down yet another Saxon.

Sigurdsson once more saw Harold, just ten paces from him. "Come and meet my beloved blade, usurper. It's wanting to taste your blood!"

Harold fought fiercely, cutting down the Norwegian housecarls, his lungs filling with the expired air of the dead and dying. The stench of blood and intestinal contents went unnoticed, making steady progress towards Sigurdsson.

In the blue cloudless sky, an arrow flew, spinning, as if its trajectory and destiny were assured as it fell earth-bound. The arrow struck its target; it was the end. Sigurdsson clutched his throat in shock, his hands fumbling to pull out the arrow, but it was too late, his jugular was severed and he fell to the ground, dead.

Sigurdsson's housecarls fought on until the last man stood, only to be hacked down by a Saxon housecarl in a fierce hand-to-hand fight that saw both men die as their axes sliced through each other simultaneously.

Harold, breathless, gazed about the carnage, to see the butchered remains of the many thousands that lay dead and dying before him. He dropped to his knees and crossed himself.

"We have the field! We have the field and a glorious victory!" Brithnoth bellowed.

Harold was so relieved they had defeated the mighty Norwegian king.

Brithnoth, who was covered in the blood and the gore of other men's intestines, approached him. Both men were exhausted, and together, they gazed upon the slaughter before them, and saw that so many of their best warriors had fallen, and they gazed about realizing that they'd lost too many of their personal friends.

Brithnoth embraced his king, more to comfort him for their losses than for their victory.

Harold turned to the men left standing. Most were bent double, taking in deep breaths of stench-filled air.

"Brithnoth, we've defeated the greatest army the world has ever known. It was our good fortune to have caught them without their full arms and shields. Yet I fear the battle is not over yet, for I know there will be more enemies on their way here," Harold said breathlessly, yet full of elation, until an odd feeling overcame him; the scene was surreal. Harold shook his head and returned to cerebral normality, feeling relived that he wasn't dead.

"My lord?" Brithnoth replied with an inquisitive look.

"Come on, Brithnoth; get a grip. The lack of shields and the poor equipment they carried was not their usual manner. We caught them off guard. Soon we'll engage the rest of Sigurdsson's forces. They'll come that way, from the ships on the Derwent. We must rest and then prepare for the next round that's sirre to come," Harold said looking unsure about what to do next.

"I know this territory well, Harold. If the rest of Sigurdsson's forces are moored at the mouth of the Derwent, and I suspect they will be, then they have a full morning's walk to reach us, and it's all up hill, too. The day is hot, and they'll have full armor and that of their comrades to carry for the men who now lie dead here. We're bloodied and ready, with fire in our bellies for a fight," Brithnoth said grinning broadly.

"By the rounds of Odin's balls, you're right! Muster the men. Get them rested, and then prepare them for another attack from the left side. Take your best men to the ridge, hide below the other side, and we'll surprise their forces with an attack from the rear. My housecarls will lure them in with a feigned retreat then backtrack to crush them. They'll have no escape, except to the river," Harold said with a tone of inspiration in his voice.

"You're not my king for nothing. My Lord. Look, here comes Ulf, and he's grinning, too!"

"He was eight years old when I last saw him grin. He crapped in my porridge. I should have killed him stone dead. Though, I had my own back. I had a turd inserted into his sausage," Harold recalled gleefully, and they both roared with laughter, almost falling to the ground in stitches with glee.

"What's so funny? Has someone found out we fought the wrong army or something?" Ulf asked, who was now totally bemused?

"Had any sausages lately?" Brithnoth enquired falling about and hardly containing himself with his laughter he fell to his knees guffawing profusely.

"My lord, what is Brithnoth mumbling about?" Ulf asked pointing his finger towards Brithnoth. He removed his helmet and scratched the back of his head.

Harold fell to his knees beside Brithnoth in laughter, unable to contain his amusement.

"Turd, turd, turd," Brithnoth mumbled in Harold's ear. The laughter continued for a full minute, before at last they were able to raise themselves to their feet.

"Oh, its nothing," Harold replied as he threw a wink towards Brithnoth who was trying hard to raise himself from the blood sodden earth.

Leofwine, Swein and Gyrth ambled over to where Harold stood.

"Ah, my esteemed brothers, I'm pleased to see that you're all safe. Is anyone here injured?" Harold asked, and seeing that his brother's were unhurt, continued. "Now we have another problem," Harold said, and filled in the details to them of what was to come.

"I'm sure we could cope with a second attack, but we need an hour's rest," Ulf said.