Bjorn Ironside stood in the cleared center of the mead hall and watched his sword come apart in his hand. The blade snapped two finger-widths above the crossguard. The broken half spun across the rushes and stuck in a bench leg. The champion he was fighting stared at it, then at Bjorn, then lifted his axe again. Bjorn killed him with the hilt and a knee to the throat. Three champions down. He did not know how many were left, only that he would die in this hall if he lost one. He dragged the body out of the fighting ring himself. The old jarl's men had built the ring before Bjorn ever arrived: heavy iron bars sunk into the floorboards, a low panel wall, a gate that locked from outside. A cage for bears, once. Now a cage for him. The smoke-blackened oak rafters were the only part of the hall he respected. Everything under them belonged to a jarl who sent a messenger to watch other men die for him. Bjorn knelt by the bench and worked the broken half free. He set the two pieces together on the rushes. The hilt still held its grip-wrap, and the guard was sound, but the steel was finished. His mail was split at the shoulder. His shield was cracked through the boss. He had carried this gear across four winters and three sea-crossings, and it had carried him as far as it could. He stood and walked to the wall where the old jarl kept his armory stand. A tall rack of dark wood and iron crossbars, hung with spears, long-knives, and three good swords in worn leather. Bjorn took down the heaviest sword and tested the balance. He took a round shield with a fresh iron rim. He stripped his split mail off over his head and dropped it on the rushes beside the broken blade. Then he picked up the broken hilt and set it on top of the rack, crossguard out, where the next champion would see it on the way in. Let them know what the last man cost him. Let them know he was using the jarl's own steel now. The gate scraped open. A new champion ducked through, a huge shape in a brown cloak of torn sacking and matted fur, taller than any man Bjorn had fought. The messenger stood behind him in the doorway and finally spoke. He said the jarl had sent for fighters from outside the hall. He said there would be no more champions from the household. After this one, the jarl would name his terms. Bjorn lifted the borrowed sword and stepped back into the ring.