The bandit chief, crouched behind a jut of rock, watched the enemy with narrowing eyes. After a spell of wary observation, he realized what kind of foe they faced. These men, who at first glance looked like a ragged mob clothed in filthy tatters, were in truth encased in iron beneath their grime-streaked cloaks.
"Cease fire! Fall back—quickly!"
Outnumbered and outmatched in both arms and armor, the chief gave the only order that made sense. They withdrew in a scramble up the narrow mountain path toward their stockade. When the roll was called, his heart sank—the ambush had cost them sixty men.
"Cursed, treacherous Norse devils!" he spat. "Four hundred mailed warriors to storm a bandit's lair—may the gods rot them for their cowardice!"
He drank deep from a gourd of cold water, trying to steady his nerves, then shouted for the men to pack what they could carry. Yet before they could flee, more than twenty Vikings appeared at the gate, their iron helms glinting through the dust.
