Canute's weapon had need to dart like a northern light. The noble and one of
the soldiers had forced their way to the side from which Thorkel had been
riven, and a third threatened him from the rear. Three blades stabbed at him
as with one motion.

It was a strange thing that saved him,--Randalin could explain it least of
all. But in a lightning flash it was burnt into her mind that, while her
King's sword was a match for the two in front of him, the one behind was going
to deal him his death. And even as she thought it, she found that she had
thrown herself across her horse's neck and thrust out her sword-arm,--out with
the force of frenzy and down into the shoulder of the Englishman. In a kind of
dazed wonder, she saw his blade fall from his grasp and his eyes roll up at
her, as he staggered backwards.

Canute laughed out, "Well done, Berserker!" and redoubled his play against
those before him.

A turn of his wrist disarmed the soldier, and his point touched the young
noble's breast; but before he could lunge, the mighty figure of Edmund rose
close at hand, his blade heaved high above his head.

For such a stroke there was no parry. A kingdom seemed to be passing. Canute
threw his shield before him, while his spur caused his horse to swerve
violently; but the blade cleft wood and iron and golden plating like
parchment, and falling on the horse's neck, bit it to the bone. Rearing and
plunging with pain, the animal crashed into those behind him, missed his
footing and fell, entangling his rider in the trappings. Bending over him, the
Ironside struck again.