“You are no common man who tells me this,” said Hrolf low. “I will go by your rede.”
After they had broken their fast, he found mild words which turned back the fifty warriors who had shivered most. Later no one could quite remember how the speech went or why none felt this a slur. When the rest were ready to go, they thanked the yeoman and bade him live well.
Onward they rode, over hills where the pinewoods reared and dales where the snow had drifted thick. As the cloudiness left their minds, they talked about who, or what, had been their host, and why. At last Bjarki said gruffly, “Well, more than men and beasts can flit through a wilderness, as I have good cause to know. They need not be unfriendly. … Although,” he added after a bit, and cast a glance toward the king’s helmet before him, “keeping them friendly can be a tricky thing.”
At eventide they came again upon a clearing where stood a garth and a tall old man who wore a broad-brimmed hat and a blue cloak. His house was likewise hard to make out in the shadowiness around. A mumble went among them, a prickling through them. King Hrolf drew rein and clapped hand to the sword Skofnung.
“Greeting, lord,” laughed the yeoman. “Why do you come so often?”
The king answered steadfastly: “We know not what kind of sleight is being used on us. You’re an eldritch one.”
“I will not receive you ill this time either,” said the yeoman.
The king looked back down the lines of his men. “Best we stay, since we are asked,” he told them. “Night comes on apace.”
Once inside, nobody wondered much, and the hospitality was good. Erelong they laid themselves to sleep.
They were awakened by such a thirst that the tongues could hardly move in their heads. A mead barrel stood at one end of the room. Everyone went there and drank deep, save the king and his twelve captains.
In the morning, Hrani the yeoman said: “Again, lord, hearken to me. I think there’s scant hardihood in those fellows who had to drink during the night. Worse trouble must they withstand when they reach King Adhils.”
Nothing could be done right away, for a blizzard had sprung up. Blind whiteness shrieked around the house. Strongly were those walls timbered, not to groan beneath that wind. The men sat and listened to Hrani spin such wonderful tales that the day seemed very short—“as if somehow we’d ridden out of time,” Svipdag mumbled to his brothers.
About sundown the storm ended. Less snow had fallen than one would have awaited; travel should be possible next day. Hrani brought in wood and stoked the fire. It blazed strangely swiftly, high and higher, red and blue awhirl over a white-hot bed, roaring as loud as the weather had done. Heat went in waves over the men where they sat. They shifted well back. King Hrolf remembered the vow he had taken when he was young, never to flee from iron or fire. He stayed where he was, and his captains beside him, though sweat rivered off them and it felt as if their eyes must soon boil.
A single light gleamed from under Hrani’s hat. “Again, lord,” he said, “you must make a choice out of your following. My rede is that none go on from here save you and these twelve. Then it may be that you can come home; otherwise not.”
Heat-dazed, King Hrolf tried to speak firmly: “I’ve such a mind about you, yeoman, that I think I’d better heed your words.”
The flames soon dwindled. That night the men slept well, aside from uneasy dreams.
In the morning, Hrolf sent home his remaining fifty, together with the berserkers. Again, none cried out against this order until afterward, far too late. Mounted, the king said to the yeoman: “It may be that I have much to thank you for.”
“It may be you can repay me sometime,” answered Hrani.
“Farewell until then,” said Hrolf. His hawk fluttered
wings at sight of two ravens aloft; his hound growled at the nearby howl of a wolf. In a while woodlands had hidden that garth in snow and silence.
They rode on: Hrolf, King of Denmark, bound to redeem his riches because in them lay his honor and, he hoped, revenge for his father; Bjarki, the werebear’s son; Hjalti, who had gotten his manhood from the blood and heart of a troll; Svipdag, whose one eye peered from years agone to days ahead; Hvitserk, Beigadh, Hromund, Hrolf the namesake, Haaklang, Hrefill, Haaki. Hvatt, Starulf, men whose starkness no fiend or god could daunt, hawks upon their shoulders and looking out of their souls. Bright were their helmets and spearheads across winterwan heaven, bright their mail and cloaks across darkling green boughs and blue-shadowed whiteness; they hardly felt the chill that made their breaths fog and their saddles creak. Yet this was no great troop to bring against the king of Svithjodh and the weirdness he commanded.
Entering that land, crossing open fields where farmsteads and hamlets were many, sometimes needing to be ferried, they were seen. Though they named themselves no longer, word about them may well have flown ahead and Adhils have guessed the truth. Or maybe he peered into one of his cauldrons and saw a thing in the steam or heard a thing in the seething. One twilight he said to the queen beside him, but for all to hear: “I learn that King Hrolf Helgisson is on his way to us.”
Yrsa gasped before she could clap a shield down over her face.
“It is well, it is well,” smiled Adhils; “for surely he shall get such a reward for his trouble, before we part, that the tale of it will travel far.”
III
At last King Hrolf and his warriors came riding over the Fyris Wolds. Those meadows lay streaked with dusty old snow, otherwise brown and hard-frozen, thudding under hoofs. Ahead was the river, and on the high western bank Uppsala town, crowned by the temple. Its roof
upon roof lifted into a bleached heaven, gold aglitter; but behind, the trees of the holy shaw were skeleton-bare. A few crows flapped and cawed through the breeze.
Hrolf lifted a horn slung from his shoulder and blew three blasts, deep and long as the challenge of a bull wisent. Striking spurs to horse, he broke into a gallop. His men came straight after, a gleam of mail and of spearheads which moved like waves, a winging of cloaks red and blue and tawny across that winter land. When they went over the bridge, its planks thundered beneath them.
Folk clustered in watchtowers and on walkways of the stockade, to see so bold a sight. The gates stood open; nobody knew any reason to fear thirteen strangers, however well-armed. Hrolf understood that he must not for an eyeblink act as if this broad and crowded town daunted him. Up the road, through the gates, along the ruts between walls, he sped. Men, women, children, wagoners, swine, dogs, hens must scramble alike to get out of the way. Angry shouts followed him. But none dared launch a spear, especially since he was clearly aimed at the royal hall.
The gates to that garth stood likewise wide. Guardsmen filled it, spilling into the yard beyond, a moon-field of shields. None drew weapon, however; and men of the household waited in good clothes, smiles smeared over their mouths.
The Danes drew rein. Their horses reared, their hawks spread feathers across which sunlight ran, the hound Gram bayed once. Svipdag cried: “Tell King Adhils that here to guest is Hrolf Helgisson, King of the Danes!”
“Welcome, welcome,” said the spokesman for the Swedes. He did not seem astounded at the news. “I am honored in greeting so famous a man and his followers.” He let his gaze pass quite slowly among them. “Surely King Adhils is as sorry as I am, that you bring this few for him to give hospitality to.”
“We have brought enough.”
“Ah … Svipdag Svipsson … yes. You have come back, eh?”
“I said I would.”
“Will you follow me, then?”
They rode among the buildings to the stables. Grooms took their bridles. As he dismounted, Bjarki said, “You fellows make sure neither the manes nor the tails of our horses be unkempt. Stall them well and have a care that they not get dirty.”
The spokesman flushed at this—that here might be less than the best—and signed to a boy, who scuttled off. Thereafter he held the Danes in talk for a bit, asking about their journey. Meanwhile the boy entered the hall and told King Adhils what had happened thus far.
The lord of Svithjodh smote the arm of his high seat and grated: “Hard is it to bear, how toplofty and overweening they are! Bring back my word to the head groom and see that he does as I bid. Chop the tails off those horses, right next to the rump, and cut the manes off so the scalp comes too. Then stable them in every way as badly as you can, and let them barely stay alive.”
The boy louted low and slipped away. Adhils settled into his chair. He quivered. Likewise did the weavings lately hung along the walls.
Soon the Danes were brought to the hall. None stood at its cave-mouth door to greet them as would have been fitting. Their guide smirked, “The king awaits you within,” and left.
Hjalti clapped hand to sword. “They dare treat our lord like this!”
Hrolf looked across the yard. The guardsmen had withdrawn too but stood under the stockade, rank upon mail-clad rank. “Don’t start anything,” he murmured. “Our coming was not quite the surprise we hoped for.”
Svipdag tugged his drooping mustache and said: “Yes, I was afraid of this. Let me go in first. I know this house from aforetime, and I’ve a nasty suspicion about how they mean to receive us. Now listen—whatever happens, let none give out which of us is King Hrolf. That’d make him a target, not alone for every edge and point if things come to that, but for any witchcraft Adhils may have cooked up.”
The king sighed. “I suppose I should be glad that not
even my mother has met us,” he said. “Across the years, she may still have known me.” He straightened. “Well, no dawdling, or they’ll think we’re afraid.”
Svipdag rested his ax across the right shoulder—his hawk sat on the left—and trod between the grinning figures on the doorposts. After him came his brothers Hvitserk and Beigadh, then Bjarki and Hrolf, then the rest mingled together.
The foreroom was broad and dim. Svipdag passed on into the main chamber. That was like stepping into night, so gloomy was it. Barely did he see great changes everywhere. The fire-trenches gaped cold. A few rushlights flickered in brackets set far apart, to pick out weavings of heavy cloth. Otherwise the hall reached empty, altogether silent. In the freezing dark, it felt still more vast than it was, as if those rows of wavering blue flamelets dwindled on and on till they met at some edge of the world.
Svipdag strode forward, an iron glimmer. His friends stayed close behind. Whisperings went through the hush around them. All at once Svipdag tottered backward. “A pit!” he warned. “I nearly fell in.”
Using their weapons as feeling-stocks, the Danes found that, while it seemed to stretch across the room, the trap was not too broad for men such as they to overleap. They did, and went on.
Next it was as if spiderwebs dropped around them. They were tangled in sticky nets, unseen and cable-strong. Something giggled. “Strike out,” said Svipdag. As cold iron hewed, the strands fell away.
A thing walked toward them. It had the shape of a dead giant-woman—they saw the grave-mould and the lightless eyes—whose skin moved upon her bones and whose hands reached out to strangle. Svipdag’s laughter jarred. “He finds less and less to offer us, the good Adhils,” he said, and chopped at her. His ax met emptiness; she was gone.
When they covered some yards more, another shape hove in sight. High on his seat spread the gross form of the Swede-King. They could hardly see him, away off in dimness amidst monstrous shadows. Svipdag raised an
arm to signal a halt. It looked as if further pitfalls lay ahead.
The eyes of Adhils, hidden from them in the blur of his face, could better stab through the murk he had made than could theirs. He called in mockery: “Well, at last you’ve returned, eh, Svipdag, my friend? Hm, hm, what errand has the warrior? Is it not as it seems to me, that bowed is your neck, one eye not there, wrinkled your brow, hands bearing scars, and Beigadh your brother limps on both legs?”
Svipdag stiffened. He knew he appeared older than he was; and Beigadh had taken wounds in Hrolf’s service such that he no longer walked as easily as most. Therefore Svipdag’s answer was harsh as well as loud. “In accord with what you promised me, King Adhils, I crave safety for these twelve men who here are gathered together.”
“That they shall have. Now come into the hall briskly and in manly wise, calmer-hearted than you have shown yourselves hitherto.”
“Don’t let him goad you into rashness,” Hrolf whispered.
“Keep ready to form a shield-burg,” Bjarki added, “for I think those weavings on the walls bulge forward, as if armed men were behind.”
The Danes thus went ahead with care, and found another trench they must spring over. Then they were near the high seat. Runic signs rippled on the cloths, as a fighter in mail stormed forth from behind each one.
“Make a ring!” roared Bjarki. There was no need; everybody knew what to do. Shield by shield, they stood against thrice their number.
Hrolf cast his spear. A Swede stumbled when it took him in the neck. More shafts flew, till the attackers closed. Through the air hissed the swords Skofnung, Lövi, Goldhilt, and their kin. High lifted the ax of Svipdag, whirling overhead till he struck across the shoulder of Hromund who shielded him. Metal boomed. The shield of that Swede dropped off a numb arm. The ax slewed about and its butt stove in his temple.
A tall man came at Bjarki. The Norseman brought his shield forward, to hook its rim behind that of his foe. He shoved to make an opening in the defense. Through this his edge smote; and a head rolled over the floor.
Hjalti’s blade rang and sparked upon another. In blow after blow he beat it aside, got the brief chance he wanted, sliced inward and crippled a wrist. As that man howled and lurched back, Hjalti slew him. Meanwhile King Hrolf crouched, shield on high, and chopped the leg from beneath an attacker. The rest of his men struck and stabbed. Their hawks had flown to the rafters, but the hound Gram slashed with fangs, himself too swiftly dancing about to be wounded.
In din and shouting, the Danes cast back the Swedes. As these reeled in disorder, the thirteen made a wedge and charged them. Weapons played like flames. Dead and maimed lay strewn around, the darkness echoed to cries of pain. On Hrolf and his captains stood hardly a mark. “Kill them!” bawled Bjarki. “Cut them down like any other dogs!”