More loudly than the beast roared Bodhvar-Bjarki. His sword shrieked, thundered, belled, crashed. Here a head went, a hand, a leg; there a shield or helmet gave way, and the bones behind; one foeman toppled across the next, and his arms were bloody to the shoulders. Nothing did he want but to fell as many as might be before he also went down.
Hrolf Kraki no longer laughed. He only struck. Hjalti
stayed near, trying to fend blows off his king. The rest of the Leidhra men fought no less boldly.
Yet as darkness gathered, it did not seem that their slaying made less the flock of their enemies. Bjarki knew one warrior from of old, when the kingdom was whole. This man was now Hjörvardh’s and came at him. Worn out, many times wounded, the Norseman did not ward himself well. He felt a spear strike home through a rent in his byrnie, though that was a dull and far-off knowledge. His sword split a shield. For a while he and the man traded blows. Bjarki cut off an arm and a foot, and with a backhand return cleft the fellow through the breast. He fell so fast he did not even sigh.
The strife brawled on. Hrolf Kraki’s warriors were steadily driven backward. Bjarki met the same man as before. The thing grinned at him; its eyes were empty; still it struck. Bjarki stood fast till the tide of battle parted them. This was not the only time he came upon such a being.
Those of Hrolf’s captains who lived, sounded their horns. Those of his followers who could, joined each other before the gates of Leidhra. There, for a little while, they held their ground, hewing so heavily through murk that the host before them fell back from their throats. For a few breaths, then, they got rest.
Bjarki knew Hjalti in the gloom and croaked: “Mighty is our foe. I think the dead are swarming here and rising anew; and bootless it is to struggle against drows. Where is the man of King Hrolf who called me afraid?”
Hjalti answered: “You tell the truth, you say no scorn. Here stands he who hight Hjalti, nor is the way between us wide. I feel a need of fearless friends, for shield and byrnie and helm are shorn from off me, oath-brother. And though I’m slaying as often as always, I cannot avenge those cuts I take. Now less than ever may we spare ourselves.”
Through the gates streamed the last of the Leidhra folk. Their king and a few others held the way—until the troll-boar came. Its thrust drove shields into ribs; men tumbled, men reeled aside. Bjarki stepped to meet the
beast. His sword Lövi flared like a shooting star. The boar sank dead. First it had rammed a tusk through the marshal’s ring-mail.
“Greatest is my grief,” rattled in his mouth, “that I can’t help my lord—”
Hjalti gave him an arm to lean on. He staggered nine paces before he fell. The shields around King Hrolf drew inside the stockade. Their enemies followed. Forth darted a slight shape. “I’ll hold them!” screeched Vögg. A warrior barked laughter and swung an ax. It did not go through the kettle-helmet, but Vögg toppled, stunned.
Still the fight went on. The Bjarkamaal has Hjalti call out:
“Our lives have we lost, our last horn drained.
To death are we given, to doom our hopes.
We shall not see yet another sunrise—
unless among us, all manhood lacking,
one grew fearful and fled the battle
or does not die at the feet of his lord
but cravenly crawls to beg for ruth.
The burg is breached and the foe storms inward,
the din of axes is on our doors;
bitten too often, our byrnies hang ragged,
baring our breasts to the manyfold blows,
shattered our shields and hacked our shoulders.
Wildly the weapons crash and clang.
Who is so heartless that hence he would flee?
Men I see fallen upon the field,
battered and broken the bones of their jaws;
teeth lie ablink in the running blood,
like stones in a stream that laves their bodies.
Few are the folk I have left beside me,
though far from my king I will not fare.
Hard is our need, and help is not coming.
Our shields have been gnawed to nothing but handgrips,
our weapons blunted, and we made weary.
Then wrap around wrists the golden rings
we got from our lord in goodlier days
that the wealth he gave may give weight to the blow!
In weal and in woe we did well with our king,
and even in hell will uphold his honor.
Let us die in the doing of deeds for his sake;
let fright itself run afraid from our shouts;
let weapons measure the warrior’s worth.
Though life is lost, one thing will outlive us:
memory sinks not beneath the mould.
Till the Weird of the World stands unforgotten,
high under heaven, the hero’s name.”
Dying, Bjarki lay on the frozen earth. Hjalti knelt above him. The marshal peered skyward and mumbled, “Here are so many gathered against us that we have no hope of holding them off. But Odin have I not seen. I think he must be hovering somewhere around, the son of a troll, the foul and faithless. Could I only know where he is, that wretch would go home with a wound to make him howl, for what he has done to our king.”
“It is not easy to bend a doom,” said Hjalti, “nor to stand against overhuman might.” After a while he closed Bjarkf’s eyes and got stiffly up to meet his own death. The last warriors of King Hrolf made a ring around him. Skuld herself had come through the night. Sheerly mad, she cried forth monster after monster. Before that tide of witchiness, which they did not know save as horrible shadows and stenches, snarling and fangs, the guards and the great captains went down. Hrolf Kraki trod out from the breaking shield-burg. Man after man he felled. No one of them slew him; it took them all.
When she had her victory, Skuld made haste to send her trolls back whence they came and bid her dead lie quiet. Thereafter, by torchlight she sought her husband and hailed him High King of Denmark. That was in a few flat words, for she and he alike were too weary for happiness. They sought shelter in the hall. Darkness and stillness owned the burg Leidhra, save where Vögg woke alone and wept.
I
Later that night it began to snow, and this went on the whole following day and evening. It walled in the world, made earth and sky one, filled the utterly hushed air. The snow lay heavy on every roof, on trampled, bloodied ground, on heaped and strewn dead as if to hide them from the ravens.
Forth into the dim morning went the women of Leidhra. Drifa Hrolfsdottir led them. They wore cowls which hid their faces. With besoms to uncover the fallen, they sought their men and, as these were found, helped each other bring them home. King Hjörvardh gave orders that nobody was to trouble them. It may have been needless. The wildest robber, leaning on his spear as he stood guard, must have felt awe of those dumb shapes which moved in and out of the blindness tumbling everywhere around him. Too much had happened yesterday that was eerie. Too high had the cost been. Winning was ashen.
Those who saw the queen return from the tent she had sought, near the day’s end, felt yet more unease. She went like a sleepwalker, green eyes staring blankly, narrow face pinched. The snow on her uncovered hair made her look old.
Within the hall, her husband drew her aside, into a corner away from the woefully trudging housefolk. “Well, what signs did you get?” he whispered. His fingers plucked at her cloak.
“Bad ones,” she said, her tone empty, her gaze afar. “Over and over I cast the runes. Always they came up
direful. When I gazed in the cauldron, I got no sight or hearing save that … that far off in a highland, someone bellowed till the mountains tolled back his grief and wrath; and he was not human. … I think maybe we have been used, you and I.” She shook herself. Her eyes cleared, her head lifted. Haughtiness rang forth: “Well, we are the king and queen of Denmark. Let the world know that!”
Hjörvardh must needs hold a feast at eventide, wherein he thanked his warriors and bestowed gifts on them. It was not a merry time. The hall seemed huge and hollow. The highest-leaping fires could not drive night out of it nor fill a silence which grunted talk failed to deck over. Though King Hrolf’s guests were unable to go home in this weather, nearly every one of them had found lodging with a widow of a man of his, or with common families who likewise mourned their lord, and was not on hand. Aside from thralls, no women sat on the benches or bore around food and drink. Shadows stirred like the ghosts of those who had been here aforetime, crowding in on their huddled-together shabby killers. The fire-crackle was like an echo of their laughter. The air was cold and stale, as if this were the inside of a barrow.
“Hu,” shivered Hjörvardh, and drank and drank. They came before him for their wages of gold and land, the hirelings, the outlanders, the outlaws, the Danish nithings,
his
men, and he must praise them, the whole while remembering those others. Queen Skuld’s shrill mirth woke no answer in him.
When he had done what he must, and heard a skald he had brought along say a few lame staves in his honor, he was quite drunk. Suddenly he filled his lungs and cried forth:
“Well have you wrought, my fighters, yes, yes, that you have. But what a wonder it is to me, that not a one of King Hrolf’s many warriors saved his own life by flight or surrender. Not a one. Am I right? See how faithfully they loved their lord … they didn’t even want to outlive him. Eh? Unlucky am I—oh, I say nothing against you, my good men, not a word, never misunderstand me—
but am I not unlucky … might it not take away the bane … if just one of those brave fellows lived, and would become true to me? I do want to be a righteous king…. Lives there a man of Hrolf Kraki’s, and will he now come under my banner?”
Skuld frowned. Those on the benches muttered sourly.
Then: “Aye, my lord. I outlived yestereven,” called a cracked voice. From the foreroom limped a thin, shock-headed youth in a leather doublet grimed and blood-clotted. Awkwardly he made his way down the length of the hall till he stood before the high seat.
Queen Skuld sharpened her look. “You, a man of my brother’s?” she said. “Who are you?”
“I hight Vögg, my lord and lady. I … I own I am—I was not the best of them. But I did help them when they met King Adhils, and I, I was there yesterday, and am only alive because I happened to get kn-kn-knocked out.”
“Will you become my man?” asked Hjörvardh.
“I’ve nowhere else to go, and, and you did win, my lord.”
“Why, this is at least a hopeful sign!” Hjörvardh had a sword on his lap. He drew it. “Yes, a sign, wouldn’t you say, Skuld, my dear? What was doesn’t forever make war on what is. Ha.” He nodded, much taken with his own wise saying. “Well, Vögg,” he went on before his wife could speak, though she tried to cut him off, “you shall be most welcome, Vögg, and do better with me than it seems you did with my brother-in-law. Yes.” He held forth the blade. “Swear me troth upon this my sword, and you shall, um, shall know at once how good I am.”
The newcomer squared his narrow shoulders. “Lord, I can’t do that. We did not swear earlier on the point. It was on the hilt. King Hrolf was wont to hand men his sword and let them hold it before him while they plighted faith.”
“Eh? Hm? Well—”
“No!” Skuld began. But Hjörvardh had already leaned down, Vögg had already taken the steel from him.
“Now give your faith,” Hjörvardh said.
“Yes, lord,” said Vögg steadily. “Here it is.”
He lunged. The point rammed into the king’s breast. For an eyeblink Hjörvardh gaped astounded at his own blood leaping. He crumpled. His body rolled and flopped to sprawl on the ground.
Skuld shrieked. The guards howled and snatched out their own blades. Vögg went to meet them. While they slaughtered him, he laughed and called out the name of Hrolf Kraki.
II
Over the heights of the Keel, through wilderness, across plowland where folk shuddered to see him, swifter than any war-horse sped the great ungainly shape of Elk-Frodhi. No snowbank or blizzard could halt him; his shortsword slashed whatever he needed to eat and he gulped as he fared; he seldom rested, and never for long. Within a few days he had reached that hall in West Götaland where dwelt King Thori Hound’s-Foot.
The warriors aimed spears and bows at this horror which galloped toward them. Frodhi stopped and roared for his brother to come out. The king did. Frodhi spoke: “Bjarki is dead—killed. Blood fills the track I left for a mark of him.”
Thori stood very still before he said beneath winter heaven, “I’ll need weeks, this time of year, to gather men for revenge. Meanwhile we can send after news.”
Among their scouts and messengers was one to Uppsala in Svithjodh. Queen Yrsa heard of his coming, guested him, and told him what she knew about the fall of King Hrolf. “Set a day and a place,” she promised, “and you shall find waiting there a host of my own men.” She sat for a little, reckoning up on fingers which age had started to gnarl. At last she nodded. “Yes, my Hrolf knew somewhat fewer years than did my Helgi, though he wrought more. They are not a long-lived breed, the Skjoldungs. They seek too far.”
The troop gathered at the Scanian border. As they
passed through, Danes flocked to join them. Queen Skuld was ruling harshly and heedlessly; they wanted to be done with her.
One thing she had not dared, to keep his folk from burying King Hrolf. They laid him in a ship, drawn onto a headland above the Kattegat he had warded for them. By him was his sword Skofnung, and beside him were his men, each likewise armed and richly clad. Treasures were heaped about, and thereupon was raised a hill-tall howe to stand for a landmark. The balefires burned, the women keened, and around and around the grave rode the chieftains, slowly clanging sword on shield, ringing farewell to their lord of the good days and the luck of Denmark.
From them the queen would get no help. She had none to turn to but the ruffians who brought her to power. They must be rewarded with things seized from others. So the hatred of her grew. Soon, from end to end of the land, the red cock crowed on the roofs of her jarls. Under-kings held back their scot and their faith from her; and as they stood on their Thingstones, the yeomen hailed them as free lords who owed nothing to anyone.