He raised the horn slung at his shoulder and blew the battle call. A yell tore from both sides. In a ragged wave, the Kurlanders sped against the vikings.
A guardsman came at Hadding, armed and armored like him. Hadding’s left hand tightened on the grip of his shield while he swung at his foe’s. The sword bit into the wood. The guardsman leered and twisted it. Almost, he wrenched Hadding’s blade loose. Too late, the youth remembered how Braki had warned him about that trick. His strength surged. Somehow he kept hold of his weapon, pulled it free, and clashed it against the other blade. For heartbeats the two men strained. For the first time Hadding looked into the eyes of someone he meant to kill and who meant to kill him. It was an eerie closeness, well-nigh like love.
The swords slipped free and smote afresh. Hadding felt a blow on his shoulder as if from afar. Ringmail and the padding beneath stopped it. More swift than the older man, he saw an opening and struck for the leg. He felt steel bite into flesh and break bone. The warrior groaned and fell. His blood spouted wildly red. He writhed halfway up and chopped. Hadding knocked his blow aside and cut at his neck. More blood geysered. The man crumpled. He jerked once or twice and lay still, like a heap of rags. Through the reek of his own sweat Hadding caught a sharp stench as the deathling soiled himself.
Another was in on him, and another. He gave blows, he took them, seldom knowing what came of it, for the maelstrom of strife bore him away. He pushed, tried to stand fast, slipped and barely recovered, hewed and blocked and hewed again. The breath gusted in and out of him through a throat gone dry as a stone in a fire. There was no time for rage; he was too busy staying alive. Yet always a part of him kept aside, aware, glad of each stroke he dealt or thwarted. He grinned as he fought.
The tide swept him in among the Wends. Two he killed. Then a big, yellow-bearded man swung an ax at him. It batted his sword aside and split his shield. He would have lost that hand had the blow not torn the grip from him before the edge went deep. The axman roared. His hands slid apart along the helve of his weapon, to hold it at either end. Thus its hard, leather-wrapped wood turned Hadding’s blade. As the ax lifted, the wielder brought both hands toward the lower end. The head whirred down with his full might behind. It could have cloven helm or byrnie. Hadding sprang aside quickly enough. Before the man could raise his ax anew, Hadding leaped in and caught him across the brow. He reeled back, screaming, blinded with his blood and the skin hanging down. Hadding slew him.
The Skjoldung stared about. He had come to the edge of battle, hard by the wildwood. Only dead men and writhing, moaning wounded were near. Beyond them, the fight had broken into clumps of struggle across the reddened grass. But Loker’s Northmen were still a single troop with their king at the forefront, thrusting on like an iceberg. Even as he watched, Hadding saw Lysir’s banner go down before them. He saw the chieftain fall, a spear in him through the riven ringmail. The guardsmen trampled over him on their way forward.
The vikings broke. They turned and ran for their ships. There some took a stand, shield by shield. Loker’s men had been winnowed too; the hale among them were also hurt and weary. Moreover, it took time to fell what vikings were left elsewhere on the field and bring the Kurlanders together for a last push. Meanwhile a rearguard of seamen kept the strand clear for their shipmates to launch the craft.
Foemen in between cut Hadding off from them. Half a score of wounds on him soaked his undercoat and breeks. His breath sobbed in and out. The hand that clutched his blunted sword shook as badly as his knees. He could never win through to the shore.
Three Kurlanders spied him, whooped in glee, and started his way. He could not withstand them. He slipped into the brush below the trees. With his wilderness skills he could shake them off. After that he could only keep going for as long as his strength lasted.
X
Dusk was becoming night when he stumbled from a brake out onto an open patch somewhere in the wilds. Trees stood as giant blacknesses around it. Above them glimmered the first two or three stars. What light there was turned the bog grass leaden and sheened sullenly off puddles. Ground squelched underfoot. It still smelled miry and the air still hung warm, but mists had begun to rise as earth cooled and a ghostly white haze drifted low. Silence brooded.
A man stood at the middle of the lea, armed with a spear. A broad hat shaded his face. His beard fell iron gray down the front of his cloak. Behind him waited a stallion of the same hue, tall enough for his great height.
Words rolled slow: “We meet again, as I foretold.”
Hadding was too numb for amazement. He hardly felt pain any longer, hunger or thirst, will or woe. Blood loss and weariness had gutted him. Were it not for this sudden sight he would have dropped here, slobbered the foul water, and toppled into sleep. Barely could he stand, swaying, and mumble, “What now will come of it?”
“I said you would have learned something,” the old one answered, “and a man must know not only how to overcome foes, but defeat itself. Tonight you shall have what is better.“
“Well met, then, Gangleri, if you are more than a dream.”
“Come.” The Wanderer beckoned. Hadding lurched toward him, stubbed a foot on a root, and fell. Gangleri caught him. Held against the cloak, half swooning,
