Oftenest they were in service. He had reckoned on this when he spared Dynaborg. Word got around that his was a dreadful band to fight against but sensible in peace and trustworthy. Kings throughout Gardariki needed men like that for their wars with each other and, still more, against the wild tribes that galloped in from the steppes. Traders needed guards for the laden fleets that yearly went down the great rivers and back up again. Hadding’s were worth high pay. To this they laid the plunder and ransom that were theirs after a victory: gold, goods, thralls, kine; and they learned shrewdness in selling such of these gains as they themselves did not want to keep. Those who lived brought home the means to buy farms, or whatever else they liked, and settle down well to do. Hadding became rich.
When he deemed he had enough, he began to spend his wealth on ships, weapons, stores, gifts to give, and the hire of men. Many a hard-bitten Northerner who had been knocking about Oardariki sought to him, and many an eager youth sprung from its own soil. He spoke carefully with each one, for his farings had taught him much, and chose the best.
He thought of attacking King Loker in Kurland, to avenge his friend Lysir and seize the hoard that was there But he heard that Loker was gone. He had taken a few men along into the wilds to hunt, and nobody ever saw them again. Folk said they must have suffered mishap; maybe a pack of wolves had overrun them. Hadding, who knew the ways of wolves, did not believe this. He wondered. This was a kittle thing. It was almost as if Loker had had something to do in the world and then, having done it, went elsewhere Hadding cast the thought from him. It was too outlandish.
Besides, his real aim lay across the sea. In the fifth year after he went from Denmark, he came back.
This was with a mighty fleet. Hulls in their scores decked the waves. Prowheads reared above gleaming shields and spears. Oars walked spidery, creaking, water aswirl aft of the stroke, now and then casting foam white into sunlight. When hills hove blue on the rim of sight, a whoop went skyward. The startled gulls whirled and mewed in clouds.
So great an undertaking could not be mounted without news of it getting to Uppsala. There King Svipdag had his seat. He sent the war-arrow around and met his foe with a fleet still bigger. Yet when Hadding saw it, he grinned. “Of all men you might pick to fight at sea,” he said into the wind, “I am the worst.”
They clashed near Gotland. Hadding had spoken long with his skippers, over and over. They raised their masts, though it was not a time to hoist sail. At each masthead flew a banner. Thus every crew could readily tell where their warmates were. The ships kept apart, but not too widely. As often as could be, two closed in on one foe. Arrows, spears, and slingstones hailed from them. They laid alongside and grappled fast. Their men beat a way into the captured hull and cleared it. After that they looked for another. Where a ship of Hadding’s found herself alone among craft of Svipdag’s, other men of Hadding’s could see it and steer over there to give help.
It did not always work so well, but it worked more than it failed, and Svipdag had nothing like it. One by one, his crews saw how they were thinning out, broke loose, and fled off across the reddened waters. As the sun went low, casting a broken bridge of fire from the west, he stood on the foredeck of his own ship and fought his last fight.
Starboard, larboard, forward, aft, the vikings crowded in. Warriors came over the rails in tide after tide. Shield thunked against shield. Iron rattled and rang. Men shouted less than they cursed and panted. Shrieks of pain rose ragged. Feet slipped on blood and spilled guts. Men sank and other feet trampled over them. The ship stank of death. Overhead circled the gulls. The light burned gold on their lean white wings.
Svipdag hewed down at those who pressed against him. Teeth gleamed in his sweat-sodden gray beard, under the helm that shone with sunset, above a shield splintered and cloven. Once the few men left at his side heard him gasp, “We’ll take this up again, Hadding, when you too are dead.” His blows fell ever more slowly. A spear caught him in the throat. He let go sword and shield, dropped to his knees, fumbled at the shaft, slumped, and died. The red geyser out of him became a flow, a trickle, a widespread stain on the planks.
As fitfully as always in a battle, by sight as much as by word, the knowledge came to Hadding that he was victorious. Through the light summer night, when stars are dim because the sun is never far down, he looked across the sea-gleam and saw only ships of his, besides those manned only by deathlings.
In the morning he made landing on Gotland and held Thing with his followers. From there he went on into Denmark.
Everywhere folk hailed him. None said nay. Svipdag’s son had all he could do to hold onto Svithjod and the Norse homeland. Hadding rode freely through Scania, took ship across the strait to Zealand, and so the other islands and at last that shire of
