No few among his followers swallowed hard. But all walked onward. Lights flared off helmets and spearheads. Banners rippled aloft. Feet made a slow, dull drumbeat. Hadding dismounted. He slung his shield on his back and took a bill off a packhorse. Given the numbers he must meet, he wanted a weapon with a longer reach than a sword, to get at foemen behind the frontmost and thus loosen the sheer weight of them.
Soon, he knew, the fight would break up into knots, where the only way one could hope to stay by his fellows was to keep an eye on the banner of their chieftain. If it went down, strife would go wholly man-to-man, without shape or meaning.
On the Swedish side, riding at the head of his ‘folk, King Asmund laughed louder. “Now have you been as reckless as I hoped, Hadding!” he boomed. He was like his father in looks, big, heavyset, hooknosed, with dark hair and beard that were getting grizzled. To the youth on his right hand he said, “This day your namesake will smile in his howe.”
Henrik was slender and fair, barely of an age to take arms. Asmund had given him that Saxon name when he was born, in honor of him whom Gram slew in order to reave away Signy. She thus became the mother of Hadding, but it was to avenge her fallen bridegroom that the Saxons lent strength to Svipdag and so brought about the death of Hadding’s father. That young Henrik was here, where they would bring down the son of Gram, seemed wholly right to Asmund.
On either side flew the banners of his two older sons, Uffi and Hunding; but Henrik was his most beloved. Elsewhere went the followers of many Swedish and Geatish chieftains. When the riders among them drew rein and jumped down, a shout rang off the hills. Startled birds flew piping from their nests. Iron flared free. Bowstrings twanged, arrows hissed into flight.
Like two storm waves, a greater and a lesser, the hosts crashed together. Blood-foam spattered into the wind. The tides churned, swirled in among each other, became a seething that howled. Swords hewed, axes smote, spears thrust. Men yelled, gasped, screamed, fell. High on their staffs swayed the raven flag of Hadding and the eagle flag of Asmund. But the Dane-king must needs stand fast amidst his household troopers, while the Swede-king pressed ever forward with his.
“Ha!” bellowed Asmund. “Only wait, Hadding! I’m coming to you!” His blade sundered a shield. Henrik struck from the right and killed that man. The boy was fighting as hard as his slightness was able, as fearlessly as any skilled warrior.
A weapon-clash hit on their left. Nearly berserk with rage, Eyjolf Lysirsson had led his Bralunders straight for the invader overlord. They cut and battered a road through all men in between. They fell on Asmund’s bodyguards like wolves on an elk.
But the elk bears great antlers and sharp hoofs. The Norse-men stood shoulder to shoulder. Their blows racketed and clove. Nearby Swedes and Geats saw what was happening. As fast as they could break off their own fights, they came to help.
“Yah!” shrieked Henrik, hawk wild. He rushed out of the shield-wall to smite this foe. Eyjolf’s ax smashed down his sword and split his helmet and skull.
Then the press grew too heavy. Attacked on every side, the Scanians went under. Their ranks crumbled. Those that were left hacked ways to freedom and withdrew elsewhere. Eyjolf’s banner lay on the reddened ground. He sought to his own king’s.
For a span there was quiet around Asmund. He did not hear the groans of the wounded nor the harsh breathing of the hale where they leaned on their spearshafts. He stood looking down on the wreckage that had been his dearest son. It gaped up at him through the spilled blood and brains. He had a gift for skaldcraft. After a while he stared around and spoke flatly.
Who will have my weapons?
Helmets are no use now
Nor byrnies worth the bearing.
My boy is riven from me.
Death, that took my darling,
Do for me the selfsame.
Swinging only sword blade,
I seek my end in battle.
He straightened. His voice rang louder through the uproar.
Breast to foeman baring
Where blinks the ice-cold iron,
Fiercely I’ll go forward
To fell them in my vengeance.
Men will long remember
This meeting of the war-hosts.
If early come its ending,
Yet I shall not have rested.
Thereupon he slung shield on back, gripped his sword with the left hand wrapped over the right, and howled for his men to follow. Heedless of life, he made for Hadding. No foes in between could withstand him. He reaped them. His well-drilled guards worked grimly beside him. As the banner thrust onward, more and more of their folk rallied about it.
Standing with his housecarles, the Dane-king had often wielded his bill. Again and again they cast back an onslaught. But each one cost them. Meanwhile, looking from his height over the heads of most, he saw the rest of his troops driven apart from each other and piecemeal whittled away. As Asmund’s human landslide bore down on him, he knew that unless help came swiftly, he was done. None was anywhere in sight. His mind flew back to the wilderness of his boyhood. Little of witchcraft had he learned there. One spell, though, was his to use once.
He turned his eyes northward, braced himself, and loosed it. Men heard his throat give forth unknown words and saw his finger draw runes on the wind. They shivered, thinking he had gone mad.
A smokiness sprang up on the field. It whirled, whistled, thickened. It became the jotun Vagnhöfdi.
In all his hugeness he stood before them. He blocked out the sun; his shadow stretched far over the trampled,
