King Uffi mounted his horse, beckoned his warriors to stand close around, and harangued them. They were not beaten, he cried. Already they had given better than they got. He was proud Of them. Let them refresh themselves and rest. In the morning they would finish their task.
The hurrahs that lifted were dull. Yet the Swedes did hail their lord. Having pitched camp, they gloated around their cookfires. “May the Danes have joy of smelling our roasts.”
Night fell, the light summer night that is well-nigh a dusk. A full moon climbed over eastern treetops to brighten it further. Fires guttered low. Aside from their watchmen, the warriors slept.
The moon drew near the loft of heaven. Earth lay shadowy. The lake shivered with silver. Then, louder than any human voice, cracked and grisly, there ran through the Swedish troop:
Why does now Uffi dare me
To dash him to the ground?
Reckless call him rightly,
Rather than bold-hearted.
They he angered thus
For this will make him pay.
I warn that only woe
He wins for all his work.
Sinking under sword-edge,
Soon he loses life.
Strive however strongly
In strife he may, he dies.
A flock of spears aflight
Shall flay him limb from limb.
No cloth will ever close
The clotting wounds upon him,
Nor need is there, for nothing
Can knit dead flesh together.
Men started awake. They caught hold of weapons, which then shuddered and sank in their hands. They blundered about in the half light and wailed for their friends, any friends, “Ingvar, where are you? Grimulf, oath-brother, come to me!”
Though sweat stood cold on his skin, Uffi knew that if he let horror run free, his troop might well split asunder. Once a few ran away, everybody would. Even if they stayed, brooding on this thing would sap them. He boiled from his tent and shouted for his guards. “Sound the horns! Marshal the men! We go back to war!”
Somehow he rallied them. Iron came forth, icy under the moon. Bands formed up around their banners. Uffi rode in front where all could see him. His folk lumbered forward. He sprang off the horse and took shield in hand himself.
The racket had roused the Danes. Dazed, aching, sandy-eyed, they still heeded their king as he went about bidding them make ready. The best they could do was arm themselves and stumble into three lines. There they waited for the foe to reach them.
Suddenly from somewhere, onto the dewed grass between the troops, came a man striding. Taller he loomed than the tallest warrior, but hideously gaunt. Foul rags flapped around him. In the moonlit gloaming his head shone bare, beardless, eyes too deep-sunken to see, a head like a skull. He gripped a curved sword as though it were a sickle for reaping. Wheeling around, he moved on before the Swedes, toward the Danes.
They gasped for breath. Spearheads flickered above them in their grasp, flames of a dying fire.
Another old man stalked from the other side, as tall, bony, ragged, and bald as the first, armed likewise. He turned to face the Swedes.
“What are they?” The words wavered at Hadding’s back. “Trolls, drows, sendings, what are they?”
“I know not,” the king answered. “But more powers than human are at strife this night.”
The shapes met. Their swords clashed. To and fro they trampled, hewing, fending, faster than eye could follow, ghastly under the moon, in utter stillness.
Men stood staring, numbstruck. Then Uffi bellowed, “We have one friend from beyond, at least! Fail him not! Onward!”
It became easier to fight than to watch. The Swedes screamed like wildcats. They broke into a run. Around the horrible old men they poured, up against the Danes.
“Hold fast!” Hadding cried. Battle burst over him.
A while it went on, blind and witless. But the Swedes now had their backs to the open ground. The Danes glimpsed past them to the grisly sight yonder. It chilled and shook them even as they fought for their lives.
The old man who was on their side gave way. Backward he went, barely warding off the blows that sleeted about him. All at once he was gone from their ken. The other stood there in his rags, skull gray-white in moon-glow, before walking off with sword held high.
At that, the Danes broke. One by one, two by two, in tens and scores, they left their ranks. Most cast aside their weapons to run the faster. Every which way they fled, lost in utter feat Uffi bayed for glee.
Those of Hadding’s housecarles who lived fought stubbornly on, together. A few other Danes kept their wits and joined this small band. Though the numbers against it were overwhelming, the Swedes were also worn out, also daunted by what had happened. When the Danes rebuffed their last rush, they hung back, snarling but with the will beaten out of them.
King Hadding winded his horn. His flagbearer lifted his banner on high. He led his folk off.
Uffi could not make his own follow. Some flopped down and sobbed for breath. Some lay flat by the water and drank and drank. Some began to pick listlessly through the forsaken camp. Some tried to tend their wounded fellows.
After a while Uffi stopped blustering at them. Later they could chase and kill the foes who had bolted. Let that handful go who had left in fighting array. Already the night had swallowed them.
He had gained enough. His was the victory, in spite of everything that Denmark and hell raised against him. No soon again would Hadding seek his shores. The Dane-king might well meet death as he struggled homeward. If not, the Uffi would think how to give it. No matter what the tales were that one heard about Hadding’s youth, he was hardly a darling of the gods.
XVI
Hadding knew well that he
