So did Hadding and his warriors come to a snug haven. That their stay ended badly was no doing of their host’s.
As the time ran into weeks, some of them won wholly to wellness faster than others, Hadding foremost. These men grew ever more restless. They found the dwellings here rude and poorly furnished, the fare middling tasty at best, and each day the same as the last. They remembered the halls of home, broad and bright, the fat meat and finely milled bread and well-brewed drink, men richly clad and merry, skalds saying forth staves that surged in the blood, ever-changing visitors with new tales to tell from abroad. They remembered fields tawny at harvest, greenwoods, horses and hounds, the graves of their forebears. They remembered women who were not grubby and did not smell of fish but were clean and fair and could speak of more than a narrow everyday. They remembered children.
“I was mistaken, staying when I could have gone in the messenger boat,” grumbled Gunnar to Hadding. “How many more years must we sit and yawn?”
“We’ve friends who still ought to rest. I’ll not forsake them,” answered the king. “Besides, these folk can ill spare the boats we’d need, even for that short crossing. Nor would it be fitting for me to come in so little and shabby a craft, when I could have better. We’ll wait for a ship, either Bruni’s or one of ours. It cannot be long now.”
“Here sun and stars cross the sky on feet shod with lead.”
“Well, I own to feeling penned too. Let those of us who wish make a trip. I hear of good hunting and hook-fishing northward, where a brook runs down to the sea and woods stand along it clear to its mouth.”
That thought gave cheer. Half a dozen warriors busked themselves and strode off one morning behind the king. Sunshine poured over them. They followed the shore for two days and came to the spot he had in mind. There they made camp, meaning to stay a short while.
This was half a mile inland, beside a freshwater spring. Tide-brackish, the stream rustled among tall beeches and gnarly oaks. Sunlight speckled the shadows beneath them. Between their trunks flashed a gleam off the sea. The clear weather had gone hot, drawing up a smell of herbs to liven the brooding air.
The night did not cool much. After sunrise the heat waxed worse. Men sat as listless as the drooping leaves. The brook made the only sound except for a thin shrilling of mosquitoes. When a dove began to coo off in the woodland deeps it seemed like mockery.
At length Hadding rose. “I’m stifling,” he said. “Who’ll come along down to the strand?”
Nobody wanted to do that, or anything else other than sit and bake. Gunnar and young Svein swapped a look. Unspeaking, they hung swords at hip and took their spears. Safe though the place seemed, they were housecarles of their lords. Their eyes told the rest that they awaited some return for this at some later time.
The three walked off still wordless. At the outflow they left the shade for a hard, cloudless heaven. The tide was low but shingle lay dry and gray to the water’s edge, nor did the strewn yellow-brown kelp shine wet. The sea barely lapped against the land. Light flew back off it, ruthlessly bright. No birds soared above.
“I’m for a swim,” Hadding said. “What of you?”
“I’ll wait under the trees yonder,” said Gunnar. Svein nodded.
“As you like.” Hadding undressed. From the heap of his clothes he took belt and sheath knife. It was merely wont, in this burning emptiness. No man willingly went anywhere unarmed.
The cobbles were hot below unshod feet. He hurried across them to the water. The bottom sloped slowly. He pushed onward, enjoying the work, until he could jump loose and strike out. Amidst the stillness, every splash rang loud. The thrusting gladdened his thews, the cool sliding thrilled around his skin, salt kissed his lips. Ducking under, he swam through amber. On he frolicked and on.
He was well offshore when something broached a ways off. The whoosh of it caught his heed. Dazzled, he squinted at a big shape. Was it a seal? He had romped with seals before now, In waters where they had not yet learned fear of man. Eager for anything new, he drew closer.
The thing rested quietly. It was a beast. His heart leaped. A beast like nothing he had ever seen or heard of. Seal size it was, with flippers, but a long flat tail trailed it. Long also was the neck, maned like a horse’s. The head was long too, and narrow, with great golden eyes. The hide shimmered in soft rainbow hues, as does the inner shell of an oyster. Very fair to behold was the beast, and very strange.
It turned its head toward him but lay afloat, unafraid.
What a catch! Men would wonder at it, and speak of it, and ever afterward remember the hunter who brought it home.
The king drew his knife. Swimming with his legs and left arm, he closed in.
He laid that left hand on the beast’s neck, as he had laid it on the necks of deer he had stalked. The mane felt soft, the flesh warm. His nostrils drank a smell like the smell of clover when bees hum through it harvesting.
He stabbed.
The beast did not scream. The sound it made might have come from a harp struck by an angry skald. Though blood sprang red out onto the water, the head swung about and jaws gaped at Hadding’s shoulder. The teeth within were sharp.
He fended the bite off with
