Standing in the prow of Fired rake, Hadding blew his horn. The sound brought men packed close around. He harangued them a short while about how well it was to stave off the foe this far from their homes, the fame to be won, the booty to gather afterward—if nothing else, ships that would fetch good prices. Their cheers rang.
Then they quieted, for he spoke sternly of what he wanted them to do. Gangleri, who stood beside him, spearhead shining above, had taught him a new array of battle. He put it forth in a few words. There was no time to say more, he told them, nor to quarrel over who should stand where. All posts were alike honorable. Gangleri would go among them and lead every banner-band to its place. Let none question or hinder him. Anyone who did would rue it.
The Danes were quick to obey. Although most had not seen the old one before, the beholding awed them.
He spread them on the field as a great wedge. Hadding and Gunnar made the first row—not because Hadding was king, for it would have been wisest to have him farther back were it not that they two were the mightiest of the fleet. Four men behind them made the second row, eight behind these the third, and thus until the last, who were promised that there would be enough fighting for everybody. On the wings Gangleri set the bowmen and slingers.
So did the Danes take their stand. They had not long to wait.
Thuning had known who they must be. If he tried to sail on past, they would be after him, harassing all the way. His men could not even land for a night’s rest without being attacked before they could busk themselves. Best was to have it out this day. He led his fleet to a strand a few miles off, grounded, and brought his host ashore.
As they came near, they were a grim sight. Widely over the grass they spilled, a swarm of hornets angrily buzzing, stings out and agleam. Swedish warriors in helm and ringmail went at every uplifted banner. They were well-nigh lost among the tribesmen. The Bjarmians were stocky, sturdy, high in the cheekbones, and narrow in the eyes. Most were clad in leather and felt; some coats bore sewn-on iron rings gotten from traders. Few owned helmets. Their hair showed greasy but often as fair as any Norseman’s. Their rude weapons had felled beasts stronger than men. Many had bound tokens of magic onto themselves, aurochs horns or reindeer antlers at the brows, necklaces of bear teeth or ferret skulls, ruffs of eagle feathers. Toward the rear a few elders were squatting down. They carried staffs topped with the same kittle things, and small drums. They began to beat on these with the flats of their hands. From their wrinkled lips a keening wove into the thutter.
Hadding drew sword. “Hey-saa-saa!” he cried.
The Danes bayed and followed him. Thuning bawled answer. His own banner led a rush to meet them.
Battle burst loose. Weapons clashed and thudded, men yelled, grunted, panted, bowstrings twanged, gulls mewed and ravens croaked on high where they wheeled watchful, and through all the racket went the drumbeat and chant of the war-locks.
The Danes were new to their array. It held together less well than it might have. Yet it clove into the disordered foe, scattering those it did not straightway overrun. Bowmen and slingers were more free than erstwhile to spy targets and pick them off. Thuning’s banner reeled aside. Others stood forlornly fast, cut off from help.
And now Gangleri threw back his cloak, to show that a bag hung around his neck. From it he took a bow. It seemed a toy, then suddenly it was the longest that men in these lands had ever beheld. Standing on the right flank, he strung it and took arrows from the quivers of the nearby Danes. They forgot their own fighting as they saw the old one draw that bow to his ear. When he loosed the shaft, string and wood sang like a stormwind. A Swede crumpled, spitted through byrnie and body. Again Gangleri shot, again, again, again. It was as if he sent ten arrows at once. Each killed.
The warlocks drummed and wailed. Wind strengthened outworldishly fast. Its boom and shriek drowned the noise below. The carrion birds fled. Salt spume flew off the sea, over the field. Clouds boiled up black in the north and across heaven. They blotted out the sun. Rain lashed from them, slantwise over the Danish ranks. Hailstones hit like fists.
A wavering went through Hadding’s troop. This was something more than a squall. Who could stand against witchcraft? The Bjarmians yelped in glee, rallied their broken gangs, and pressed inward. Stone axes, bone harpoons struck down man after man.
Gangleri laid his bow aside and raised his arms. His cloak and beard blew wildly, but still the hat clung to his gray head and half hid the gaunt one-eyed face. He called to the sky.
From over the eastward mainland lifted a new cloud. In the blue-black depths of its nether half lightning leaped blinding. The heights shone snow white. Onward the cloud thrust. The wind that drove it warred with the wind behind the rain. Wrack whirled, thunder crashed, while woodland trees tossed their boughs and moaned.
The rain withdrew, a grayness bound south. The heavens opened and the sun stood forth. Wet grass sparkled many-hued. Blood on the slain lay shoutingly red.
“Hey-aa!” roared Hadding. “On!” His warriors rebounded from fear. They fell on a foe whom it had seized. What followed was slaughter.
Afterward a vast stillness fell. Men went about doing what they could for wounded friends, or sat a few together quietly talking, or
