Hadding pointed. “Who’s that?” he asked Olaf on his left hand.
The carle peered. “Urn, hard to see from here, but I ken him. A poor wretch hight Styr, lately shifted to this neighborhood from somewhere else. Gudorm lets him sleep in a barn, help the thralls, and share their food. I take it Gudorm’s told him he can have a bite and listen to somebody besides the cows. He’s a kindly fellow, him Gudorm.”
Eating came to an end. The housefolk took the tables away. Two of them rolled in a cask of ale, set it upright near the hearth, and knocked the end off. Men whooped. As they went to fill their cups and horns for themselves, the free women of the garth, no longer needed for serving, and having had their own food beforehand, returned to drink and mingle likewise.
Gudorm and Ulfhild joined them on the floor. Even the lowly Styr crept from his corner. Hadding kept his seat, as a king should, and let those who wished speech with him seek him out. They took his cup to and fro for him as he emptied it.
Blithely chatting, Ulfhild drifted toward the far end of the room. Not only women but men wandered that way, for in the shifty dusk she was brighter than the flames and lovelier to behold. At length they were all gathered laughing around her. Styr, whom nobody cared to talk to, stood alone.
He glanced at Hadding, squared his narrow shoulders, and shuffled toward the king. “Well?” Hadding asked. “What would you of me?”
Styr halted before him. Within a nest of hair and beard, the hollow face twitched. “This,” he said hoarsely. He flung back his cloak. Beneath it hung a sax. “This, murderer! “-
He whipped out the curved blade. Flamelight followed its whirring leap.
Had his dream not made him wary, Hadding would have died then and there. As was, he sprang aside. The edge bit into the platform where he had been. Styr bounded after him. Hadding withdrew across the floor. His eating knife was in his hand, but no match for the sword.
Men shouted, women shrieked. They did not at once understand what was happening, as murky as the room was. It stunned them. Styr bore in on Hadding. The king reached the north wall. He snatched the horn he had given Gudorm and set it to his lips. All the while he was dodging his attacker. The war call blasted forth.
Men dashed to help. They got in each other’s way. None was any better armed than Hadding. Styr barred the floor between them and the weapons they had left in the entry. The first of the yeomen reeled, clutching an arm slashed open. Blood hit the hearth fire and hissed. He stumbled back to the others.
“Get together!” bellowed Gudorm. “Stand close!” Bewildered, knowing him for a warrior, the men clumped clumsily in front of the women.
Twice and thrice did Hadding wind the horn amidst Styr’s onslaught. Then he smote with it as though it were a sword. It stopped the next blow but shattered in his hand. He cast the stump. It hit Styr on the brow. The man tottered. Hadding made for the entry. He was too slow on his lame foot. Styr recovered, headed him off, drove him back.
“We’ll go around the house,” Gudorm called. “We’ll get our weapons and stop this.”
Blindly, the men followed him out the rear door and into the night. Under its cloud deck they must fumble their way along the wall. Inside, before the eyes of the women, Styr worked Hadding into a cornet.
Gasping for breath, the old king tautened. He would not – finish his jump, but his knife might find his foe.
With a roar of wrath and a rattle of iron, his housecarles burst in from the entry. Styr barely saw them before a flung spear pinned him. As he fell, the warriors stormed thither. They hewed him to shreds and splinters.
Their headman laid hold of the king by both arms. “Are you hale?” he cried.
Hadding slumped. The knife dropped from his grasp. “Yes,” he answered. “Thanks to you.” They helped him to a bench. He sat down and stared into the shadows at nothing they could see. “Thanks to you, Ragnhild,” he whispered.
Ulfhild ran from among the women. “Oh, father, father, you live!” Her arms were spread wide to enfold him. But the housecarles in their byrnies had thrown a shield-wall around their lord.
One by one, dumb, shaking, the yeomen and caries crept in. Under the stern gaze of the guards they sought to the women in the rear. Only Ulfhild stood at the middle of the floor, alone, straight, her face become a mask. Her kerchief had fallen off. Firelight played over the coils of her hair as if they too were burning.
“Bring me a stoup,” said the king. A warrior hurried to do so. When he had drained it he straightened and spoke firmly. “Open ranks. I must find out about this.”
The guards moved right and left, though they kept spears in hand, axes on shoulders, swords drawn. Hadding looked through the smoke and hush. “Where’s Gudorm?” he asked.
“I know not,” answered Ulfhild as steadily.
“Strange,” said Hadding. “Strange how he did not think to lead a rush or have men throw things, and was so slow to take them around the house. I’d have been dead by the time they got back, and Styr begone out the rear. Strange, too, how skillfully that wretch wielded his blade. Who gave it to him and taught him its use?”
“I know not,” said Ulfhild. “I only hope this is a nightmare, and I
