Now it began to be dark, so that men might not tell friend from foe. Men saw now that neither side might claim victory as for that day’s battle, and so battle-worn were they for the most part of either side that scarce might they bear weapon aloft. So they blew to a truce now and fared back to their camps.
Eric the King slept that night with his army. But he sent men back with tidings to Upsala to let them know the battle was not yet foughten out, but all well. He kenned his host and found that he had gotten much man-spilling, yet he thought he knew that Styrbiorn must have gotten as much and more. His folk were in good heart when they went to rest, albeit against all their expectations that long day’s fighting had not ended the thing. For news came in about suppertime that Skogul-Tosti, whom the King had sent north for fresh levies out of Helsingland, was nigh at hand now with a good force of men. Too late they were for that day’s battle, but they came in about the middle night, and the King misdoubted not but that with those fresh forces he should on the morrow have the victory. For Styrbiorn could look for no fresh forces to make good his losses.
Queen Sigrid the Haughty, waiting in Upsala, liked ill of these delays. There was great thronging of folk in Upsala, women for the most part and children and old men; and all day long came tidings dribbling in, to cast them now into untimely gladness now again into dread; and all day long, as wounded men came with tidings of this man’s deeds or of that man’s slaying, was the noise of women mourning. The Queen was tired of all this by eventide. When they told her that the King would come not home that night but there must yet be battle again on the morrow, she smiled scornfully but said never a word.
The next day after were the like comings and goings in Upsala and the like suspense. And they that had looked for easy victory found soon enough there was like to be no such thing. Until afternoon there had been naught to see of the battle from near Upsala, for their fighting was all in the wide and open lower part of the vale, that was shut off from view by the steep slopes of Windbergsfell that stood on the left to one looking south down the river. The crest of the fell rose in cliffs of rock, red and rotten, and the loose scree lay on the fell-side like a trailing garment, covering all the slope down from the cliff-wall to the level flats below. But now the battle was come north into the higher stretch of the valley betwixt the fell and the river, and the Queen went forth and came to King Olaf’s howe, if haply she might avail from that point of vantage to descry somewhat of their doings in the ings of Fyriswater. She climbed the howe and stood there gazing southaway, even as she had gazed four years ago when she had stood there and looked on Styrbiorn trying his strength with Moldi. “I saw fetches then,” she said in herself: “I saw him as if read and battle-slain in the mead yonder. And I thought not this day should come when such a sight should be meat and drink to me.”
Her women that had followed her out from the King’s house huddled about her on the howe, all aflutter with the uncertain dread of that day and the great issues of it. But Sigrid stood above them stately as a birch tree of the hills. She was muffled to the chin in a cloak of green silk broidered with gold and collared and purfled with minivere. That red cloak which she had a year ago put off for Styrbiorn she had burnt next morning. The hood of her cloak was fallen backward, baring the flame-like splendour of her hair above the smooth brow and stately and lovely face
