by Asotir
* * *
THERE IN THE long hall the clouds left it nearly dark as night. Orvar-Odd and the black-haired daughter of Olaf sat together and spoke long of matters of the district and the household, and of Olaf’s sickness. But soon Swanhild lost what words to say.
So she rose up and went a little ways away from the old man, and sat before the highseat. She seemed small. She bent over her knees so that the unbound black hair streamed over her face and hands and knees and swept the floor about her shoes. She did not go in to her father again. But when Erik Gudrudason came back with the fish-catch and all the other folk came crowding in, then softly Swanhild rose and crept out by the women’s door. She stood in a corner of the garth by the end of one of the sheds, near the swine-sty. There Erik found her.
He had grown that summer: his shoulders were big, and his beard was sprouting, and he was said to be an outstanding fisherman who had the strongest sight. He stood by Swanhild at the sty, but at first he had nought to say.
‘Well, Swanhild,’ he said at last, ‘this is surely the finest of summers, though it looks to rain this even. And we had a fine fish-catch today.’
‘May the sun burn your face and make you dizzy,’ she said, ‘and twice-bad to your doltish mother for all her work!’
At that Erik blushed and stammered, and at length went back into the hall, seeming not so big as he had when he had come out.
Thereafter, late in the even, the men came back: they had rounded up all the sheep, and named witnesses, all as was set forth in the law. But they had met no men there, and there had been no blows. Swanhild went to greet her husband: the men there saw her without her wimple, and some held their breath to look on her, whereat Thorgrim waxed somewhat angry. But Skarphedin only grinned, so that those others soon went on about their business.
Already the winds whipped up and drops of rain were scattering across the garth. ‘Now let us hasten back to Skaftafell,’ Swanhild said.
‘And what of your father?’ Skarphedin asked. ‘Was he well?’
‘That is a tale I will tell you another night,’ she said. He might scarcely hear her words. He watched her as they rode: saw a thing glisten on her cheek. ‘Wife, what means this?’
‘It is nought,’ she gave answer, and looked away. Far off the west stretched the dark wastes of the Skeidar sands, where already the rain was heavy. ‘That was a drop of rain, and no more. Only, he should have died or given death, nine years ago and more.’
That even, when they lay abed together, it was she who went atop of him, and put her knees on either side of his chest, and held his arms down with her hands; and she let her hair sweep like rain across his chest and face. Nor did she leave off until she was all in a sweat, and her limbs were trembling, so tired were they, and her face was drawn in and gray. Then she lay upon and against him, clutching at him; and all about the the rain fell and the Skeidar roared.
But not even then would Swanhild weep.
Four
MEN LOOKED FOR big things after this, but little seemed to come of it. Many spoke of Skarphedin’s killing of Trygvi, and what should be the outcome of it at the next Althing, whether Skarphedin should be given back full rights or not. But Njal asked no atonement for Trygvi, nor did the men of Olaf’s district summon Njal for the sheep-theft: Olaf still lay abed, and there was no lawyer among them clever enough to counsel them against the likes of Njal. So there the matter lay. And the days ran on for the most part bright and fair, though the nights grew longer apace, and the chill came back in the air a’nights.
Now one day Skarphedin went up the Skaftafell to tend to the sheep: and that was a day of wild weather, wet and windy and dark on the fell. Skarphedin came home late, and then it was full dark. ‘Husband, what is it?’ Swanhild asked as soon as ever she saw him.
Then Skarphedin answered, that just as he had begun to come down off the fell, he heard a bleating: went and found a lamb caught in a hole between the rocks. ‘So I reached in and loosed it, and stroked its leg and set it right; then I made ready to come down home again. Then again I heard a bleating, went and found the same lamb caught in the same place. Then I set it right as before; but when I started to come down home the third time, then I heard the same bleating as before. “This is enough and more for me,” I said, and went to the rock: but that time the lamb was nowhere to be seen. But the shape of a man stood on the rock, and he seemed tall, and well-on in years, with great arms and a noble bearing, but all cut and marked as if new-come from some great battle that had gone on all the day long. And that man bore the greatest likeness to Thorold Fornaldson, that was Njal’s father.
‘I hailed Thorold and asked him what he would with me. He raised his hand and said, ”I give you good greeting, Skarphedin: but warmer welcome will you win of me, by and by: and you will be very glad of it.” Then he stepped back into the rock, and the wind comes up, and I saw him no more. So I came back home.’
Swanhild shuddered, though the shieling was fast and the fire there merry; and she said, ‘I will not tell what I think of that. But it stabs my heart like ice.’
Five
THERE WAS A man named Otkell, dwelt in the Rangriver plain. He was a big man, not wealthy, but strong and quarrelsome. He was little-liked, and had long been at odds with Vemund Agnar’s son over many matters little and large. Otkell stood out in one thing, and that was that he was said to have the finest horses, both for riding and for fighting too, that were ever to be found in Iceland. Otkell had gone once or twice overseas, to Norway and the Daneland. Now, near the end of the Althing, Otkell had bidden Skarphedin into his booth, and there they had drunk ale and spoken of their farings. They had got on well together, and the end of it was this, that Otkell bid Skarphedin come guest with him that summer, and he would give him one of his horses. And often that summer, whenever Otkell knew of any man going eastaway toward the Side, he had that man bear well-wishes to Skarphedin and urge him come guest with him.
Now Skarphedin had felled many a bit of wood, and made up his mind to go to Otkell’s, and he would be gone two weeks. But Swanhild called that foolhardy, and bid him not go, ‘for this, that if you go on this errand, then we two shall never meet again.’
‘That will be as it must,’ answered Skarphedin. ‘But I said I will go; and if you keep me to home for this, will you then lay me abed for a cold?’
‘Maybe so,’ she said. She went apart from him, and was very angry. ‘And yet if you go to Otkell, then he will boast it to all comers, for a spite to Vemund; and then Hallgerd will egg men on against you and do her utmost to give you what hurt she may.’
‘These carlines and gangrel women have long remembrances and sharper tongues,’ he said. ‘But it seems to me few of them are sung of.’
Then he put on his helmet, set the butt of his spear against the earth, and threw himself onto his horse. He wore a red kirtle girt with a wide belt, and a chain shirt, and at his side his waraxe. He looked so warlike then, that all at once it seemed to Swanhild that she smelled fear and gore in the air, and she was so smitten with love for him that her heart beat fast, the breath caught in her chest, and she might think of nought further to say against his going. So he went.
Swanhild dwelt then alone at the shieling for some days, with only Kol to be with her.
But when one week was gone, then Swanhild took to going up on the fell and looking out westaway. Four days Swanhild did likewise: but on the fifth she gave the keeping of Haukshofn wholly into Kol’s hands, got herself ready and made off westaway.
Now, the weather was warm enough, but fickle and cloudy, with showers. The ways were muddy, so that Swanhild met with many halts, and had to ford streams ever so high. Then mistrust waxed in her mind, for she had been put far from her way.
But when she was almost within sight of Lithend, where Gunnar had lived, then Swanhild sees a man come riding along the road and leading another horse behind him. That was Skarphedin. Then Swanhild cried out and rode to greet him, and they fell a-talking one with the othe
r.
‘So, husband,’ said Swanhild, ‘and how went your guesting?’
‘Well and good, with nought of ill about it,’ he answered. ‘Otkell took my horse and gave me these, that are the boldest of steeds, and like brothers besides, for they will always go together, one with the other, and that is deemed a wonder. But they will make the best stud-horses.’
‘All the better,’ said Swanhild, ‘for my horse is weary. Now let us hasten on homeward; I have heard ill things on the road.’
Now they went on together. Swanhild rode that other horse Otkell had given, and Skarphedin led Swanhild’s pony behind. Swanhild looked on her husband, and he did not seem as she remembered. He was somewhat fatter, not so strong, and rather less wolflike. But then she looked him over a second time, and all at once rode close beside him and kissed him, even on the open road as they were. And she said, ‘But you are so unlovely, my Skarphedin.’ That she said smiling; but her voice quavered.
They came to Markar River, and there were some gangrel women standing at the river’s edge. ‘Bear us across,’ they begged, ‘and we will tell you tidings that strike near to you: there are those about here that would fain meet with you, Skarphedin.’
‘You may keep all your tidings,’ Skarphedin said. ‘But we will bear you across right enough.’ So that they did, and Swanhild kept still.
Six
SOON THERE WAS the greatest rainfall: they rode on apace and found shelter under a high ness. Shortly afterward the rain slacked, and they went on. They went slowlier now, for Swanhild’s pony was very weary, and seemed lame. When they had come in sight of the Skaftafell, then Swanhild looked back once again behind them, and she said,
‘There are men riding after us.’
Swanhild was the sharper-sighted. ‘Will they be friends, think you?’ Skarphedin asked.
‘More like Hallgerd’s friends, I ween.’
‘Don’t be so downcast, Swanhild: this may turn out to be good sport. You go on to Haukshofn, but I will run on beyond to the Svinafell.’
‘Will you mock me now?’ she asked.
‘No, nor will I fight all those on an open field. Three will I face, and five if they be not overstrong; but seven is unlucky.’ Then he grinned, and showed her all his crooked teeth.
Then Swanhild looked down and shook her head. ‘Over my heart there is a lump of ice,’ she said: ‘tell me, is this how a man feels when he is fey? But I will go where you go and bear what you bear. I will not leave you.’
‘So your mother did, and what was her end?’
Swanhild smiled at that, and looked at him sideways. ‘Well, but there is no time to undo my saddle, and you know these horses will not be put asunder.’
Then Skarphedin laughed, and called that well-said.
By then the men were less than a mile off. The sun bursts out from a gap in the clouds and glints off their helms and bright blue cloaks. Swanhild and Skarphedin rode down round below the woods on the Skaftafell, and so swift were their horses that the other men were left far behind. Skarphedin loosed Swanhild’s pony thereabouts. There below them is one man riding: Swanhild says that is Thorgrim Thorleik’s son. Swanhild waves to him: Thorgrim waves back to her, and then he sees those others. He stays still on his horse until they have all gone by; then he turns and rides back homeward.
‘I looked for better things from him,’ Swanhild said: ‘and who is he to mock my father?’
Now they went up the Svinafell and among the woods there, and might see no more of their followers.
‘Do you know this place?’ Skarphedin asked.
‘Yes: the howe-yard of my kinfolk lies down below.’
She rode foremost, up beyond the woods and over the ridge. The glacier broke out before them, a wall of ice all scarred and weird, and broken here and there by dark holes. One cave was some three fathoms above the sand and gravel of the ridge; leading up to it there was a thin tongue of ice, that was smooth and slick after the rain.
Skarphedin pulls in his reins and jumps aground. Swanhild likewise gets down: she went up into the cave, but Skarphedin swatted the horses so that they went down the hill’s far side. Then he takes up shield and spear and follows after Swanhild into the ice-cave.
It was cold there, of an ill half-light. Swanhild was shivering. Skarphedin took off his red kirtle and laid it over her; his chain-shirt he kept on.
Soon enough they heard horses out below.
Skarphedin grunted. His eyes were bright and his cheeks ruddy; he blew on his hands and went down on his belly so that his head lay just at the cave-mouth.
‘What do you see there,’ Swanhild asks.
‘Seven men there, and one I know.’
‘Is that one Hogni?’
‘Hogni it is.’
‘Tell me of those others.’
‘Two stand together: one is tall and fair, and wears a gold ring on his arm; the other stands somewhat behind him, is shorter but broad, with a dark shiny beard. In all other things these two are unlike, but there is a likeness about them in the eyes.’
‘That will be Beigath and Svipdag Nurlason: both good fighters, but eager like boys, and it is my mind that if one of those falls, then the other will lose heart. What of those others?’
‘There are three dressed much alike: big men with fair hair bound with ribands. One is very handsome, and I would call him a peacock; but his hands look the hardest of them all, and his look is very grim.’
‘That will be Bothvar Baugson. Those two with him I guess are Hvitserk and Hjalti, Orm’s sons and Bothvar’s kinsmen. They will lay on blows together and fight harder when they ought to weary. What of that last one?’
‘He is a man older-seeming than the others. There is gray in his beard and a scar on his cheek, and he walks with a limp. He holds his spear well, and I would guess he has swum in these waters before now.’
Swanhild frowned. ‘Does he wear a red-hued helmet, that has a dent on one side, so that the steel shows through?’
Skarphedin answered that he did.
‘That was my greatest fear,’ Swanhild said, ‘and it is with him that you will be most-tried. That is Starulf, Hogni’s friend; some call him “the Gray” for his slyness. I would not blame him for trickery, nor trollcraft either; nor would I call him the most upstanding of men. But whatever side Starulf finds himself on, things seem to happen to fall out so that that side ever wins.’
‘Now Starulf talks with Hogni, and they all eye these holes warily. They see the tracks of our horses, but will not go on, and that is cleverer than I looked for from Hogni. Now Odin, lord of warriors, wizards and the dead, you have not been unfriendly with me before now. Give me the win here, Old One, and goodly blood offerings I will give you, three for every man I slay!’
So Skarphedin vowed softly in his beard to the sky. But Swanhild bent her head down upon her knees and sat huddled behind him on the ice. Her hands were blue against the kirtle. She glanced up at him dark-eyed, and her teeth shook somewhat from the cold. ‘What now?’ she asked.
‘Now I will go out and greet them,’ Skarphedin answered. Then he laughed softly. ‘I know now what looks they wear: they mind me of that time I hunted bear with Gunnlaug. One by one they look into these caves, and wax more fearful with each new try.’
‘Then let them look on, and maybe they will give it over before them come here.’
‘And let them slander me with verses afterward?’ He slipped back beside her, took her chin in hand and kissed her on the mouth. He was grinning, and there was laughter and wild hope in his eyes: something had come over him then, but to Swanhild he seemed somewhat foolish.
He crawled back to the cave-mouth. ‘Ah! They are here already!’
Two men were walking up the ice-tongue; Swanhild could see their heads. Beigath went before and Svipdag behind him: the others were looking in the other caves. Now Beigath stooped down before the hole and squinted. Skarphedin leapt out and thrust at him with his spear; the spear-point caught Beigath’s cloak-pin and threw hi
m back. Beigath fell heavily down off the ice: Svipdag yelled: the others shouted at the sight.
‘Now, lords who scatter Ocean’s fire,’ Skarphedin says, ‘ere you cross this bridge, you must pay me a toll. What have you that I might wish for?’
‘Well, we do have these,’ says Bothvar, and brandishes his sword: ‘but you will not find it easy to make change.’
At the foot of the ice-wall Beigath crawled to his feet. His arms were bloody and his eyes dazzled, but that was all the hurt he had come to. Now Svipdag takes his spear and goes at Skarphedin. Skarphedin pushes aside that blow and thrust back: drives his spear right through Svipdag’s shield. Splinters and spearpoint cut Svipdag’s arm and blood gushed out. Skarphedin twirled his axe and drove it deep into Svipdag’s side: then Svipdag howled and fell and landed on the far side of the ice-tongue from Beigath. He was dead. There was a long smear of red to mark his path.
Skarphedin leaned on his spear. ‘You are far from friendly wanderers,’ he said.
Now against him went both Bothvar and Hjalti. Bothvar swung his sword up against Skarphedin’s shield and cut a big chunk out of it, but Hjalti aimed a blow at him with a wood-axe. Skarphedin slips his axe over to his left hand and sheared off Hjalti’s wood-axe at the handle; then he swings back the axe and smites with the hammer Bothvar’s shield and knocks him head over heels. Hjalti fled then, and Bothvar crawled after. Starulf and Hvitserk came up in their turn; Skarphedin picked up his spear again and met them gladly and the blows fell fast.
Then those Icelanders got many wounds, but Skarphedin few. There was only room for two to come at him at a time on the ice-tongue. Then they fell back. They grumbled at Hogni: in all that time he had not fought but had hung back, and his face was grim. ‘This is an ill thing we do,’ he said: ‘but there is no turning from it now.’ Then he went forth and put one foot on the ice.
‘Outlaw, Skarphedin!’ Hogni called. ‘Why have you come back to Iceland?’
‘For this, that I may gather in your tolls.’ Skarphedin was standing before the low cave-mouth. His arms and chain shirt were grimy with sweat and men’s blood. Swanhild crept closer to the cave-mouth, so that she could smell the reek on him.
Hogni took another step up the ice, and Swanhild turned back deeper in the cave.
‘Dire oaths we have taken, to drive you out of Iceland,’ Hogni said. ‘But we did not say what road we would put you on. Swear by the son of Earth that you will leave Iceland before winter: then we will let you live.’
Skarphedin laughed. ‘That was never the way of men hereabouts, that they should set to treating once blows had fallen.’
‘If you will not swear, then we shall have your head.’
‘Have it, then. But I have two heads here: let me pick the one you will get.’ Thereat he rushed forward and dealt Hogni such a blow with his axe-head that it staved in his shield and staggered him.
‘My curse upon that woman,’ Hogni mutters, and sets to.
For half an hour they were at strokes. It was then late in the afternoon. Both men were strewn with blood. Hogni’s breath was harsh. Skarphedin was the better of those two, but Hogni was the quicker, and he would not draw back. Hogni’s strokes waxed wilder. Skarphedin dodged them then or caught them on his axe. Then Skarphedin struck back: Hogni slips it with his shield; but Skarphedin swung back the axe ever so quickly. The hammer struck Hogni square in the chest, and stove in some ribs.
Hogni looked down and laughed horribly. There was a bubbling in his voice. Red showed on his teeth. Once more he struck at Skarphedin, wildly: and Skarphedin struck back. Then loud was the sound of the axe biting through flesh and bone; Hogni made a wry face but did not cry out.
He came back down the ice-tongue then.
‘Well?’ asks Hjalti. ‘What was the outcome of that fight?’
‘I think maybe I was not the winner,’ said Hogni; then he fell dead.