The Skjoldung stared about. He had come to the edge of battle, hard by the wildwood. Only dead men and writhing, moaning wounded were near. Beyond them, the fight had broken into clumps of struggle across the reddened grass. But Loker’s Northmen were still a single troop with their king at the forefront, thrusting on like an iceberg. Even as he watched, Hadding saw Lysir’s banner go down before them. He saw the chieftain fall, a spear in him through the riven ringmail. The guardsmen trampled over him on their way forward.
The vikings broke. They turned and ran for their ships. There some took a stand, shield by shield. Loker’s men had been winnowed too; the hale among them were also hurt and weary. Moreover, it took time to fell what vikings were left elsewhere on the field and bring the Kurlanders together for a last push. Meanwhile a rearguard of seamen kept the strand clear for their shipmates to launch the craft.
Foemen in between cut Hadding off from them. Half a score of wounds on him soaked his undercoat and breeks. His breath sobbed in and out. The hand that clutched his blunted sword shook as badly as his knees. He could never win through to the shore.
Three Kurlanders spied him, whooped in glee, and started his way. He could not withstand them. He slipped into the brush below the trees. With his wilderness skills he could shake them off. After that he could only keep going for as long as his strength lasted.
X
Dusk was becoming night when he stumbled from a brake out onto an open patch somewhere in the wilds. Trees stood as giant blacknesses around it. Above them glimmered the first two or three stars. What light there was turned the bog grass leaden and sheened sullenly off puddles. Ground squelched underfoot. It still smelled miry and the air still hung warm, but mists had begun to rise as earth cooled and a ghostly white haze drifted low. Silence brooded.
A man stood at the middle of the lea, armed with a spear. A broad hat shaded his face. His beard fell iron gray down the front of his cloak. Behind him waited a stallion of the same hue, tall enough for his great height.
Words rolled slow: “We meet again, as I foretold.”
Hadding was too numb for amazement. He hardly felt pain any longer, hunger or thirst, will or woe. Blood loss and weariness had gutted him. Were it not for this sudden sight he would have dropped here, slobbered the foul water, and toppled into sleep. Barely could he stand, swaying, and mumble, “What now will come of it?”
“I said you would have learned something,” the old one answered, “and a man must know not only how to overcome foes, but defeat itself. Tonight you shall have what is better.“
“Well met, then, Gangleri, if you are more than a dream.”
“Come.” The Wanderer beckoned. Hadding lurched toward him, stubbed a foot on a root, and fell. Gangleri caught him. Held against the cloak, half swooning, the Skjoldung felt himself lifted in one arm. Gangleri bore him easily over to the stallion. It seemed to him that that steed had too many legs, but he could not tell through the querning in his head. Gangleri set foot in stirrup and swung up to the saddle. Hadding lay at his breast. Gangleri spread the cloak over him and whistled. The horse burst into gallop.
They should at once have crashed through brush. Instead, Hadding felt as if they sped uphill a while before they found an uneasy road. Down that they went so fast that the air was a gale around them. He nestled unwonderingly into the muffling darkness.
After a time that had no meaning for his stunned soul, the ride ended in a thunder of hoofs on stone. With a racketing neigh the stallion reared and halted. Gangleri dismounted, Hadding in his clasp as if the warrior were a bairn. The young man heard iron ring, a door clashed shut behind; Gangleri carried him onward.
At last the old one lowered him to a bench. He sat slumped, striving weakly to stay awake.
“Here,” said the deep voice. “Drink.”
Hadding opened heavy eyes. Gangleri loomed over him, holding a horn of gold. It was so long and broad that Hadding needed both hands to take it and bring it to his mouth. What was within smelled like honey and summer meadows and the hot pitch that caulks ships. When, he tasted, it was a kiss on his tongue and a fire throughout his flesh.
“Drink well,” Gangleri bade him. “This has mended worse hurts than yours.”
Hadding obeyed with a waxing greed. As he drained the draught, strength flowed into him. It washed away pain. His sight cleared, his hearing sharpened. He saw first the figures molded on the horn. They showed it raised by a woman in welcome to a man who came riding with two ravens aflight above him. Elsewhere they showed other men feasting and fighting. He glanced at himself. Though his mail was battered, sword dulled, clothes torn and blood-clotted, every gash had scarlessly knitted together. He was healed and hale.
He rose and looked about, bewildered. He seemed to be in a hall, alone with Gangleri. He could not be sure. The bench was cunningly made and inlaid with gold. Behind it was a wainscot of the finest oak, carved in strange shapes. A bearskin covered the floor under his feet. But he could not see to the end of the building, nor to the crossbeams overhead. It was too huge, and full of a blue twilight. He thought the nearer pillars had the forms of men. Blurs here and there might be hangings, dim moons might be shields, and fires might be burning far off. But he could not tell.
His look sought Gangleri. The one eye caught his two. A chill went through the renewed warmth in Hadding. “Who are you?” he whispered. “Where is this?”
“I have said what I have said and brought you where I have brought you,” answered the old one.
His honor came back to Hadding. “You have saved my life. How may I thank you?”
“The night is not yet done,” Gangleri warned, “and it is not yet well for you to linger here.”
“Where then should I go?”
The Wanderer spoke gravely:
When back you fare, foes will grip you,
Bind you for beasts to tear,
Booty of wolves; but keep those men
Lulled by the telling of tales
Until from drink they drowse to sleep,
Letting you burst your bonds.
Leave them behind.—
He went on. Hadding listened dazed, grasping after understanding. It slipped from his fingers. He dared not ask.
“Now come,” Gangleri said at the end, and strode off. Hadding followed.
They walked a long way through the gloaming. A door sheered iron banded, so high that its top was unseeable. Gangleri laid hold of a golden ring on the bolt and swung it wide. They trod forth into cold stillness under a blaze of crowding, unwinking stars. The stallion waited.
“Ride before me,” Gangleri bade. He helped his guest up. When they were on the saddle he again wrapped his cloak around Hadding, over his head. He whistled. The horse galloped off.
Now, though, Hadding was himself. More and more he thought it unmanly thus to cower hooded on another man’s breast, in the crook of his arm. Anger kindled. He fumbled at the cloak, drew a fold aside, and stuck his head out.
Night lay everywhere hollow around him. Stars gleamed, fewer and smaller than erstwhile, the stars as they shine above the world of men. Far below, their light shimmered on the sea.
Wind shrilled and cut.
“Look not on what is forbidden,” he heard.
He drew his head back under the cloak and shuddered.
After a time beyond time the way bent down. The steed halted. Gangleri opened the cloak. His spear slanted earthward. The warrior heeded and slid off, onto the ground. He stared up. The rider sat tall against a murky tanglewood.
“Go seek your weird,” Gangleri told Hadding. He wheeled his horse and trotted into the wild. Soon he was gone among its trees and shadows.
Hadding shook off the frozenness in him. He stood on the battlefield, at daybreak. The east had grown white, setting waters and dew agleam. By that glow he made out a few beached longships; the rest had gotten away, with sorely dwindled crews. Dead men lay strewn, stiffened, ugly hued, emptily gaping and glaring. Carrion birds had been at them,
though at this hour only sleepy twitters sounded from the wood. Yestereven the Wends had cut the throats of viking wounded and taken their own into the stronghold hamlet yonder. Bands of them were searching in this dawn for their fallen.
Somehow they had not been aware of the newcomers until Gangleri left. Now they spied Hadding. They took him for a raider who had slipped into the wild, lost his way, and blundered back. Yelling, they pelted toward him.
He was alone, shield gone, sword all but useless. Yet he awaited them calmly. He knew they would not kill him out of hand. Whatever else the old one might be—and it seemed unwise to wonder much about that—he was surely a wizard whose spaedom would come true.
XI
King Loker was riding about the hinterland. When he came back, Hadding was brought before him. The stronghold was wattle-and-daub hovels crowded together between the upright, sharpened logs of the stockade. Livestock herded in for safekeeping had been taken out again but left their dung and its stench everywhere within. The king and his men would be glad to go home on the morrow. He had stayed this long only to see how things stood with the folk hereabouts. This captive could well be the last matter he need deal with.
Rain was falling. Most of the Kurlanders must squat outside. Their leaders had no better shelter than these foul huts. It did not milden Loker’s mood. He sat on a chest among some of the warriors, a big, dark man, and glowered. Hadding stood bound in front of him, two Northmen guarding.
“Well,” said the king, “at least we have one of you alive.” He had learned the Northern tongue. “A nithing; no iron has marked you.” The Wends had stripped off Hadding’s helmet, byrnie, and weapons, leaving him only his clothes. Underbrush could well have torn them, and the bloodstains were hard to tell from caked mud. “You skulked off and hid, hoping to boast afterward of your heroic deeds. Tell me not that you did us no harm. You were ready to take your share of loot and rape your share of women, eh?” He turned to the keepers. “Hogtie him and throw him among his dead shipmates. Their fellow wolves will soon eat them. Maybe first the ravens will pick out his eyes.”
“Well spoken, lord,” spat a guardsman. The two in charge of Hadding led him away.
Outdoors, he opened his mouth. “It’s a longish walk ahead. Why get wet? Let’s wait here till the rain stops.”
“You’d hang onto your wretched life that while more?” scoffed one of them.
Hadding shrugged. “The noise yesterday scared the wolves off throughout last night. They’ll hardly come from the woods before this eventide, when living folk have stopped picking over the dead. Why soak yourselves as well as me? We can pass the time better.”
He had, indeed, already talked with these men after they were given the watch over him. It had not been unfriendly. To them he was a foe who should die, but otherwise a man like themselves. Besides, he brought word from home. Vigleik was a Cleat, Ketil a Dane of Scania. As steadily as Hadding bore his lot, they believed him when he told them he was no coward but had merely been lucky during the fight and had stayed in it till everyone else fled. Then he did take to the woods, but in the morning found he was back where he started.
“Why not?” Vigleik said. Ketil nodded. The three of them returned to the hut in which they had waited for the king to send for them. It was even smaller than most; the dwellers had been ordered elsewhere for this while. A peat fire smoldered on the dirt floor, its light barely picking out the stools, box, and cookware that were the few poor furnishings. Smoke mingled with dankness. Rain splashed beyond a narrow, open doorway.
Ketil doffed his cloak, shook what water he could off it, hung it over a beam, coughed and snuffled. “Faugh, what a weather!” he said. “You’re right, nothing to be out in needlessly. Bad enough here.”
Vigleik grinned. “We’ve something to keep us warm.” He pointed to a cask of mead they had brought in earlier. The king’s men helped themselves to whatever they found of suchlike goods. After all, they had saved the owners from the vikings.
“You might share it,” Hadding said.
“Why?” asked Vigleik.
“Leave my throat dry and I’ll speak no further word.”
“Oh, let him have some,” Ketil said. “It’s cheerless where he’s going.”
He stood by with drawn sword while his fellow untied the captive’s wrists and bound them again in front, to let the hands clasp a horn. He also lashed the ankles together and hitched that cord to a roofpost. Hadding was plainly strong. The guards were sore and weary after yesterday. They wanted no risk.
All sat down. They had one horn between them. Ketil filled it, drank, and passed it on to Vigleik, who in turn put it in Hadding’s grasp.
“Tell us about yourself,” Ketil bade him. “We’ll tell others, so you won’t be forgotten right away.”
Vigleik yawned. “Make it lively if you can. This has been a dull day.”
Hadding lifted the horn, drank, and gave it back. “I can tell you more than you maybe care to hear. You’ll take me for a liar.”
Ketil tugged his mustache. “A death-doomed man has no need to lie, does he? Nor would it help him afterward, I should think.”
“Right you are. Hark, then. I am the last living son of the Dane-king Gram. After he fell, a faithful man of his brought me to some giants he knew, and they raised me.”
Vigleik choked. Mead sputtered from his lips. “A tale indeed!”
“True or not, it’s something to listen to,” Ketil said happily.
Time passed. Rain hammered. The warriors sat enthralled. They lost track of how much they drank. When it came to him, Hadding held the horn tilted as long as they did, but the slightest of sips went past his teeth. The others marked this not.
He told them how he grew up, what the life was like, happenings both everyday and spooky When it touched Hard-greip, he found he did not wish to say anything. Rather, he went on, quite truthfully, “The jotuns have many sagas of their own. Theirs was the first of the races, you know, and while most of them are no doubt oafish blockheads, some are cunning and some are wise, with lore that goes back to the beginning. They remember things that men never knew and the gods have forgotten, or at least do not choose to tell of. Let me give you one such. A part of it you surely know, but only a part. Of course, I heard this from a giant. It may be that his folk say one thing about it, the gods another. But here is what he told me.”
Around and around went the mead as Hadding talked.
“While the war raged between Aesir and Vanir, threatening to bring down all the gods, Odin sought wisdom. At the well of Mimir he bought a draught of it with one eye. Then he saw how much more there was to know, still dark to him. Mimir could not teach him, for Mimir had not yet died. However, he could tell Odin where a rede might be found.
“Therefore the All-Father made ready and set forth. He went alone. Those were wild and wildering ways he must tread. Any fellow farer, without the insights that were now his, would be a hindrance, endangering them both. Even he often lost his path on that long trek. Only slowly and painfully did he find It again.
“Down he went to Midgard, and through the world of men. They too had taken up warfare. Blood feud and robbery were also spreading among them. Passing himself off as a wanderer, he must often fight. For him that was easy, but it slowed him, the more so because he gave help to those who befriended this lonely old man.
“Harder was it when he came to Ironwood. Trolls and monsters haunted it, though never was flesh or fish, fruit or root to be gotten. More than human might and skill did he need to win through that barren land.
“Worse yet was when the way took him on downward into hell. Through the freezing cold and darkness of Niflheim he fared, rushing rivers and swarming vipers, past the dragon Nidhogg that gnaws on the deepest roots of the World Tree, and evil beset every furlong.
“Beyond that he must skirt the fires of Muspellheim, where Surt lairs, who shall one day bear them forth to burn all the worlds. The jotuns themselves know not how Odin came unscathed from thi
s giant, and he never spoke of it.
“In the end, he reached his goal, afar in the highest mountains of Jotunheim. There from ages aforetime had Farbauti dwelt with his wife, Laufey. They alone had the knowledge he needed.
“They guested him in seemly wise in their huge hall, where swart elves served them and wind forever howled around the walls, driving snowdrift and ice-glitter before it. But they did not want to give him his wish, him who had been there at the slaying of Ymir.
“They had two sons, Byleist and Loki.” Of a sudden it struck Hadding as odd that Loker’s name was so like this. He pushed the thought aside and went on. “Byleist was surly and hateful toward the newcomer. Little else have I heard about him. Loki was otherwise. He himself could have been a god, with the same height and handsomeness, his skin fair though hair and eyes were hell black. Lively and unruly, he had long found life wearisome in this flinty steading, this upland of loneliness and unending winter. Eagerly he listened to the tales and staves wherewith guest repaid host, the words raising before him a sight of Asgard shining at the end of the rainbow bridge.
“After a while Loki pleaded with his father and mother to be more forthcoming. He was fair to behold, ready of tongue, bewitching when he chose to be. Moreover, he whispered to them what it might mean to have one of their own kind among the gods.
“Therefore the elder jotuns, warlock and witch, yielded. They told Odin what they knew, that that which he quested after lay on the far side of death. None had ever dared seek yonder.
“He did, The way would be still more hard and strange than those he had already trodden. The thursir had some knowledge of it, gathered through the ages. Loki offered to go along as guide and helper. This Odin must needs agree to, with thanks.
“They bade farewell and went down the mountains, over the glaciers and scree-strewn wastes, across the broad holdings and past the huge garths of giants, to the sea. There Loki called a drow from his barrow and made him ferry them in his half a boat, which sailors see shortly before they drown. On the farther shore grew a wildwood where no one dwelt and nothing roamed but the beings of water, earth, and sky. Yet how manifold and wonderful these are! Nor did anything speak but the soughing in the leaves.
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