War of the Gods

by Poul Anderson

  He straightened and glared. “Did he then get away?”

  “I think not into the woods,” said Syfrid. “He led his men and was well-nigh out onto the strand when we attacked. Then he sprang from his horse and back to the fight. But the press was hard. Nobody could have hewed from there into the thick of it. The Danes who happened to be to the rear, they were the ones who had some opening for escape when they saw they were beaten.”

  “Yet Hadding’s not here,” Tosti grated. “Unless he made off down the strand itself. Hr-r-r, if he slips from us, this day will not have seen our victory”

  He asked about and cast about. A man or two recalled marking a pair who fled east along the water. Tosti bent low and scuttled around like a hound after spoor. “Ha!” he cried. “Footprints and bloodstains! After them!”

  Men whooped. They pounded along for a few miles, topped the ridge, and saw their other ships, with three dead warriors lying under the prows. Tosti shaded his eyes and peered outward. The sun was nearly set, the dazzle off the water half blinded him, but it seemed that something yonder might be a boat. “Launch! There’s our whale! A pouchful of gold to the first who harpoons him!”

  Hands gripped, backs bent, a ship rumbled down to the shallows and onward till she lay afloat. Men waded out and hauled themselves aboard. Oars rattled forth. The ship surged forward.

  The sea welled up from below. It gurgled around the deck-boards, raised them, set them sloshing to and fro. The crew broke out buckets. They could not bail fast enough. Soon the craft wallowed awash.

  Tosti shrieked his rage. There was nothing to do but creep back to shore. They found that all the hulls had been holed.

  “We’ve more ships waiting!” Tosti shouted. “Be off!”

  “If we run back all that way,” mumbled a Jute, “we’ll be dead tired.”

  Tosti pulled Out his knife. “You’ll be dead now if you don’t come along,” he said. They trotted at his back as best they could.

  Night fell. It was the light night of midsummer, dream blue, giving wide range to sight. A warm wind lulled.

  Most of Tosti’s band had stayed behind, resting. He filled a ship from among these. Oars creaked, a bow wave purled, wake sheened, the vessel drove forward.

  Gudorm saw it afar, a darkness in the dusk, and wakened Hadding. The king peered with a sailor’s eye. “Yes, they’re after us sooner than I’d hoped,” he said calmly.

  Gudorm’s fist thudded on the rail. “We should have gone ashore and struck inland ere now.”

  “I thought of that, but we’d have been close to where we set out, and too weary to cover our tracks. That takes time and care, I can tell you. Now, at least, we have some strength and wit again.”

  “They’ll be on us before we can make shore.”

  “Not unless they see us. As yet, to them we’re very low in the water, a blob, if they’ve spied us at all. Nor will they likely spy two swimmers, if we’re not noisy.”

  Gudorm stared. “Do you mean, lord, we should go overboard?”

  “Yes, before they’re sure what we are and what we do.”

  The guardsman’s broad shoulders slumped. “I can’t swim,” he said. The boat rocked a little. Wavelets lapped and glimmered under the dim sky.

  Hadding tugged his chin. “Hm. That’s a bother.”

  Gudorm straightened. “Save yourself, my king,” he said, not altogether steadily. “I’ll put my mail back on, and when they find me, maybe I’ll take a few of them with me to the deeps.”

  Hadding half smiled. “So must a housecarle speak,” he answered. “But it’s wrong. You would not die at my feet as you should, you’d die while I ran off.”

  Gudorm stared at him. “What else could happen?”

  Hadding laughed. “I’ve a trick or two left in me yet. If this one saves us, the tale will live long after us. If not, maybe the gods will tell it in their halls. But quickly, before they get closer and see clearly.”

  Gudorm shivered to hear. This man, he remembered, had been raised beyond the world of men.

  Hadding knotted a short length of mooring line about the waist of his guard and hitched it to a thwart. Springing to and fro, they capsized the boat. Hadding slipped underneath and laid hold of the thwart himself. There was an air space under the planks. In darkness, in sea, the two hung waiting.

  Tosti’s ship drew nigh. “Overturned,” he snarled.

  “How might that be, in this calm?” wondered a sailor.

  “Who knows?” said another. “A riptide, a skerry, a whale—a kraken, a drow—Let’s away.”

  “Someday,” said Tosti, “I may catch a fish that ate Hadding, and eat it. How I wish I could know. Well, we can take this boat back with us.”

  “That’d be troublesome,” warned a crewman, “and the thing might be unlucky by now”

  The crew muttered agreement. “As you like,” snapped Tosti.

  Under the boat, king and guardsman listened to the oars stride off.

  When he deemed it safe, Hadding helped Gudorm squirm forth and clamber onto the upended bottom. They could not right the craft again, but Hadding fetched the oars. He had tied them down inboard so that it would look as though the capsizing had happened hours ago. Sitting astride, he and Gudorm paddled to land. Stumbling into the shelter of a thicket, they slept.

  Thereafter it was to find a house the raiders had not reached, where they got food, drink, and more rest. The owner’s son ran off to the sheriff with word about them. Though the sheriff was sorely beset as Tosti’s band scoured around, he brought horses. And thus Hadding won home.

  There he sent forth the war-arrow. With a full levy he sought out the foe and went to work. Few were the Jutes and Saxons who did not leave their bones on that field. Having recovered what loot he could, he went on vengefully into their homelands. Not soon did those folk think again about faring against Denmark.

  But Tosti had gotten away.

  XXVIII

  In the next summer, on his yearly ride through Scania, King Hadding stopped as always in Bralund. Eyjolf welcomed him with the same friendliness as ever. Yet it seemed to Hadding that a shadow lay over the household.

  On the third day Eyjolf asked if they could speak under four eyes. They saddled horses and went forth. The steading dropped from sight behind them; only a thin twist of smoke lifted over a grove, and other homes lay dwindled by farness. Fields ripened, cows grazed in paddocks, wildflowers nodded blue and pink along the roadside, the miles round about faded hazily into sky. Bees buzzed in clover. Dust puffed up from hoofs, into windlessness, and fell slowly down.

  “This warmth does an old man good,” said Hadding at length.

  Eyjolf glanced at him. “You’re not yet old.”

  “I’ve seen more winters than most men do. It’s time for me to think of those who’ll come after me.”

  Eyjolf drew breath. “That’s what I wanted to talk about.”

  “Ulfhild, not so?” asked Hadding softly.

  “Yes.”

  “She seems well enough behaved.”

  “That’s because you’re here. Lord, she’s often a she-wolf. At best she does her tasks surlily. If crossed in any way, or for no reason we can guess, she screams, smashes things, lays about her with a switch or even a whip. The housefolk dare not say so, but plain it is how they hate and fear her. She gallops off by herself, without a by-your-leave, and won’t say where she’s gone. Nonetheless she can bewitch when she chooses, with her beauty, quick wit, and sharp mirth. In that mood she flirts more than is seemly, not only with youths but with married men, yes, and lowly crofters.”

  Eyjolf stopped. For a while only plop of hoofs and creak of leather sounded. “That was a hard thing to say,” he added. “I must, though, for I know not how much longer I can keep this trust you gave me.”

  “Wildness runs in our blood,” Hadding sighed. “My daughter Svanhvit, by my leman Gyda, has no liking for women’s work either, and talks of becoming a shield maiden.”

  “We hear tell of such, but
how many have there ever really been? Well, at least Svanhvit’s no threat to anyone but herself, is she?”

  “Not yet. Ulfhild, though, stems from kings on both spear and distaff side. I’d thought of wedding her to a king, but now I wonder. She might stir up hungers in him. I don’t want Denmark torn by war, Frodi fighting for his rights, after I’m gone.”

  “Well, she’s of an age for a husband—sixteen winters, if I’ve reckoned aright.”

  “I’ll take her home with me,” said Hadding, “and we shall see.”

  Eyjolf’s head lifted, as if a burden had been taken off his shoulders.

  At first the young woman was blissful. She skipped over the grounds, she hugged her horse almost as if it were her man to be, she chattered like a brook in between fits of laughter. “I’m going away, I’m going away, I’m going away!” she sang. “Away from sour sameness, away from this pen, back to the world!”

  “You might thank your fosterers for their kindness,” growled Hadding.

  She gave him a narrow look and said no more. When they left she did indeed speak well to Eyjolf and his wife. “I know you had much to bear with,” she told them, “but I’ll never forget what I learned from you.”

  Afterward Hadding thought that that could have two meanings. But on the trek to Zealand she was the best of way-mates, blithe and lively.

  When he settled her in the hall at Haven, she was likewise delighted and delightful. The roominess, the wealth, the comings and goings, strange goods and stranger tales from abroad, the skalds and their lays, everything was new and bright to her eyes. “So should a queen live!” she cried more than once. Hadding held back from saying that she was not a queen.

  Then as the months slipped by, bit by bit it changed between them. Her wrath blazed high or sank into slow fire. Again she took to lashing out at housefolk, riding about alone, affronting guests and making eyes at men.

  Hadding had not found a second wife who would give him a good tie to a strong house. Nor had he sought hard. Since Ragnhild’s death, he slept with whatever sightly woman was on hand and willing when he felt like it, which was not as often as formerly. However, he was still fond of Gyda. She dwelt in Haven in a house he had given her, but he would go there or she visit him while he was staying hereabouts.

  When Ulfhild quarreled with her, shrieked that she was a nasty old slut, and scratched her cheek bloody, the news brought Hadding to a wintry anger. He sought his daughter out in the bower, gripped her arm bruisingly tight, and said, “Come along.” She pulled against him, spitting like a cat. “If you will not walk, I’ll drag you,” he said. She walked.

  They went along a path beside a meadow. The year was waning. Below an overcast, rags of cloud flew smoky on a chill wind. The grass had gone sallow. Leaves blew off a stand of beeches nearby. Crows winged low, hoarsely calling.

  “There will be no more of this trollishness,” he said.

  “Over and over has that woman belittled me,” answered Ulfhild. “She sits by you in the high seat. She gives no thought to my wants, mine, the king’s daughter. When I offer a rede, she cares no more about it than if I were a bairn. Today I told the thrall Kark to groom my horse Gullfaxi. Gyda heard. She wanted him to fetch a box of stuff from her house. She had already bidden him, but—It was too much. I’ve had too much from her.”

  Hadding grasped both her arms, swung her around to face him, and said, “Didn’t you hear me? There will be no more trollishness. I too will brook only so much.”

  She stared into his eyes. Giants had reared him. Another giant had he slain, and many mighty warriors. He had won in battle against warlocks and had passed through a land of the dead. Never had she seen anything more bleak than his eyes.

  Her thews slackened. She bowed her head. “I’m sorry, father,” she whispered.

  He let her go. “See that you stay sorry.” After a while he went on, half to himself, “I’ve been thinking about this. The time is overpast that we get some worth out of your life.”

  He turned and strode back to the hall. She stood long alone in the wind.

  From then on she behaved better. Sometimes she whitened and snatched after breath; but she would unclench her fists without letting a word fly free. Other times she would be withdrawn and sullen. But more and more she went among folk as mannerly as befitted a highborn lady. More and more often she called up the merriment that could be hers, or listened to what somebody was saying as though she cared, or sang in her lovely voice.

  Meanwhile Hadding took men of weight aside and spoke quietly with them. Thus he found his way forward to what seemed him best.

  Nights grew long Rains made mire of the earth; later, pines and firs gloomed above thin snow. Folk huddled over their fires and yearned for the renewing of the sun.

  Ulfhild still liked young men. She got to talking and laughing most with Gudorm Thorleifsson, the guardsman who escaped with Hadding from a stricken strand and dangled with him beneath an overturned boat. The king took heed, and began seeking this man out.

  Yuletide neared. The household brawled with readymaking for the feast and for the offerings to the gods. One day Hadding bade Ulfhild, “Come.”

  They crossed through the murky day over to the women’s bower. Maids were weaving and chatting by lamplight, though they must strain their eyes. Hadding told them to set the work aside and go. When he and his daughter were by themselves, he waved at a stool. “Sit if you wish,” he said. “I have tidings for you.”

  Because he kept his feet, she did too. A vein fluttered in her throat. “What is it?” she asked low.

  He smiled, more sternly than happily. “At midwinter we’ll drink your betrothal ale.”

  Only midsummer would have been a time more high. Ulfhild’s hands lifted to her breasts. “Who is the man?” she breathed.

  “I’ve seen how you and Gudorm like each other, and I’ve let him know he would not get a cold answer. Now he’s asked for your hand. He’ll be a good man to you and a stout friend to all of us.”

  She gasped. “A yeoman?”

  “He’s no smallholder. You remember that his father has lately died. He, as the oldest living son, is the head at Keldorgard. It’s among the richest on Denmark. And the family has land elsewhere, as well as a ship in trade. Nor is he lowborn. His grandfather Bjarni was a leman-child of my great-grandfather King Skjold.”

  “But still a yeoman.”

  “I’ll raise him to sheriff. If he does well at that, and I think he will, in time I’ll make him a jar!. His name shall be great in the land, and so will the sons you bear him.”

  “This is your will?”

  “It is,” he said.

  She spoke no more that evening.

  XXIX

  It seemed as though Tosti the Wicked was done for. Hadding had broken his following on the battlefield, killed most, scattered the rest, and brought home a good booty. Thereafter the Dane-king went around quelling the lands from which his foes had dared come. He rode through Jutland to the cromlech stronghold, slew what fighting men were there on watch, and razed it. Naught should have been left for Tosti but to skulk with every hand against him, living like a wolf on what he could steal until he found himself with nowhere to flee and died like a wolf.

  Yet he kept a ship, a crew, his cunning, and his hatred. For a year they laired in deep fjords of Norway, rowing forth to fall on lonely hamlets or fisher boats, slipping off before avengers could track them down. During this while he lost some men, and others quit; but at the end he still had enough to seek Jutland again.

  Lying offshore, he went word inland to lurking places he knew. No few outlaws heeded the call, and likewise men who were wretchedly poor or homeless. They had little to lose, and Tosti had in his way been powerful. He might win back to that and more. No one could foreknow what the Norns had laid down for him.

  Not all in his gang were poor. Some who got away from Hadding had been well off at home. The Dane-king had burned those houses and made the Jutes and Saxons outlaw the owners. But
they had brought along golden arm-rings, purses full of outland coins, costly weapons and clothes.

  “We’ll get friends overseas,” Tosti told them in the second year. “We’ll come back ready to strip the shores of Denmark, till Hadding pays us ransom for his kingdom. After that we’ll build our strength further. You’ll end your days on broad acres, sleeping under down quilts with whatever maidens you want.”

  So they set forth for England.

  The ship was crowded. Cheek by jowl, men easily grew angry at each other. Hard words crackled. When a fist thudded, Tosti was there before the one struck could draw his knife “Easy,” he bade. “Easy. have no bloodshed here. We’ll settle these things on land.” But he did not try to make anything but a patchwork peace.

  England seethed with newcomers. Vikings denned on the islands and in the bays. Land-hungry tribes from overseas hammered the Britons back and back. War-bands roved and ravened. Smoke smeared heaven, women wept hopelessly beside the ashes of dwellings, birds picked out the eyes of the unburied dead. Withal, where Anglians, Saxons, Jutes, or Danes were clustered there rang the noise of axes, hammers, adzes, laughter, and heroic verse, as they built a new world for themselves.

  Tosti made camp along the outflow of the Humber. Nobody lived there now, though charred timbers nearby showed where a small town had been. “We’ll catch our breath here before we look around,” he said.

  “That’ll soon grow dull,” grumbled a warrior.

  “Why, you can play games all day,” laughed Tosti. “Let me show you some.”

  They could pitch balls, they could run foot races and wrestle, they could shoot arrows, and they did. But Tosti had brought along a small bagful of dice Soon men were wildly tossing and wagering.

  They were still overwrought after their voyage. They recalled words and blows. When a man lost too many throws, he was apt to say another man was a cheat. Now Tosti did not go between them. Instead, he slily egged them on. Fights broke out. Weapons flashed. Men died.

  “Ill is this,” Tosti would say. “But he fell on his own deeds. He’d have robbed me of a sworn brother. The weregild is mine.” And he took everything the fallen man had owned. Since none of them had kinfolk on hand, and none of the living cared to speak against Tosti when his gaze prowled across them, he gathered to himself most of what wealth had been on the ship. Also, by this means he thinned out his crew to a more fitting size, the toughest of the lot.