As leaves turned yellow and geese trekked through windy heaven, word reached him. Hadding had won back to Denmark and taken up kingship again. Uffi sat dumb, alone in his high seat, until he mumbled, “Can it be me whom the gods are against?” He raised his head. “Nor will I yield to them,” he said into the flickering firelight.

Throughout the winter and spring Hadding made ready. There was no dearth of strong men, mostly younger sons, eager to become his new housecarles. He picked them shrewdly, outfitted them fully, fed them overflowingly, gifted them freely, and at the hands of older warriors drilled them ruthlessly. He sent word around the kingtime that after sowing there would be a great levy for war abroad. Likewise did he send to King Haakon, who promised twenty ships full of armed Niderings. Meanwhile he gathered food and drink to keep his host for two or three weeks—meat smoked and salted, stockfish, hardtack, cheese, casks of ale—along with wains, horses, and whatever else would be needed.

At the set time, then, his fighters swarmed to Haven and ferried across the Sound. As they went north overland they met the men of Scania under Jarl Eyjolf. All fared onward.

Theirs was a mighty troop. At the head rode King Hadding with his highest chieftains, the housecarles behind them. Cloaks rippled from their shoulders as bright hued as the banners overhead. Here and there, rearward, were others mounted. Most went afoot, a dun throng ablink with iron, in loose little bands. They thronged to right and left, talking, singing, laughing, shouting. The earth drummed to their tread. Fields lay trampled flat behind them. In their midst dust smoked white off whatever road wound between. There bumped and creaked the laden wagons. Often men must lend their strength to the draught horses, shoving wheels out of ruts too deep, dragging them through tall grass or over stones where a road gave out altogether, pushing them uphill, braking them downhill, splashing them across fords, hauling them from mudholes when rain had been heavy. Sweat sheened on skin and darkened shirts, breath went hoarse and oathful in mouths.

Still, the host moved fast. Hadding led it first east, then north, skirting the hills. The lowlands along the Baltic were much easier going, mostly plowland and meadow. They passed many a farmstead and thorp, but stopped only to camp for the night. When they were out of Scanian land and pushing on through the Geats, dwellers fled, but Hadding forbade plunder and even burning. After he had a few men beheaded who disobeyed, the rest believed what he told them, that this wasted time and added burdens. Only to such near friends as Eyjolf did he add that he would rather not leave more ill will than he must.