“That’s as may be,” said the king. He sat for another while. The fire and the lamps guttered low.

He rose. His words clanged. “Hark. This could have been Gudorm’s work and nobody else’s. I do think you goodfolk are honest. But it could be part of something deeper and wider. Everybody will stay here for the next few days. We’ll give out that I’m dead, and see what happens.”

His voice sank. “Now I am weary. Can someone who dwells nearby lend me a bed? I’ll not sleep under this roof again.”

XXXIII

Over the Sound, up through Scania and Geatland, on into Svithjod flew the word. Hadding the Dane-king was gone, fallen at the hand of a madman. They who bore and believed the news were housecarles from Haven. Their chief, who sent them off, with others to go elsewhere around Denmark, believed it too. Each time their horses stopped, the tale raced across the neighborhood. It warned jarls, sheriffs, chieftains, and yeomen to busk themselves for trouble.

None came. There was no uprising, no onset from abroad. When he knew that was so, the king rode back to his hall. Thence he sent messengers after the first ones, carrying the truth.

But a huge storm had sprung up. It lashed the waters for days and nights. Until it ended, neither boat nor ship could cross over to Scania.

Thus the tale came to King Hunding in Uppsala, from the’ lips of men he knew to be trustworthy. Hadding, his oath-brother, the man who had made him what he was, lay dead.

The lord of the Swedes sat dumb when he heard. Then he said slowly, “That was a life longer than most, and it went more high than any other. But it was not long enough, and hence forward we must walk warily, now that the might which upheld our peace is no more.”

Later he said, “To him who gave me all, I will give back all I can, a grave-ale worthy of him.”

The year stood within two months of midwinter, when folk would flock here from far and wide for the offerings. He knew that most could not make the journey twice in so short a span. But he sent to every great man who dwelt nearby, bidding him come. With their families and followings, these guests would number two or three hundred. The kingly hall at Uppsala was the biggest and finest in the North. For a week it boiled with readymaking.

The king was seldom on hand. Most often he was riding about the hinterland, ruthlessly spurring his steeds, through wind and rain and early gloom, trying to wear down his grief.

The guests gathered. Hunding greeted them well, each by each. As they went to the benches, he and his wife took the place kept for those most honored. Across from it, his high seat stood empty.