They lay grounded along an inlet, clinker-built galleys, narrow of beam, sweetly curving upward fore and aft. Some had decks at the ends, others were wholly open. Sternposts were finely shaped and graven. A stempost might also be, or it might be left short and straight for the mounting of a figurehead. A steering oar was set at every starboard flank. Rowing oars were racked on trestles together with mast and yard. Paint livened the hulls, red, yellow, blue, green black with trim of white or gold. Greater and lesser together, they numbered nearly a score. To Hadding it was as if already they strained to be off.

Men swarmed over the grass, among leather tents and campfires. Banners on poles flew above flashing metal and loud merriment. “You come none too soon,” Gangleri told Hadding. “The last crew they were waiting for has arrived this day.”

He led the way down to them and through their midst. All who saw him fell quiet as he passed. Hadding could understand why. Uncanniness enwrapped Gangleri like his cloak and shone like sea fire in his one eye.

They halted before a big man who stood outside a tent beneath a banner on which galloped an embroidered red horse. He was roughly clad in wadmal and short leather coat. His ruddy hair was getting thin on top and a scar puckered his mouth. Yet the warriors around him listened closely when he spoke and said nothing against his words. A side of beef roasted on a shaft above their fire. The smell of it made Hadding’s belly growl.

“Be welcome back, Gangleri,” the lordling greeted. “Who is this you bring along?”

“A man for you,” the old one told him. “Hadding, meet Lysir Eyvindsson, chieftain in Bralund, who has gathered this fleet, and leads it.”

Lysir frowned. “We’ve crew enough, without an untried youth,” he said.

“Your name will outlive you if you take him,” Gangleri answered. “Men will never forget that it was you with whom he first sailed. Here is Hadding, son of the Dane-king Gram.”

Amazed oaths crashed from lips. “Mighty tidings, if true,” Lysir blurted. Gangleri gave him a look and he went on hastily, “Of course it’s so when you’ve said it. But I thought the child must have died long ago. How many even remember he ever lived?”

Hadding overcame what shyness he had felt and stepped forward. “Mine is a strange tale, yes,” he owned. “But I’ve been told I’m much like my father in both soul and skin. Who among you knew him?”

“I fared with him to war, year after year,” said an aging man shakily. “I was there when he fell before Svipdag’s Norse and Saxons. Yes, now it’s as though he stood again before me, young.”