The tide swept him in among the Wends. Two he killed. Then a big, yellow-bearded man swung an ax at him. It batted his sword aside and split his shield. He would have lost that hand had the blow not torn the grip from him before the edge went deep. The axman roared. His hands slid apart along the helve of his weapon, to hold it at either end. Thus its hard, leather-wrapped wood turned Hadding’s blade. As the ax lifted, the wielder brought both hands toward the lower end. The head whirred down with his full might behind. It could have cloven helm or byrnie. Hadding sprang aside quickly enough. Before the man could raise his ax anew, Hadding leaped in and caught him across the brow. He reeled back, screaming, blinded with his blood and the skin hanging down. Hadding slew him.

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.