Like two storm waves, a greater and a lesser, the hosts crashed together. Blood-foam spattered into the wind. The tides churned, swirled in among each other, became a seething that howled. Swords hewed, axes smote, spears thrust. Men yelled, gasped, screamed, fell. High on their staffs swayed the raven flag of Hadding and the eagle flag of Asmund. But the Dane-king must needs stand fast amidst his household troopers, while the Swede-king pressed ever forward with his.

“Ha!” bellowed Asmund. “Only wait, Hadding! I’m coming to you!” His blade sundered a shield. Henrik struck from the right and killed that man. The boy was fighting as hard as his slightness was able, as fearlessly as any skilled warrior.

A weapon-clash hit on their left. Nearly berserk with rage, Eyjolf Lysirsson had led his Bralunders straight for the invader overlord. They cut and battered a road through all men in between. They fell on Asmund’s bodyguards like wolves on an elk.

But the elk bears great antlers and sharp hoofs. The Norse-men stood shoulder to shoulder. Their blows racketed and clove. Nearby Swedes and Geats saw what was happening. As fast as they could break off their own fights, they came to help.

“Yah!” shrieked Henrik, hawk wild. He rushed out of the shield-wall to smite this foe. Eyjolf’s ax smashed down his sword and split his helmet and skull.

Then the press grew too heavy. Attacked on every side, the Scanians went under. Their ranks crumbled. Those that were left hacked ways to freedom and withdrew elsewhere. Eyjolf’s banner lay on the reddened ground. He sought to his own king’s.

For a span there was quiet around Asmund. He did not hear the groans of the wounded nor the harsh breathing of the hale where they leaned on their spearshafts. He stood looking down on the wreckage that had been his dearest son. It gaped up at him through the spilled blood and brains. He had a gift for skaldcraft. After a while he stared around and spoke flatly.

Who will have my weapons?

Helmets are no use now

Nor byrnies worth the bearing.

My boy is riven from me.

Death, that took my darling,

Do for me the selfsame.

Swinging only sword blade,

I seek my end in battle.

He straightened. His voice rang louder through the uproar.

Breast to foeman baring

Where blinks the ice-cold iron,

Fiercely I’ll go forward

To fell them in my vengeance.

Men will long remember

This meeting of the war-hosts.

If early come its ending,

Yet I shall not have rested.

Thereupon he slung shield on back, gripped his sword with the left hand wrapped over the right, and howled for his men to follow. Heedless of life, he made for Hadding. No foes in between could withstand him. He reaped them. His well-drilled guards worked grimly beside him. As the banner thrust onward, more and more of their folk rallied about it.