As the Swedes drew near, the Danish bowmen let fly. Arrows whirred aloft in a dark flock and down again. Their barbs thunked into shields, glanced off helmets, rattled against mail. Some struck into flesh. A man lurched and shrieked with a shaft sticking out of his eye, another pawed at one in his neck and sagged to his knees as blood spurted, another swore and ripped one out of his thigh but thereafter went lame—here, there, throughout Uffi’s host. The king rapped an order. His headmen shouted it their bands. The Swedes halted while their own bowmen gave answer in kind.

Thus they lost the might that is in an all-out onslaught. Against this was the losses the Danes suffered.

Yet must the Swedes come to them, across ground where more arrows hurtled, then slingstones and flung spears. When they reached Hadding’s lines, theirs were ragged. Working side by side, the Danes sent them surging back in disarray.

Uffi egged them on. They closed ranks and renewed their attack. Iron gleamed, banged, made cloven shieldwood groan. Howls of rage and pain rose raw. The Swede-king hewed tireless, seeking to cut a path to the man he hated. He could see Hadding’s tall shape above the swaying helmets, amidst the leaping weapons. But always the battle between them was too thick.

His men had fared hard for a long way. The Danes, though weakened by hunger, had had a rest before the fight began. They stood their ground and took their toll. Lichs lay heaped before them. Less and less eager did the Swedes feel to climb over those red windrows.

In a lull, where the only sound was the moaning of the sorely wounded and the hoarse breathing of the hale, Uffi took thought. “Sound the withdrawal,” he bade his headmen. As the war-horns lowed, his banner went in the lead.

The Danes did not cheer. They were too weary. They knew their losses had been the heavier. After a while they saw Uffi’s banner stop a mile off and others join it.

“Back to camp,” Hadding told his followers. “Maybe we can get a good night’s sleep this time.”

That was an unlucky thing to say. Men recalled the voice in the dark and what it had foretold. Nonetheless they obeyed, bringing their hurt along. Their dead they must leave behind, for lack of strength to drag so many burdens along. Nor did they cut the throats of what Swedes lay helpless on the field. That likewise was more work than they could well undertake, and useless. They settled down where they had been before. Most toppled straight into uneasy slumber.

King Uffi mounted his horse, beckoned his warriors to stand close around, and harangued them. They were not beaten, he cried. Already they had given better than they got. He was proud Of them. Let them refresh themselves and rest. In the morning they would finish their task.