Hrolf Kraki's Saga (30 page)

They walked on in silence until he said, “Even so, here is nothing for you any more. You would have honor in Denmark, and … and love everywhere around you.”

Her fingers stroked across his. “I know, my dear old avenger. How well I know. But I have my work. What would become of those who’ve plighted me their troth over the years, did I leave them? What of the war against you that would surely begin, once I could no longer give redes and spin webs?” She pointed. “What of my Helgi? Yonder he and his men lie in their howe, some miles further on, where they fell. Without me, who would offer
at that grave, who would tend it—” she shuddered—“who would keep Adhils from dishonoring it, yes, digging up his skull to make a drinking cup and his shoulderblades to mark with witch-runes?”

Svipdag gripped her elbow.

“They say,” she went on after a while, “once in this land, when Domald Visbursson was king, the harvests failed. To make the gods friendly again, the Swedes offered many oxen; but next year was worse. Then they gave men; but still the hunger deepened. In the third year they slew King Domald and sprinkled the altar and idols with his blood. There followed good seasons and peace.”

“I see. You are a queen, Yrsa.”

“And you are my brother’s sworn man, Svipdag.”

They went on as far as Helgi’s barrow, and stayed a while before going back.

That evening, and in the two which came after, Yrsa shared the high seat with Hrolf. If she seldom smiled, none saw grief upon her. The warriors were happy. More and more did they use the nickname Kraki for their king. Vögg blushed at that, and scampered around to tend their wants. Because his life would be in danger here, and because he yearned for it. Yrsa got her son to agree to take him along.

During the days she busied herself readying for Hrolf’s trek home. Otherwise she spent most of her time at his side, listening to his tales of what had happened in the years since he was a tousle-haired boy whom she could kiss goodnight.

On the morning of his leavetaking, folk had gathered from far around. They filled Uppsala town, raising a buzz like bees, as they waited outside the garth to see the Danes go by. Within the stockade, guardsmen and household workers made a wall around the yard. The weather stayed clear and cold, though a wind bore the first damp breath of spring.

King Hrolf and his men stood at the middle, outfitted in the finest of clothes and mail, a shout of color and gleam, spearheads blinking aloft, Yrsa’s gifts to replace
what the fire had spoiled. For the heightening of his fame, she wanted everybody to see what else he took away. First trundled an eight-horse wagon, Vögg driving, heaped upon it treasures of gold, silver, precious stones, amber, ivory, furs, stuffs, goblets, weapons, coins and goods from abroad. A gasp arose at the sight.

Next grooms led forth twelve tall red Southland horses bearing bridle, saddle, ringmail, and one for the king which was white as snow.

Then the queen trod from among her warriors, richly clad. In both hands she bore a silver horn as long as an arm, whereon were molded gods, beasts, and heroes. She stood before her son and spoke into the
whoo
of the wind: “Behold what is yours.”

In the hearing of the witnesses, that none might question it afterward, he asked her, “Have you now given me as much as I rightfully own and my father had?”

“This is far beyond what you had a claim on,” she answered in pride. “Moreover, you and your men have won great honor.”

She lifted the horn. “This will I give you besides. Here are the best rings of King Adhils, among them the one they call Pig of the Swedes and hold to be the foremost in the world.” She took it out. Its blaze awakened murmurs and cries. This was no common coil, but a circlet broad and thick, studded with gems, upon it the figure of a boar, the steed of Frey.

“I do much thank you, my lady mother,” said Hrolf. He gave the horn to Beigadh to carry. Bjarki nodded. It struck him as good that that mark of renown should ride with one who had been lamed in the king’s service.

“Now ready yourselves as best you can, so that none may get at you,” Yrsa told them: “for you will have many trials.”

She could not help that last useless warning. Earlier she had begged Hrolf to take some of her men along. He felt she needed them more. Besides, those who left families behind would not likely fight well.

“Oh, luck fare with you,” she whispered. “I’ll be offering in the temple and at your father’s howe—”

He looked down into the face which was half his own, laid hands on the slight shoulders, and said: “Better than anything else is your wish, my sister. Better than the hoard we’ve won has been the finding of your love again, my mother.” His hawk spread wings above her, his hound licked her fingers.

“That you came to me, that outweighs any gift I could ever make you.”

“Men seek fame that their memory may not die with them. Always will you be remembered in Denmark, Yrsa.”

“Because of you and Helgi.”

“No, because of yourself.”

They fell silent, since their voices were breaking in earshot of the crowd. After a little, Yrsa went among the king’s men, took the hand of each and bade him farewell in the same way as she did his fellows. Briefly she embraced Hrolf. Then she stood aside while he mounted. He drew his sword and kissed it, looking at her. She waved as he and his men rode out the gate.

When he was gone, she said to her chief guard: “We had better talk over ways of keeping peace within the kingdom. First, though, I have to see the head steward about some matters in this household.”

The Danes rode more slowly from Uppsala than they had come in, for the treasure wagon could not move fast. Most of them made their spirited new horses rear and prance. Hjalti kept hailing girls he had met. Otherwise the dwellers were doubtless glad to be rid of these dangerous guests. Yet they uttered no sounds of ill will, where they crowded the ways and windows and walls of their burg. Grandfathers would tell grandchildren of this they had seen when they were small.

The bridge boomed beneath hoofs and creaked beneath wheels. Across the river, King Hrolf led a way straight south over the Fyris Wolds. It would not be easy to fetch home the huge weight of his winnings. He meant to use these open fields, where the road was still firm but snow lingered only in patches amidst puddles, as far as they reached.

Uppsala fell from sight; his last glimpse was of ravens
above the temple wood. Day wore on past noon. The land began to roll, the stands of timber to show more often and more thick. Here were no farmsteads; this was summer grazing for livestock, mast for swine. The wind strengthened, tossing Hrolf’s cloak like flames, making him squint and his hawk lean forward with claws clasped hard into the ringmail. It smelled wet, the wind, and was not truly winter-cold. It drove long white clouds over heaven and their shadows swift across earth.

The king rode moodily, eyes turned downward. All at once a cloud blew off the sun and a glare was in the rutted way before him. The men saw too, and called out. There lay a heavy ring of gold. As the king’s horse passed over, it belled.

He drew rein. “It makes such a noise,” he said, “because it thinks it ill to lie thus alone.” He took one from his arm, cast it down to the other, and told his warriors: “This will I leave off, to pick up gold though it lie on the road. And let none of you dare do so either; for it was thrown here to hinder our faring.”

“Freely will we promise, lord,” said Svipdag. “The hand of Adhils has reached here from afar.”

The band had halted. Vögg on the wagon tried not to shudder. The men looked stern. In this stillness, they heard a lowing borne up the wind. Bjarki raised a palm. “Hush,” he said, and afterward, “Aye, lurs. The hand of Adhils was not so far off after all.”

“Ride on,” ordered Hrolf. “Whip up those horses, Vögg.”

The wagon could merely lumber, swaying, clattering, squealing. Erelong the Danes saw a host of men behind them. At first this was no more than a darkness on the ridges; but soon it was banners and weapon-blink, horn-hoots, hoofbeats, and wrathful shouts.

“Mounted,” said Svipdag. “That’s how Adhils rallied them so soon.”

“Two or three hundred, I’d guess,” added Hjalti. “It looks like a busy afternoon ahead.”

Bjarki stroked his red beard. “Indeed they’re setting
briskly after us,” he rumbled. “I could wish they get something for their trouble.”

“Let’s not fret about them,” said King Hrolf. “Belike they’ll hinder themselves.”

He took from Beigadh the horn which Yrsa had given him. “Ho-ha!” he cried to his white horse. Off he galloped, a mile to the right and a mile to the left. As he rode, he dipped into the horn and flung his opened fist abroad. Far and wide he sowed gold rings across the Fyris Wolds.

“Can we be less free than our lord?” asked Bjarki. “A share of this treasure is ours.” He went to the wagon, scooped out a double handful of costliness, and did as the king did. Likewise did his fellows. Gold and silver flashed through the air like shooting stars until all the ways lay glowing.

The little troop then hastened onward. When the Swedish host saw the riches which gleamed before them, most sprang from horseback and raced to learn who was quickest to pluck this up. Glancing behind, Hrolf and his men saw how fighting broke out among them; and the Danes laughed aloud.

King Adhils caught up with his levy. However fat, he was a great lover of horses and a good rider; it was just that his weight slowed down any mount. His face burned a cock’s-comb hue, his beard streamed in elf-locks over his byrnied paunch. “What is this?” he yelled at the disorder which roiled around him. “Do you call yourselves men? You, gleaning the least and letting the most slip from you!” He flailed about with the butt of his spear. “Listen, you dolts! Stop and hear your king! This shame’ll be noised unendingly in every land of the world … that you, uncounted many, let a dozen get away! A dozen who slew your own kinsmen!”

Slowly he and a few hard heads brought others to their senses, who in turn beat and scolded more. At last, maybe half the host started off afresh. The rest squabbled on over their loot. Several were already dead. The feuds from this day would grind on for years.

Now the sun was low, shadows long, rooks seeking their nests in loud streamers across greenish heaven, wind shrill and chill. A few miles away reared the wall of a pinewood, and steeply rising lands beyond it, where outnumbered men could hope to lose their hunters.

“Ride, you coal-biters!” Adhils shrieked. Himself he leaned in the saddle as if to reach ahead of the beast he spurred and flogged. Hoofs thudded, metal rattled, helms and spears flared through gloom. “Ride, ride! Oh, if I had my besom here! If I’d had time to call my trolls—”

Hrolf looked ahead and behind. “We’ll not win to safety as we’re going,” he said. “No matter the hoard. We don’t need it. The gaining of it has been enough. Empty the wagon!”

Once more the Fyris Wolds flamed golden. Bjarki cut a draft horse loose for Vögg to ride bareback.

When the Swedes saw that kind of wealth scattered around, greed overwhelmed nearly all of them. They hurled themselves onto those rings and coins and jewels as if onto women. Adhils and a faithful few did not stop to upbraid them. Instead, these sped on; and they still outnumbered the Danes three or fourfold.

King Hrolf reached into the otherwise empty silver horn. A hundred yards from his stepfather, he drew forth the ring called Pig of the Swedes, and cast it on the road. It caught the light like another sun.

Adhils slammed his horse to such a halt that blood broke from its mouth and it screamed. Well might Hrolf have more right to that ring than he did; but this was the greatest halidom in Svithjodh.

His followers went by in full gallop. Hrolf’s sword sprang on high. “Have at them!” he called. He and his twelve champions rushed to meet their oncoming foes.

Northmen are not wont to fight from the saddle. They have neither the skill nor the trained mounts. But to Leidhra had come the best of warriors. They not only sought to become peerless in the manly crafts known everywhere; they were always thinking of new ones and trying these out. Thus they could make their beasts
crowd near a foeman’s, and themselves wield weapons without losing reins or stirrups.

Swords sang. Axes crashed. Spears went home. The hawks came down to snatch at Swedish eyes; the great hound Gram worried Swedish steeds. Not one of those who stayed true to King Adhils went home alive.

He himself dared not dismount. While his horse jittered about, frightened by this movement and racket, he tried to pick up the ring on his spear. Again and again he poked; always it slipped off the point. He slugged his beast to a standstill, bent far down, and groped two-handed after the thing of gold.

Hrolf had slain a man who threatened weaponless Vögg. Looking around, he saw what went on. His warriors heard him laugh: “Now stooped like a swine is the lord of the Swedes!” Forward he hurtled on the stallion that Yrsa had given him.

Adhils had almost looped the Pig on his spear. Hrolf sped by. Up went the sword Skofnung and down, a whine like the wind’s, a thud like a butcher’s cleaver. Blood spurted. Adhils yammered. Hrolf had cloven his buttocks to the bone.

“Bear that shame for a while,” the Dane-King shouted, “and know who he is that you’ve sought for so long!”

Adhils toppled from his saddle. Hrolf swept about. Leaning over in mid-gallop, a single foot in a stirrup, he caught the ring. That would let him say he had gotten back his inheritance. And he had avenged King Helgi better than if he had slain the murderer.

Those who wrangled over the strewn loot saw what had happened. In horror, some of them remounted and rode to help Adhils. By then he had swooned for loss of blood. They had no will to do more than staunch his wound and carry him off. Unfollowed, Hrolf and his men rode on their way.

Since that time, skalds have often called gold “the seed of Kraki” or “the sowing on the Fyris Wolds.” If riches were left behind, honor was brought home which would never be forgotten.

VI

King Hrolf and his twelve came into the woods. Tall and thick were those pines; level sunbeams that struck between them only deepened the gloom everywhere else. The air was too cold for smelling of any sweetness. The trail was free of snow and windfalls but covered with duff, so that the horses traveled in an eerie quiet. They were tired out and often stumbled. The riders felt the same weariness upon themselves.