this to a fourth wary one who was Frodhi himself. The sheriff had never promised not to give news in riddles too twisted for easy reading.
Finding no rest, Frodhi rose a short time later. He threw a cloak over his nakedness and sought the fore-room. There he saw how the roof was ablaze, the weapons were gone, and armed men waited beyond. After an eyeblink he spoke steadily: “Who rules over this fire?”
Helgi and Hroar stepped from the line. In their young faces was no ruth. “We do,” said Hroar, “the sons of your brother Halfdan whom you slew.”
“What terms of peace do you want?” asked Frodhi. “It’s an unseemly doing among us kinsmen, that one should seek the life of the other.”
Helgi spat. “None can have faith in you,” he said. “Would you be less ready to betray us than you were our father? This night you pay.”
An ember fell upon Frodhi and scorched his hair. He walked back into the hall and shouted for everyone to make ready for battle.
The guardsmen had neither mail nor shields nor any arm better than a knife. They fueled the longfires within for light and broke up furnishings for clubs and rams. Some of the guests helped them. The rest were too befuddled, and only stumbled about gibbering and getting in the way.
In a rush together, as nearly as the narrow doorways allowed, the king’s men attacked. Most fell, speared or sliced or hewn down as they came. A handful, holding a bench between them, smashed through their foes and gained a clear space. Sævil’s folk surrounded these. One was a berserker, a shaggy giant upon whom the madness had fallen. He howled, foamed, gnawed his club which was a high seat pillar, and dashed forth heedless of cuts and thrusts into his bare flesh. His weapon crashed on a helmet. It rang and crumpled; the man beneath dropped dead.
Helgi broke from the line still guarding the door, and sped against the berserker.
“No—!”
yelled Sævil and Regin together, aghast. The atheling heard them not. He took stance, feet apart, legs bent and tautened, shield decking his body from just below the eyes, sword slanted back past his shoulder. After three years of planks andsticks, it was as if these well-made things were alive. The club raged downward. He eased his right knee and thus swiftly moved that way. The blow smote merely the rim of his shield. That was enough to stagger him, and leave his left wrist sore for days afterward. But his blade was already moving. Across the top of the shield it whistled. Deeply it bit, into the berserker’s neck. Blood spurted. He toppled. For a small time he flopped, struggling to rise. Then he went empty and lay there in a widening pool.
Sævil hugged Helgi. “Your first man, your first man!” Regin hastened to the back of the hall.
Frodhi had not been in that doomed charge. He took his wife by the arm. “Come,” he said. “Maybe a way is still open.” They ran to the wellhouse. At its outer doorway stood Regin’s men and the sheriff himself.
“We Skjoldungs are not a long-lived breed,” said Frodhi, and returned.
The last king’s man died. The flames stood ever taller and ate their way ever further back along the roof. Walls caught. Heat hammered. The house thundered and flared. Helgi bawled in his uneven boy-voice: “Let women and servants, men who are friends to the sons of Halfdan, come forth. Quick, before too late!”
They were not many. Most hirelings, thralls, and beggars had slept elsewhere and were gathered terrified at the uneasy edge of firelight. A few crept out, and rather more yeoman guests, those who had not unforgiveably worked on Frodhi’s behalf. They babbled of how they had hoped for this wonderful day.
“But where is my mother?” Hroar called.
Sigridh came to the door. Pillars of flame stood on either side and above. “Hurry!” shouted Helgi. She stopped, cloak drawn tightly around the gown she had donned, and looked upon her sons.
At last she said—they could barely hear her through
Finding no rest, Frodhi rose a short time later. He threw a cloak over his nakedness and sought the fore-room. There he saw how the roof was ablaze, the weapons were gone, and armed men waited beyond. After an eyeblink he spoke steadily: “Who rules over this fire?”
Helgi and Hroar stepped from the line. In their young faces was no ruth. “We do,” said Hroar, “the sons of your brother Halfdan whom you slew.”
“What terms of peace do you want?” asked Frodhi. “It’s an unseemly doing among us kinsmen, that one should seek the life of the other.”
Helgi spat. “None can have faith in you,” he said. “Would you be less ready to betray us than you were our father? This night you pay.”
An ember fell upon Frodhi and scorched his hair. He walked back into the hall and shouted for everyone to make ready for battle.
The guardsmen had neither mail nor shields nor any arm better than a knife. They fueled the longfires within for light and broke up furnishings for clubs and rams. Some of the guests helped them. The rest were too befuddled, and only stumbled about gibbering and getting in the way.
In a rush together, as nearly as the narrow doorways allowed, the king’s men attacked. Most fell, speared or sliced or hewn down as they came. A handful, holding a bench between them, smashed through their foes and gained a clear space. Sævil’s folk surrounded these. One was a berserker, a shaggy giant upon whom the madness had fallen. He howled, foamed, gnawed his club which was a high seat pillar, and dashed forth heedless of cuts and thrusts into his bare flesh. His weapon crashed on a helmet. It rang and crumpled; the man beneath dropped dead.
Helgi broke from the line still guarding the door, and sped against the berserker.
“No—!”
yelled Sævil and Regin together, aghast. The atheling heard them not. He took stance, feet apart, legs bent and tautened, shield decking his body from just below the eyes, sword slanted back past his shoulder. After three years of planks andsticks, it was as if these well-made things were alive. The club raged downward. He eased his right knee and thus swiftly moved that way. The blow smote merely the rim of his shield. That was enough to stagger him, and leave his left wrist sore for days afterward. But his blade was already moving. Across the top of the shield it whistled. Deeply it bit, into the berserker’s neck. Blood spurted. He toppled. For a small time he flopped, struggling to rise. Then he went empty and lay there in a widening pool.
Sævil hugged Helgi. “Your first man, your first man!” Regin hastened to the back of the hall.
Frodhi had not been in that doomed charge. He took his wife by the arm. “Come,” he said. “Maybe a way is still open.” They ran to the wellhouse. At its outer doorway stood Regin’s men and the sheriff himself.
“We Skjoldungs are not a long-lived breed,” said Frodhi, and returned.
The last king’s man died. The flames stood ever taller and ate their way ever further back along the roof. Walls caught. Heat hammered. The house thundered and flared. Helgi bawled in his uneven boy-voice: “Let women and servants, men who are friends to the sons of Halfdan, come forth. Quick, before too late!”
They were not many. Most hirelings, thralls, and beggars had slept elsewhere and were gathered terrified at the uneasy edge of firelight. A few crept out, and rather more yeoman guests, those who had not unforgiveably worked on Frodhi’s behalf. They babbled of how they had hoped for this wonderful day.
“But where is my mother?” Hroar called.
Sigridh came to the door. Pillars of flame stood on either side and above. “Hurry!” shouted Helgi. She stopped, cloak drawn tightly around the gown she had donned, and looked upon her sons.
At last she said—they could barely hear her through
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