have to sleep in the stable.”
“Not for you!” shouted Ketil. The knuckles stood forth white where he gripped his spear. “Had it been Father or Asmund or anyone else from the garth, he had been welcome. But you, ill-wreaker and berserker that you are, will be the one to sleep in the straw.”
Valgard sneered and chopped out with his axe. It drove the spear against the lintel and split off its head. “Get out, little brother,” he bade. “Or must I throw you out?”
Blind with rage, Ketil struck him with the broken shaft. Fury flamed in Valgard. He leaped. His axe shrieked down and buried itself in Ketil’s skull.
Still beside himself, he swung about on the woman. She held out her arms to him. Valgard gathered her in and kissed her till their lips bled. She laughed aloud.
***
But next morning when Valgard awoke, he saw Ketil lying in a gore of clotted blood and brains, the dead eyes meeting his own, and suddenly remorse welled up in him.
“What have I done?” he whispered. “I slew my own kin.”
“You killed a weaker man,” said the woman indifferently.
But Valgard stood above his brother’s body and brooded. “We had some good times together between our fights, Ketil,” he mumbled. “I remember how funny we two found a new calf that strove to use its wobbly legs, and wind in our faces and sun asparkle on waves when we went sailing, and deep draughts at Yule when storms howled about our father’s hall, and swimming and running and shouting with you, brother. Now it is over, you are a stiffened corpse and I gang on a dark road-but sleep well. Goodnight, Ketil, goodnight.”
“If you tell men of this, you will be slain,” said the woman. “That will not bring him back. And in the grave is no kissing or coupling.”
Valgard nodded. He picked up the body and bore it into the woods. He did not wish to touch the axe again, so he left it sticking in the skull when he raised a cairn over the dead man.
But when he came back to the cottage, the woman was waiting for him, and he soon forgot all else. Her beauty outshone the sun, and there was naught she did not know about the making of love.
The weather grew unrelentingly cold, until the first snow whispered down. This winter would be long.
After a week, Valgard thought it would be best if he returned home. Else others might come looking for him, and fights might break up his crews. But the woman would not come with him. “This is my place and I cannot leave it,” she said. “Come, though, whenever you will, Valgard my darling. I will always gladly greet you.”
“I will be back soon,” he vowed. He did not think of carrying her off by force, though he had done that to many before her. The free gift of herself was too precious.
***
At Orm’s hall he was joyously greeted by the chief, who had feared him lost too. None else was overly happy at seeing him again.
“I hunted far to the west and north,” said Valgard, “and did not find Ketil.”
“No,” replied Onn, with sorrow reborn in him, “he must be dead. We searched for days, and at last found his horse wandering riderless. I will ready the funeral feast.”
Valgard was but a brace of days among men, then he slipped into the woods anew with a promise to be back for Ketil’s grave-ale. Thoughtfully, Asmund watched him leave.
It seemed odd to the youngest brother how Valgard dodged talk of Ketil’s fate, and odder yet that he should go hunting-as he said-now that winter was on hand. There would be no bears, and other game was getting so shy that men did not care to go after it through the snow. Why had Valgard been gone that long, and why did he leave that soon?
So Asmund wondered, and at last, two days after Valgard left, he followed. It had not snowed or blown since, and the tracks could still be seen in the crisp whiteness. Asmund went alone, walking on ski through silent reaches where no life stirred but him, and the cold ate and ate into his flesh.
Three days later, Valgard
“Not for you!” shouted Ketil. The knuckles stood forth white where he gripped his spear. “Had it been Father or Asmund or anyone else from the garth, he had been welcome. But you, ill-wreaker and berserker that you are, will be the one to sleep in the straw.”
Valgard sneered and chopped out with his axe. It drove the spear against the lintel and split off its head. “Get out, little brother,” he bade. “Or must I throw you out?”
Blind with rage, Ketil struck him with the broken shaft. Fury flamed in Valgard. He leaped. His axe shrieked down and buried itself in Ketil’s skull.
Still beside himself, he swung about on the woman. She held out her arms to him. Valgard gathered her in and kissed her till their lips bled. She laughed aloud.
***
But next morning when Valgard awoke, he saw Ketil lying in a gore of clotted blood and brains, the dead eyes meeting his own, and suddenly remorse welled up in him.
“What have I done?” he whispered. “I slew my own kin.”
“You killed a weaker man,” said the woman indifferently.
But Valgard stood above his brother’s body and brooded. “We had some good times together between our fights, Ketil,” he mumbled. “I remember how funny we two found a new calf that strove to use its wobbly legs, and wind in our faces and sun asparkle on waves when we went sailing, and deep draughts at Yule when storms howled about our father’s hall, and swimming and running and shouting with you, brother. Now it is over, you are a stiffened corpse and I gang on a dark road-but sleep well. Goodnight, Ketil, goodnight.”
“If you tell men of this, you will be slain,” said the woman. “That will not bring him back. And in the grave is no kissing or coupling.”
Valgard nodded. He picked up the body and bore it into the woods. He did not wish to touch the axe again, so he left it sticking in the skull when he raised a cairn over the dead man.
But when he came back to the cottage, the woman was waiting for him, and he soon forgot all else. Her beauty outshone the sun, and there was naught she did not know about the making of love.
The weather grew unrelentingly cold, until the first snow whispered down. This winter would be long.
After a week, Valgard thought it would be best if he returned home. Else others might come looking for him, and fights might break up his crews. But the woman would not come with him. “This is my place and I cannot leave it,” she said. “Come, though, whenever you will, Valgard my darling. I will always gladly greet you.”
“I will be back soon,” he vowed. He did not think of carrying her off by force, though he had done that to many before her. The free gift of herself was too precious.
***
At Orm’s hall he was joyously greeted by the chief, who had feared him lost too. None else was overly happy at seeing him again.
“I hunted far to the west and north,” said Valgard, “and did not find Ketil.”
“No,” replied Onn, with sorrow reborn in him, “he must be dead. We searched for days, and at last found his horse wandering riderless. I will ready the funeral feast.”
Valgard was but a brace of days among men, then he slipped into the woods anew with a promise to be back for Ketil’s grave-ale. Thoughtfully, Asmund watched him leave.
It seemed odd to the youngest brother how Valgard dodged talk of Ketil’s fate, and odder yet that he should go hunting-as he said-now that winter was on hand. There would be no bears, and other game was getting so shy that men did not care to go after it through the snow. Why had Valgard been gone that long, and why did he leave that soon?
So Asmund wondered, and at last, two days after Valgard left, he followed. It had not snowed or blown since, and the tracks could still be seen in the crisp whiteness. Asmund went alone, walking on ski through silent reaches where no life stirred but him, and the cold ate and ate into his flesh.
Three days later, Valgard
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