rivering down his left side. A spear had gone under the short sleeve of his byrnie and pierced him below the arm. But when had he gotten that hurt?
Through a swoop of dizziness, he saw Thorstein Shipwright strike at Olaf. The ax went into the king's left leg, burying itself over the knee. Finn Arnason cut Thorstein down, but Olaf was staggering. He dropped his sword and leaned against the high rock.
"God help me," he said through gray lips.
Thori Hound stabbed from below with his spear, under the king's byrnie and into the groin. Night whirled before Harald.
He went down on all fours. Olaf was down, a third wound in his neck, Olaf was fallen, Olaf was dead.
From the side came a new clangor. Dag Hringsson had made ready and now hit the yeoman host. Harald crouched, shuddering. He saw the fight around Olaf end as the leaders went to meet Dag. The whole battle streamed that way, deserting him.
And this was death. A black fog went before him. He thought dreamlike that he should try to get his mail off and staunch the wound beneath, but he was too weary. Strength was lacking and . . . and . . .
He sank down on his belly. Centuries passed while they broke Dag behind him. A dead man sprawled close by. Harald knew not which side he had been on. One arm was cut off, he had bled to death and now he lay gaping like an idiot at the empty, empty sky. A breeze ruffled his thin reddish beard.
Ravens circled low. The ravens of the North had learned where to get food. One landed on the corpse's chest. Harald saw how the bird's eye glittered and how the beak was frozen in a grin. The raven cocked its head, studied the dead man's face and picked out an eye. It flapped upward again.
Harald drifted through a gray waste. There was no one else, there had never been anything else, only the grayness and the high thin singing in his ears ... a voice, very far off, rising and falling like surf. . . .
Someone was shaking him. He realized stupidly that his own eyes were still open and that he was looking at Rognvald Brusason. Blood was smeared on the man's cheek.
"Harald! Up, boy! We have to get away! To horse!"
Horses. . . . How long since he had combed burrs from the mane of a horse. They were so good-hearted, the shaggy dun Northland ponies; they stood under the currycomb stamping a little, snorting a little, smelling of summer and upland meadows. Their noses were the softest things he had ever touched. . . .
He felt Rognvald lift him. The words were merely another noise:
"Done, all done for. The fight is nigh over. We have to get away while we can, you and I. Those chieftains won't let anyone live who stood high with Olaf. Now, on your feet, Christ damn you, into the saddle and let's be gone!"
Somehow Harald was astride again, holding onto the beast's neck with both arms. Rognvald lay hold of its reins, clucked to his own mount, and galloped off toward the forest.
* * *
It was strange how quickly the land was emptied after they were done fighting. But then, most of the yeomen were from nearby garths and wanted to go home and rest.
The buildings at Stiklastadh were filled with wounded, and still they came, until they had to lie on the ground outside. Thormodh Coalbrows'-Skald groped his way thither with an arrow in his breast. He quarreled with a yeoman and chopped his hand off; thereafter he talked with a leechwife, bade her cut around the iron that sat in him, and gave her the ring in payment which Olaf had given him. He took a pair of tongs and pulled the arrow out himself. Shreds of fat clung to the barbs, red and white. "The king fed us well," he said. "I am still fat around my heart roots." Then he bent forward and died.
Thori Hound returned to Olaf's body, wiped off the blood, laid it out and spread a cloak over it. Afterward he said that some of the blood had gotten on his wound, which healed uncommonly fast. He was the first among the rebel leaders to think that Olaf the Stout had been a saint.
Thorgils, the yeoman at
Through a swoop of dizziness, he saw Thorstein Shipwright strike at Olaf. The ax went into the king's left leg, burying itself over the knee. Finn Arnason cut Thorstein down, but Olaf was staggering. He dropped his sword and leaned against the high rock.
"God help me," he said through gray lips.
Thori Hound stabbed from below with his spear, under the king's byrnie and into the groin. Night whirled before Harald.
He went down on all fours. Olaf was down, a third wound in his neck, Olaf was fallen, Olaf was dead.
From the side came a new clangor. Dag Hringsson had made ready and now hit the yeoman host. Harald crouched, shuddering. He saw the fight around Olaf end as the leaders went to meet Dag. The whole battle streamed that way, deserting him.
And this was death. A black fog went before him. He thought dreamlike that he should try to get his mail off and staunch the wound beneath, but he was too weary. Strength was lacking and . . . and . . .
He sank down on his belly. Centuries passed while they broke Dag behind him. A dead man sprawled close by. Harald knew not which side he had been on. One arm was cut off, he had bled to death and now he lay gaping like an idiot at the empty, empty sky. A breeze ruffled his thin reddish beard.
Ravens circled low. The ravens of the North had learned where to get food. One landed on the corpse's chest. Harald saw how the bird's eye glittered and how the beak was frozen in a grin. The raven cocked its head, studied the dead man's face and picked out an eye. It flapped upward again.
Harald drifted through a gray waste. There was no one else, there had never been anything else, only the grayness and the high thin singing in his ears ... a voice, very far off, rising and falling like surf. . . .
Someone was shaking him. He realized stupidly that his own eyes were still open and that he was looking at Rognvald Brusason. Blood was smeared on the man's cheek.
"Harald! Up, boy! We have to get away! To horse!"
Horses. . . . How long since he had combed burrs from the mane of a horse. They were so good-hearted, the shaggy dun Northland ponies; they stood under the currycomb stamping a little, snorting a little, smelling of summer and upland meadows. Their noses were the softest things he had ever touched. . . .
He felt Rognvald lift him. The words were merely another noise:
"Done, all done for. The fight is nigh over. We have to get away while we can, you and I. Those chieftains won't let anyone live who stood high with Olaf. Now, on your feet, Christ damn you, into the saddle and let's be gone!"
Somehow Harald was astride again, holding onto the beast's neck with both arms. Rognvald lay hold of its reins, clucked to his own mount, and galloped off toward the forest.
* * *
It was strange how quickly the land was emptied after they were done fighting. But then, most of the yeomen were from nearby garths and wanted to go home and rest.
The buildings at Stiklastadh were filled with wounded, and still they came, until they had to lie on the ground outside. Thormodh Coalbrows'-Skald groped his way thither with an arrow in his breast. He quarreled with a yeoman and chopped his hand off; thereafter he talked with a leechwife, bade her cut around the iron that sat in him, and gave her the ring in payment which Olaf had given him. He took a pair of tongs and pulled the arrow out himself. Shreds of fat clung to the barbs, red and white. "The king fed us well," he said. "I am still fat around my heart roots." Then he bent forward and died.
Thori Hound returned to Olaf's body, wiped off the blood, laid it out and spread a cloak over it. Afterward he said that some of the blood had gotten on his wound, which healed uncommonly fast. He was the first among the rebel leaders to think that Olaf the Stout had been a saint.
Thorgils, the yeoman at
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