Presently the tumult of voices and the tramp of feet grew clearer, and after a while Gizur, Swanhild, and the men of their following turned the corner of the narrow way, and lo! there before them—ay within three paces of them—stood Eric and Skallagrim shoulder to shoulder, and the light poured down upon them from above.
They were terrible to see, and the light shone brightly on Eric’s golden hair and Whitefire’s flashing blade, and the shadows lay dark on the black helm of Skallagrim and in the fierce black eyes beneath.
Back surged Gizur and those with him. Skallagrim would have sprung upon them, but Eric caught him by the arm, saying: “A truce to thy Baresark ways. Rush not and move not! Let us stand here till they overwhelm us.”
Now those behind Gizur cried out to know what ailed them that they pushed back.
“Only this,” said Gizur, “that Eric Brighteyes and Skallagrim Lambstail stand like two grey wolves and hold the narrow way.”
“Now we shall have fighting worth the telling of,” quoth Ketel the viking. “On, Gizur, Ospakar’s son, and cut them down!”
“Hold!” said Swanhild; “I will speak with Eric first,” and, together with Gizur and Ketel, she passed round the corner of the path and came face to face with those who stood at bay there.
“Now yield, Eric,” she cried. “Foes are behind and before thee. Thou art trapped, and hast little chance of life. Yield thee, I say, with thy black wolf-hound, so perchance thou mayest find mercy even at the hands of her whose husband thou didst wrong and slay.”
“It is not my way to yield, lady,” answered Eric, “and still less perchance is it the way of Skallagrim. Least of all will we yield to thee who, after working many ills, didst throw me in a witch-sleep, and to him who slew the wife sleeping at my side. Hearken, Swanhild: here we stand, awaiting death, nor will we take mercy from thy hand. For know this, we shall not die alone. Last night as we sat on Mosfell we saw the Norns weave our web of fate upon their loom of darkness. They sat on Helca’s dome and wove their pictures in living flame, then rent the web and flew upward and southward and westward, crying our doom to sky and earth and sea. Last night as we sat by the fire on Mosfell all the company of the dead were gathered round us—ay! and all the company of those who shall die to-day. Thou wast there, Gizur the murderer, Ospakar’s son! thou wast there, Swanhild the witch, Groa’s daughter! thou wast there, Ketel Viking! with many another man; and there were we two also. Valkyries have kissed us and death draws near. Therefore, talk no more, but come and make an end. Greeting, Gizur, thou woman-murderer! Draw nigh! draw nigh! Out sword! up shield! and on, thou son of Ospakar!”
Swanhild spoke no more, and Gizur had no word.