Pushing off those who were trying to cut away his robe and find his wound, the Jarl dragged himself up by the bed-draperies, turning a ghastly face upon the room.
“Free him,” his lips made out to shape.
After a bewildered pause, the old warrior said slowly: “I suppose what you are trying to order is, ‘Slay him,’ not understanding that I said it should be done before the clots on his blade were dry. All I ask, chief, is in what manner he is to suffer death?”
With as much force as his half-swoon left him, the Jarl shook his head, repeating the words so that there was no mistaking them: “Free him—and let him to me.”
But even as the Songsmith turned, speaking his friend’s name unsteadily, Visbur made his men a sign; and the spear-wall remained.
“Hold him and take him forth,” the leader commanded. “Starkad’s son has gone astray out of his wits. I will answer for the act when he is sane again.”
“You will answer—with your life,” the Jarl said between gasping breaths. “While I live—I shall have my way. And my luck is not so good that I am dying. It is no more than a flesh-wound. I swooned from—from my rage. Let him to me.”
This time he stretched out a shaking hand, and the spears fell. In a moment the Songsmith was kneeling beside the bed, the arm that had so nearly mastered him lying around his neck.
“Tell them—enough. Enough to clear yourself,” Helvin murmured.
Around the circle of hard old faces that until now had met his glance so cordially, Rolf’s son sent a beseeching look, then dropped his eyes in despair.