For the White Christ: A Story of the Days of Charlemagne

by Robert Ames Bennet

"The more freely will it flow!" croaked back Floki the Crane, and the vikings laughed in turn.

Then all on either bank stood staring in silence at the oddly matched swordsmen. Olvir, lithe and active as a panther, was circling round and round his foe, every nerve and thew and sinew tense to take him unawares. For a while he was content to spring in and out, avoiding the terrible sweep of the war-earl's sword. Once his opponent had wearied, he would lay himself open sooner or later to a disabling thrust from Al-hatif.

But the Westphalian was not easily wearied. Far from flagging, his blows fell with steadily increasing quickness and force. The hero's blood was warming, as the scoffing Danes had foretold. He no longer stood in one spot, wheeling to face the attack of the Northman, but began to press upon him, in a fierce attempt to pen him into a corner of the islet, and make an end. Even when he stood over the king Olvir had not been so hard pressed. The Saxon's attack combined all the savage fury of a berserk in the rage with the cold craft of a host-leader.

Twice Olvir's leaps barely saved him from the scythe-like leg-blows of the great blade, and once, as he dropped beneath a backhanded sweep, the keen edge shore a lock from his hair. Nothing daunted, however, by the swirl of the longsword, his black eyes sparkled and wild joy filled his heart. Difficult as it was to avoid Wittikind's fierce rushes, he leaped and thrust and darted from side to side, always just a hairbreadth ahead of destruction, without a thought of fear or weakness. Had he given way to either, though only for a single instant, death would surely have overtaken him. But always the great blade whirled through empty air, and the elf leaped unharmed about the furious giant.

Twice Olvir had retreated from end to end of the islet, and for the third time was giving back before the war-earl's savage rushes, when suddenly his eyes sparkled with a new purpose. Smiling as one who greets a friend, he sprang aside to avoid the down-whirling longsword, and then, heedless of the return stroke, stepped forward to aim a swift blow at the Saxon's sword-arm. The utmost of his skill and sinewy strength was behind the stroke. It fell upon the massive forearm midway above the wrist, and the Danish mail parted like cloth beneath the edge of Al-hatif. Through steel and flesh and tendon, the Damascus blade shore its way, until it gritted on the very bone. Wittikind's sword fell to the ground.

The fight was won. The war-earl of all the Saxons stood before the slender Northman, helpless. Olvir had only to raise his sword and strike another blow, and the son of Wanekind would have met his fate.

The Saxon lowered his shield, and stood waiting for the death-stroke, his broad chest still heaving with the violence of his exertions, but his face suddenly stilled from anger to calm scorn.

"Strike--strike, and have done with your shame, false son of Odin!" he called in a deep voice. "But for you this day the free Saxons should have rid themselves of the Frank. You, a Northman, false to your folk and your gods, have set the heel of a king upon the necks of a free people. It is fit that you should slay the leader of a broken host. Strike quickly, else Thor will smite you with his hammer."

But Olvir stepped back, and met the scornful look of the Saxon with a grave smile.

"Hear me, son of Wanekind!" he rejoined. "In the North we listen to witness on both sides before the dooming. You have yet to learn what is in my mind."