However, Dromund knew that Thorbiorn Hook was going to Constantinople, so he travelled thither also, and reached the imperial city. Now there were a great many Norsemen and Icelanders there in the company called the Varangians, who acted as a bodyguard to the Emperor, and among these men were some twenty or more called Thorbiorn, and which among them was the murderer of Grettir, Thorstein Dromund did not know. The Hook, as may well be imagined, did not tell anyone what his nickname was; not that he imagined he was pursued, but because it was not a pretty and flattering name. Thorstein also offered himself as a soldier in the guard, and was enrolled. He also merely gave his name as Thorstein, and told no one of his nickname of Dromund, lest the man he pursued should take alarm and leave.
So time passed, and Thorstein Dromund could not find out his man; and he lay awake in bed many nights musing on what he had undertaken, on the sad lot of Grettir, and on his ill-success in finding the murderer of his half-brother. Now, it fell out that on a certain day the order came to the Varangian guard that they were to be ready, as they were about to be sent on an expedition of importance.
It was usual, before any such an expedition, that all the men of the guard should burnish up their weapons and armour, and show them, that they were in condition.
So was it on this occasion also. They were assembled in the guard-room, and each produced his weapon. Then Thorbiorn held forth his short-sword—the very weapon that Grettir had taken from the tomb of Karr the Old, the sword with which he The Hook had hewed off Grettir's head.
Now, when Thorbiorn held forth the sword all the other guardsmen praised it, and said it was an excellent weapon; but it had one grievous blemish, for that there was a notch in the edge.
"Oh!" laughed Thorbiorn, "that notch is no blemish at all. It is a memorial of one of my greatest achievements."
"What was that?" asked one of the Varangians.
"With this sword," answered Thorbiorn, "I slew the man who was esteemed the greatest and most powerful champion of his time; a man who was in outlawry for twenty years, who had in his time fought and beaten off as many as thirty or forty who attacked him. But I was too much for him. When I went against him, then he had to give way. We fought for an hour without flagging, and finally I smote him down. Then I took from him his own sword, and with it I smote off his neck; and thus got the sword its notch."
"And his name?" asked Thorstein Dromund.
"His name was Grettir the Strong."