“I thank you for this information,” said Orm. “Now I know how I stand. There is nothing I can do about the two priests whose heads he took, and I shall not seek revenge for their death. But I shall be on my guard, in case his madness drives him to make some further attempt against me.”
Olof Summerbird nodded and refilled their mugs with wine.
It was now quite still in the camp, and there was no sound to be heard save the breathing of sleeping men. A light breeze stirred the trees, and the aspen leaves rustled. They pledged each other again, and as Orm drank, he heard a branch crack in the wood behind him. As he leaned forward to replace his mug on the ground, he heard a sudden gasp at his ear, as of a man fighting for his breath. Olof Summerbird sat up alertly and gave a cry, and Orm turned half around, saw a movement in the woods, and crouched closer to the ground.
“It is a lucky thing I am sharp of hearing and moved quickly,” he said afterwards, “for the spear flew so close to me that it scarred the back of my neck.”
There was a howl from the woods, and a man rushed out at them whirling a sword. It was Östen of Öre, and they could see at once that he was mad, for his eyes stared stiffly out of his head like a ghost’s, and there was froth on his lips. Orm had no time to seize his sword or get to his feet. Flinging himself sideways, he managed to grip the madman’s leg and throw him across his body at the same time as he received a slash across the hip from his sword. Then he heard a blow and a groan, and as he got to his feet he saw Olof Summerbird standing sword in hand, and östen lying still on the ground. His kinsman had hewed him in the neck, and he was already dead.
Men came running toward them, awakened by the noise. Olof Summerbird looked with a pale face at the dead man.
“I have killed him,” he said, “though he was my kinsman. But I do not intend that any guest of mine shall be attacked, even by a madman. Besides which, his spear broke my feasting-cup; and whoever had done that, I would have killed him.”
The cup lay in fragments, and he was much grieved at its loss, for such a one he would not easily find again.
He ordered his men to carry the dead man to the marsh and sink him there, driving pointed stakes through his body; for if this is not done, madmen walk again and are the most fearful of earthbound spirits.
Orm had come out of this adventure with a scar on his neck and a wound in his hip; but the latter was not dangerous, for the sword-blade had struck his knife and eating-spoon, which he wore on his belt. He was accordingly able to walk back to his camp; and as he said farewell to Olof Summerbird, they took each other by the hand.
“You have lost your cup,” said Orm, “which is a pity. But you are the richer by a friend, if that is any consolation to you. And I should be happy if I could think that I had won as much.”
“You have,” replied Olof Summerbird. “And this is no small prize that you and I have won.”
From this time the friendship between them was very great.
On the last day of the Thing, it was agreed that peace should reign throughout the border country until the time of the next Thing. So this Thing at the Kraka Stone ended, though many thought that it had been disappointing, and nothing to boast of, because no good combat had been fought during it.
Father Willibald went to the Vird camp to look for the magister and say farewell to him, but the woman Katla had already taken him away. Orm wanted Toke to come back to Gröning with him, but Toke refused, saying that he had to buy his skins. But they promised to entertain each other honorably in the near future and always to keep their friendship firm.
All now rode off toward their respective homes; and Orm felt much relieved that he was rid of both the magister and his enemy, östen of öre. When Christmas came, Toke and his Andalusian wife Mirah visited Gröning; and all that Orm and Toke had to tell each other was as nothing compared with what Ylva and Mirah had to say to each other.
At the beginning of spring Rapp’s wife, Torgunn, bore her man a boy. Rapp was much pleased at this; but when he reckoned the months backwards, he felt somewhat suspicious, for the date of conception was not far from that time when the magister had read over Torgunn’s injured knee. All the house-folk, men and women alike, praised the child and his resemblance to his father; this comforted Rapp, but did not completely allay his fears. The only man whose word he wholly relied upon was Orm; so he went to him and begged him to examine the child and say whom he thought it most resembled. Orm looked at the child closely for a long while; then he said: “There is a great difference between him and you, and nobody can fail to see it. The child has two eyes, and you have only one. But it would be churlish of you to resent this, for you, too, had two eyes when you came into the world. Apart from this disparity, I have never seen a child that more resembled its father.”
Rapp was calmed by this assurance and became exceedingly proud of his son. He wanted Father Willibald to christen him Almansur, but the priest refused to give the child a heathen name, and he had to be content with calling him Orm instead. Orm himself carried the child to the christening.
A fortnight after this child was born, Ylva gave birth to her second son. He was black-haired and dark-skinned, and yelled little, but gazed about with serious eyes; and when the sword’s point was offered to him, he licked it even more avidly than Harald Ormsson had done. All agreed that he was born to be a warrior, and in this they prophesied rightly. Ylva thought that he resembled Gold-Harald, King Harald’s nephew, in so far as she could remember this great Viking from her childhood days; but Asa would have none of this, insisting that he bore a marked likeness to Sven Rat-Nose, who had been similarly dark of skin. But he could not be christened Sven, and they already had one child called Harald; so in the end Orm gave him the name of Blackhair. He behaved very quietly and solemnly during the christening, and bit Father Willibald in the thumb. He became his parents’ favorite child, and in time the greatest warrior on the border; and many years later, after many things had happened, there was in the court of King Canute the Mighty of Denmark and England no chieftain of greater renown than the King’s cousin Blackhair Ormsson.
PART FOUR
The Bulgar Gold