For The White Christ Part 57

But at last, off to the northward, Olvir caught sight of a distant glimmering along the skyline, and he had no need to look twice to know that it was the last rays of the sunlight glinting on burnished steel.

"Look, lad, our quarry!" he called to Gerold. "No Saxon war-gear would gleam so bright."

"Wittikind and his Danes!" cried Gerold. "Saint Michael--this has been a glorious day! Let us but kill their earl, and the war is at an end!"

After this, those of the Saxons who turned aside out of the way of the vikings were safe from their dreaded blades. The sea-wolves were on the trail of bigger game. Yet swift as was their pursuit, night fell, and they had not overtaken the Danes. Coming to a little brook, they halted to bathe their wounds in the cool stream and to eat the last fragments of the coa.r.s.e fare which they had brought from the Lippespring.

When, after a little, they clamored to be led on again, Gerold spoke of a stronghold to which the war-earl might be fleeing, and at Olvir's a.s.sent, guided the band by moonlight on that blind trail. But the moon at last set and left them in darkness, without view of their quarry. It was well, for even their iron strength was broken. Many had lagged behind in the last hour's march.

Yet at dawn, stiff from their wounds and half famished, they gathered about their earl, and called upon him to lead them on across the woodlands.

When at last, bursting out on the edge of a broad meadow, the vikings sighted the Danes fording a little stream, they uttered a roar, and rushed forward to close with the foe. But even Gerold and Floki were left far behind by Olvir, who raced ahead on Zora as though to ride down singly the whole Danish band. His followers were nearly a bow-shot to the rear when he drew rein just beyond sweep of the Danish swords.

The greater number of the Danes were already across the stream; but a few of the more resolute had halted to hold the pa.s.sage against the pursuers. Olvir, however, stared over the heads of the desperate champions, to the little islet upon which Wittikind, striding up out of the water, had paused to glance back at the Norse wedge. As the Saxon's eye fell upon the viking earl, the latter raised his hand, and sent a challenge ringing over the stream.

"Ho, hero!" he shouted; "stand and wait--I would meet you in single fight."

"Faul seize you, dog of the Frank!" retorted the Saxon. "Am I a witling to linger while your b.l.o.o.d.y wolves come up?"

"Listen, son of Wanekind," said Olvir, very earnestly. "Odin bear witness--I swear that no man in my following shall cross the stream, if you fight with me. Let these men follow over to their mates. Mine will stand here."

"And if you fall, bairn?"

"My pledge shall hold good nevertheless. But if you falter and fail to meet me, I shall name you nithing from Rhine Stream to Trondheim Fiord."

"_Teu_! It is a bold c.o.c.kerel!" cried Wittikind. But the flush which reddened his bearded cheek showed that the taunt had gone home. Only blood could wipe out that threat of coward-naming. He signed impatiently to the Danish rearguard.

"Across, men!" he shouted. "I 'll soon trim the comb of this loud-crowing c.o.c.k, and then we shall see how the sons of Thor keep faith."

Olvir smiled, well pleased, and, as the Danes sprang into the stream, he turned about, with upraised hand, to check the wild charge of his vikings.

"Hold, men!" he called. "I meet the war-earl singly. Whether scathe come to me or to him, none among you shall cross over the stream."

"How, Olvir?" demanded Gerold. "Would you then let the Danes escape us?"

"My word is pledged; the Danes go free. As to the war-earl, it is as it was with that traitor Hroar."

"You would trust everything to your own sword, Olvir; and yet the war-earl all but struck you down."

"In the press of the battle," answered Floki, sharply. "Here the ring-breaker will have room to avoid the Saxon's sword."

"I have given my word. See that you keep it," added Olvir, and, leaping from Zora, he advanced out into the water.

Wittikind calmly awaited the attack, leaning upon the hilt of his terrible longsword. There was no feeling visible in his bearded face, but his blue eyes were fixed upon the Northman in a vengeful look. Had it not been for the Norse wedge, the battle would have surely gone against the hated Franks before Rudulf, that werwolf Thuringian, could break the Frisians.

With a rush, Olvir pa.s.sed, waist-deep, across the narrow channel, and sprang out upon the lower end of the islet. Between him and the Saxon lay a level stretch of sedge-grown sand, a dozen paces wide and twice as long. With the water still dripping from the border of his mailserk, Olvir advanced quietly upon his great enemy. Wittikind swung up his sword, and stepped forward to meet the Northman.

"Come, bairn, come!" he jeered. "We linger too long. I would make an end of the matter, and be gone."

"The gerfalcon strikes the stork!" retorted Olvir, and he ran in upon the war-earl so closely that his little steel s.h.i.+eld clashed upon the spiked boss of the Saxon's linden-wood buckler. Down came the longsword with a vicious swirl,--a stroke that few among the greatest champions might have warded. Olvir made no attempt to meet it. Wide as was the blade's sweep, he sprang back into safety as the blow fell.

Gerold and the vikings shouted in approval of the adroit play; but the Danes laughed and called out jeeringly: "Stay a little, dogs of the Franks! Wait till the hero's blood warms!"

"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 sh.o.r.e 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 ma.s.sive 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 sh.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+eld, 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 G.o.ds, 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."

"I had rather talk with Odin! We of the forest have but one tongue with which to speak to traitors; it is of steel."

"Wittikind is dogwise," replied Olvir, and he raised Al-hatif to thrust the blade into its sheath. "Here is my answer to the taunts of the war-earl. Odin bids us slay our foe by guile or by force; but, in the name of the White Christ, I now tell you to go free."

"_Teu_! Is it not enough shame that a viking should sell his sword?

Must he mock an unarmed foe?"

"Odin bear witness--the son of Wanekind is free."

Wittikind stared down intently into the grave, almost solemn face of the Northman, and his look softened.

"How is this, viking?" he demanded. "Would you undo the scathe you have wrought upon my forest-folk?"

"The blood of your warriors brings me no joy, hero. Yet I am the man of Pepin's son, and so must do his bidding. A year since I should have broken the bond, had not Karl shown to me the need for this b.l.o.o.d.y war.

Many could tell you what little love I bear the Christian priests, and I am not one to rejoice at the growing serfdom among the Franks; yet I see that both Frank priest and Frank king would bring to your land more than they would take away,--your boasted freedom is the freedom of the wolf-pack, without order or true bond. This bitter day has proved that all the forces of your forest tribes cannot hope to check the power of the Frank. Why, then, drag on with a hopeless war?--why bring upon your land fire and steel and famine?"

"I would rather choose death than thraldom," rejoined Wittikind.

"Who speaks for thraldom? For a time there would be a double yoke on the necks of your people; but the son of Pepin will not reign for all time, and who so dog-wise as to hold that one as mighty as he will sit in the high-seat after he has gone? I foresee that the yoke of kings.h.i.+p will then be light, and the Saxon folk can choose for themselves whether they will any longer bear the yoke of the priests."

"So--now I see. I am to go free, if I will sell my folk into thraldom."

Olvir's face clouded.