Bjoern saw, and, drawing sword, smote at Brighteyes, taking him unawares.  But Skallagrim caught the blow upon his axe, and before Bjoern could smite again Whitefire was aloft and down fell Bjoern, dead!

That was the end of Bjoern, Asmund’s son.

“Thou hast squeaked thy last, rat!  What did I tell thee?” cried Skallagrim.  “Take Bjoern’s shield and back to back, lord, for here come foes.”

“There goes one,” answered Eric, pointing to the door.

Now Hall of Lithdale slunk through the doorway—­Hall, the liar, who cut the grapnel-chain—­for he wished to see the last of Skallagrim.  But the Baresark still held Eric’s spear in his hand.  He whirled it aloft, and it hissed through the air.  The aim was good, for, as he crept away, the spear struck Hall between neck and shoulder, pinning him to the doorpost, and there the liar died.

“Now the weasel is nailed to the beam,” said Skallagrim.  “Hall of Lithdale, what did I promise thee?”

“Guard thy head and my back,” quoth Eric; “blows fall!”

Now men smote at Eric and Skallagrim, nor did they spare to smite in turn.  And as foes fell before him, Eric stepped one pace forward towards the door, and Skallagrim, who, back to back with him, held off those who pressed behind, took one step rearwards.  Thus, a foe for every step, they won their way down the long hall.  Fierce raged the fray around them, for, made with hate and drink and the lust of fight, Swanhild’s folk—­Eric’s friends—­remembering the words of Atli, fell on Ospakar’s; and the people of Bjoern fell on each other, brother on brother, and father on son—­nor might the fray be stayed.  The boards were overthrown, dead men lay among the meats and mead, and the blood of freeman, lord and thrall ran adown the floor.  Everywhere through the dusky hall glittered the sheen of flashing swords and rose the clang of war.  Darts clove the air like tongues of flame, and the clamour of battle beat against the roof.

Blinded of the Norns who brought these things to pass, men sought no mercy and they gave none, but smote and slew till few were left to slay.

And still Gudruda sat in her bride-seat, and, with eyes fixed in horror, watched the waxing of the war.  Near to her stood Swanhild, marking all things with a fierce-set face, and calling down curses on her folk, who one and all cried “Eric!  Eric!” and swept the thralls of Ospakar as corn is swept of the sickle.

And there, nigh to the door, pale of face and beautiful to see, golden Eric clove his way, and with him went black Skallagrim.  Terrible was the flare of Whitefire as he flicked aloft like the levin in the cloud.  Terrible was the flare of Whitefire; but more terrible was the light of Eric’s eyes, for they seemed to flame in his head, and wherever that fire fell it lighted men the way to death.  Whitefire sung and flickered, and crashed the axe of Skallagrim, and still through the press of war they won their way.  Now Gizur stands before them, spear aloft, and Whitefire leaps up to meet him.  Lo! he turns and flies.  The coward son of Ospakar does not seek the fate of Ospakar!