THE END OF AN OLD SEA-KING

Haldor the Fierce said nothing when he heard Alric’s blithe voice in the cavern, but he caught him up in his arms, and gave him a hug that almost made him cry out.

“Why, father, what ails thee?” asked the boy in surprise, when Haldor set him free.

“Never mind, lad,” interposed Erling, “but lend a hand to keep Kettle in order.  He is a little wild just now, and as I intend to leave him in thy charge we must restrain him a bit.  Hand me that rope.”

The boy obeyed in silence, but with much wonder depicted on his face while Erling lashed Kettle’s hands together, and, lifting him in a half-unconscious state into his ship, bound him in as comfortable a position as he could, to one of the rowers’ banks.

“Now, Alric, come aside with me, quick!  I have only time for a few words.  It is enough to tell thee that the day is lost.  I go with our father and the men to save our mother and the other women, or to die.  Thou wilt stay here with a few men to guard the ships, and be ready to cast off at a moment’s notice.  If we return not before night, do thou creep out and try to ascertain what has become of us, and if ye have reason to think we are killed, cut Kettle’s bonds and let him do what he will, poor fellow.  At present his head has got a knock that renders him a dangerous comrade, so he must remain tied.  Of course, if the cave is attacked thou wilt set him free at once.  There is a little boat at the stern of my Swan.  Escape if thou canst.  But be watchful.  We may return in a few hours.  If so, all shall yet be well.  Dost understand me, boy?”

“I do, but methinks ill luck awaits us.”

Erling made no reply, but, kissing Alric’s forehead, he returned to his men, of whom there were about sixty, and led them out of the cave, leaving six with his little brother to guard the ships.

While our hero is thus hastening to the rescue, let us turn aside for a little to follow the course of Guttorm Stoutheart.  That brave old Sea-king had escaped scathless throughout the whole of the disastrous day until near the end, when he received his death-wound from a javelin which pierced his thigh, and cut some important blood vessel, to stanch which defied the skill of his attendants.  He immediately ordered his ship to be cut loose, and his was among the first to escape round the southern point of the fiord, just before the battle ended.

At first the men pulled as if their lives depended on it.  So great was their haste that they did not take time to throw their dead comrades overboard, but left them lying in a ghastly heap on the lower deck.  When, however, they got round the next point, and found that no pursuit was made, they slackened speed and began to heave out the dead, when Guttorm, who reclined near the helm, steering the vessel, ordered them to desist.

“My men,” said he, in a voice which had already lost much of its deep richness of tone, “we will land on the next point.  My days are run out.  I go to Odin’s halls, and I am glad, for it becomes not an old warrior to die in his bed, which I had begun to fear was going to be my fate; besides, now that Norway is to be no longer a free land, it is time that the small kings should be going home.  Ye will carry me to the top of yonder headland cliff, and leave me where I can see the setting sun, and the fords and fells of my native land.  Would that my bones might have been burned, as those of my fathers were! but this may not be.  Ye can lay beside me the comrades who have gone before, and then push off and leave me with the dead.”

There was a low murmur among the men as they again dipped their oars, but not a word was spoken in reply.  Just as they reached the point a vessel came in sight behind them under sail.

“Too late!” muttered Guttorm bitterly, as he looked back; “we are pursued, and must hold on.”

“Not so,” answered one of his chief men; “that is Solve Klofe’s ship.”

“Is that so?” cried Guttorm, while the colour mounted to his pale cheek, and the fire shone in his old eyes; “then have I better luck than I had looked for.  Quick, get to land!  The breeze that brings Solve down will reach us soon.  Get out your arms, and go hail Solve as he passes.  Ye shall sail with him to-night.  I will hie me out upon the sea.”

He spoke somewhat like his former self for a moment, but soon his voice sank, for the life-blood was draining fast away.

Ere many minutes had passed, the breeze freshened into a squall of considerable force.  It came off the land, and swept down the fiord, lashing its waters into seething waves.  Solve answered the hail of Guttorm’s men, and landed.

“What news?” he asked:  “there is but short space for converse.”

The men told him that old Guttorm was dying in his ship.  He walked up the plank that lay from the shore to the gunwale, and found the old warrior lying on the poop beside the helm, wrapped in his mantle, and giving directions to his men, who were piling brushwood on the deck.

“This is an ill sight,” said Solve, with much feeling, as he knelt beside the dying chief, who received him with a smile, and held out his hand.

“Ha!  Solve, I am glad thou art here.  My last battle has been fought, and it has been a good one, though we did get the tooth-ache.  If it had only been a victory, I had recked little of this wound.”

“Can nothing be done for thee?” asked Solve.  “Perchance I may be able to stop the bleeding.”

Guttorm shook his head, and pointed to the blood which had already flowed from him, and lay in a deep pool in the sides of the ship.

“No, no, Solve, my fighting days are over, and, as I have said, the last fight has been a good one!  Ye see what I am about, and understand how to carry out my will.  Go, relieve me of the trouble, and see that it is done well.  I would rest now.”

Solve pressed the hand of his friend in silence, and then went forward to assist actively in the preparations already referred to.  The men heaped up the funeral pile round the mast, fastened the stern ropes to the shore, plied the dead upon the deck, and, when all was ready, hoisted sail.  The squall had increased so that the mast bent, and the ship strained at her stern ropes like an impatient charger.  Then the men went on shore, and Solve, turning to Guttorm, bent over him, and spoke a few words in a low, earnest tone, but the old man’s strength was almost gone.  He could only utter the single word “Farewell”, and wave his hand as if he wished to be left alone.  Solve rose at once, and, applying a light to the pile, leaped ashore.  Next moment the cables were cut; the brushwood crackled with a fierce noise as the fire leaped up and the “ocean steed” bounded away over the dark blue sea.  Guttorm was still seated by the helm, his face pale as death, but with a placid smile on his mouth, and a strange, almost unearthly, fire in his eyes.

The longship rushed over the waves with the foam dashing on her bows, a long white track in her wake, and a dense black cloud curling overhead.  Suddenly the cloud was rent by a fork of flame, which was as suddenly quenched, but again it burst upwards, and at last triumphed; shooting up into the sky with a mighty roar, while below there glowed a fierce fiery furnace, against which was strongly depicted the form of the grand old Sea-king, still sitting motionless at the helm.  Swiftly the blazing craft dashed over the waves, getting more and more enveloped in smoke and flame.  Ere long it could be seen in the far distance, a rushing ball of fire.  Gradually it receded, becoming less and less, until at last it vanished, like a setting star, into the unknown waste of the great western sea.