Egil Skallagrimsson heard the breakers before he could see the shore. He had sailed from Iceland to visit King Athelstan in England, but storms had driven his ship south. Now, in the gathering dark, white water appeared ahead and beside them.
They ran ashore at the mouth of the Humber. The men survived. The ship broke beneath them.
From people on land Egil learned that Eirik Bloodaxe now ruled at York. Queen Gunnhild was with him. In Norway, Egil had fought their men, cursed them, and killed their son Rognvald.
His friend Arinbjorn was in York too, still serving the king.
He could try to hide, but there were few men of his size and face. He imagined being dragged out of some poor shelter and taken bound to the king. Before that could happen, he found a horse and rode to York himself.
Outside Arinbjorn’s house he sent a servant in with his name.
His friend came out promptly. Egil told him about the wreck. Arinbjorn asked whether anyone in the town had recognized him.
“No.”
Arinbjorn turned to his household. “Bring your weapons.”
They went together to Eirik’s hall. There Egil stepped forward and clasped the king’s foot while Arinbjorn presented his coming as an act of submission. Eirik looked down at the man who had killed his son.
“You knew what waited here.”
Gunnhild wanted him killed at once. Arinbjorn argued for the night: a king should not have a man put to death in darkness. Eirik yielded that much. Egil could go home with Arinbjorn, who must bring him back in the morning.
In an upper room, away from the household, Arinbjorn told him what he must do.
“Make a poem for him.”
“For Eirik?”
“A praise poem. One worth hearing.”
Egil had cursed the man before the powers of the land. He had killed Rognvald, Eirik’s son, and no payment could undo it. Now he was to spend the hours left to him celebrating Eirik’s courage and victories.
Arinbjorn waited.
“I will try,” Egil said.
Food and drink were brought. His friend left him alone. Egil began to shape the opening in his head.
A swallow twittered at the window.
He lost the turn of the line and began again. The bird cried again. It seemed to catch every pause, filling the small room until he could hear neither the measure nor the words that should have followed it.
When Arinbjorn returned at midnight, Egil had made nothing.
He pointed towards the window. Arinbjorn went outside and climbed to the roof. Something slipped away into the dark. He took its place beside the opening and remained there.
In the room below, Egil listened to the silence.
He began with the voyage. From the voyage he found his way to the offering he carried: words of praise, a gift that could pass into other mouths and survive the man who made it. He shaped battles for the king, the noise of weapons and the courage Eirik wanted remembered. He fitted sound to sound, went back when a passage failed him, and spoke each completed part until he could hold it without losing the rest.
Outside, Arinbjorn kept watch.
By dawn the poem was made. Egil recited it to his friend. Then they went to the hall with Arinbjorn’s followers, half waiting armed before the doors and the others entering beside them.
Gunnhild would hear no plea. Arinbjorn had served Eirik faithfully, she said; he had been rewarded for it. His duty was to the king, not to Egil.
Arinbjorn asked for safe departure. When that was resisted, he made his choice plain.
“If he dies here, I stand with him.”
His men were close enough to hear. So were Eirik’s. Egil looked at the king as the room waited for an answer.
Eirik did not want Arinbjorn killed. He said so, though he had cause enough to kill Egil.
Egil stepped forward before the argument could close around him again and began to recite.
His voice carried through the hall. He gave Eirik the battles he had forged in darkness, the clash and forward rush, the name of the king held inside the pattern. He could feel where the next line waited. He reached it, and the next. No swallow broke across the measure. Eirik sat upright and watched him to the end.
Then the hall was quiet.
The king praised the recitation. For Arinbjorn’s sake, and because Egil had come freely into his power, he would let him leave alive.
But there was no peace between them. Egil must never put himself in Eirik’s path again, nor expect safety from his sons.
Egil accepted his head.
Outside, horses were being made ready. Arinbjorn rode with him and a strong armed company until they reached Athelstan. Only then did they part, exchanging gifts. Arinbjorn gave him a sword that had once belonged to Egil’s dead brother, Thorolf.
Egil took it from his friend’s hand.