Vandrad the Viking | Page 3

had broken up, and Estein was about to go on board when he
heard himself hailed by name. He looked round, and saw the same old
man who had accosted Ketill coming down the pier after him.
"Hail, Estein Hakonson!" he cried; "I have come far to see thee."
"Hail, old man!" replied Estein courteously; "what errand brings you
here?"
"You know me not?" said the old man, looking at him keenly.
"Nay, I cannot call your face to mind."
"My name is Atli, and if my features are strange to thee, much stranger
must my name be."
He took Estein's hand, looked closely into his eyes for a minute, and
then said solemnly,--
"Estein Hakonson, this voyage will have an ending other than ye deem.
Troubles I see before ye--fishes feeding on warriors, and winds that
blow as they list, and not as ye."
"That is likely enough," replied Estein. "We are not sailing on a trading
voyage, and in the west seas the winds often blow high. But what luck
shall I have?"
"Strange luck, Estein, I see before thee. Thou shalt be warned and heed
not. More shall be left undone than shall be done. There shall come a
change in thee that I cannot fathom. Many that set out shall not return,
but thine own fate is dim to me."

A young man of barely twenty, very gaily dressed and martial- looking,
had come up to them while they were talking. He had a reckless, merry
look on his handsome face, and bore himself as though he was aware of
his personal attractions.
"And what is my fate, old man?" he asked, more as if he were in jest
than in earnest. "Shall I feed the fishes, or make this strange change
with Estein into a troll, [Footnote: A kind of goblin] or werewolf, or
whatsoever form he is to take?"
"Thy fate is naught to me, Helgi Sigvaldson," replied the seer; "yet I
think thou wilt never be far from Estein."
"That was easily answered," said Helgi with a laugh. "And I can read
my fate yet further. When I part from my foster-brother Estein, then
shall a man go to Valhalla. What say you to that?"
Atli's face darkened.
"Darest thou mock me?" he cried.
"Not so," interposed Estein. "' Bare is back without brother behind it,'
and Helgi means that death only can part us. Farewell, Atli! If your
prophecy comes true, and I return alive, you may choose what gift you
please from among my spoils."
"Little spoil there will be, Estein!" answered the old man, as the
foster-brothers turned from him down the pier.
The last man sprang on board, the oars dipped in the still water, and as
the little fleet moved slowly down the fiord the crowd on shore
gradually dispersed.
Out at sea, beyond the high headlands that guarded Hernersfiord, a
fresh breeze was blowing briskly from the north-east, and past the
rocky islets of the coast white caps gleamed in the sunshine. As the
ships drew clear of the fiord, and the boom of the outer sea breaking on
the skerries rose louder and nearer, sails were spread and oars shipped.

Slowly at first, and then more quickly as they caught the deep-sea wind,
the vessels cut the open water. Past the islands they heeled to the breeze,
and over a wake of foam the men watched the mountains of Norway
sink slowly into the wilderness of waters.
On the decked poop of an open boat, sailing over an ocean unknown to
him, towards countries of whose whereabouts he was only vaguely
informed, Estein Hakonson stood lost in stirring fancies. He was the
only surviving son of the King of Sogn. Three brothers had fallen in
battle, one had perished at sea, and another, the eldest, had died beneath
a burning roof-tree. His education had been conducted according to the
only standard known in Scandinavia. At fourteen he had slain his first
man in fair fight; at seventeen he was a Viking captain on the Baltic;
and now, at two-and-twenty--old far beyond his years and hardened in
varied experience--he was setting forth on the Viking path that led to
the wonderful countries of the south.
The tide of Norse energy was not yet at the full, the fury and the terror
were waxing fast, and the fever of unrest was ever spreading through
the North. Men were always coming back with tales of monasteries
filled with untold wealth, and rich provinces to be won by the sword.
Skalds sang of the deeds done in the south, and shiploads of spoil
confirmed their lays. Little wonder then that Estein should feel his heart
beat high as he stood by the great tiller.
That night, long after the sun was set,