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Fell upon my brow the cold breath of the Sea, and close about my legs she held
When cried my kinsmen and crashed ashore did they.

Far from the shore the enemy was arrayed, standing shield to shield across the beach, spears clasped in cold, fingers. Parulf, the old waysmith’s youngest son, went forth with a shout and flung his javelin against their line. Its flight true, the fine, slender shaft shivered against a strong shield and, raising his buckler high, the stripling warrior shouted his challenge to all.

Boar-helmed, a worn, crag of a man threw his head back and laughed at the assault, and Parulf became enraged at the insult. “Your spear was too weak!” the man cried, his smile flashing like all the blades of a shield wall, and out from the wall he came, his ash haft held high. “Try a better!”

Parulf was struck in the throat, silenced and slain. He fell there where he was struck, and the thirsty shore swallowed up his blood.

Eagerly the boar-helmed man went forth to gather up Parulf’s father’s old armor, and his old axe, and the shield that had failed his son. The men near him pressed forward, and the line moved closer to the sea. They let their spears rap against their shields, clamoring for blood now that they had its scent.

“Saxon!” one cried to his fellow: “Who these do not cut down will drown in the sea, if we are not quick with our work.”

That fellow strode ashore, shrugging off the black maiden’s chill grasp. “I’ll not be chosen today,” he promised, and went to his ring-giver’s side to form the line.

Then did the ring-giver charge that one with making good the attack, and with breaking and routing the enemy, and revealing them for the cowards they were. He took up his slender spear and, forsaking the strong shields of his fellows, he went forward. Ten steps he charged, and then flew his bright spear with a cry to send the point deep into its mark. Its haft was strong, seasoned and well-kept from his father’s time, and its point split the shield of one man, breaking through and drinking his blood to slake its thirst.

“I have brought a better!” he cried, and when a man with his javelin replied that javelin fell short, thrust into the ground at his feet. “Farmers, all of you—not warriors. See how your tools seek the earth? Go back to the earth and leave war for men! This spear is not worthy of war. I will send all of you back to the earth!” With his boast he grasped the javelin and, driving his foot down against its haft, shivered it there and cast its splinters aside.

“Now,” he called, taking his heavy axe from his belt. “Which of you would stand between me and my father’s spear?”

Now both sides, thirsty, pushed closer and men on each side let javelins fly and the one called Saxon returned to his ring-breaker’s side. The wizened king nodded to his thane and swore, “We’ll feed the blood-swan soon enough.” But the old man gave no hint of his meaning.

Battle was joined.