Now it seemed that Eric heard the words, for suddenly his might came back to him, and he staggered to his knees and thence to his feet. Then, as folk fall from him, with all his strength he whirls Whitefire round his head till it shines like a wheel of fire. "Thy service is done and thou art clean of Gudruda"s blood--go back to those who forged thee!"
Brighteyes cries, and casts Whitefire from him towards the gulf.
Away speeds the great blade, flashing like lightning through the rays of the setting sun, and behold! as men watch it is gone--gone in mid-air!
Since that day no such sword as Whitefire has been known in Iceland.
"Now slay thou me, Gizur," says the dying Eric.
Gizur comes on with little eagerness, and Eric cries aloud:
"Swordless I slew thy father!--swordless, shieldless, and wounded to the death I will yet slay _thee_, Gizur the Murderer!" and with a loud cry he staggered towards him.
Gizur smites him with his sword, but Eric does not stay, and while men wait and wonder, Brighteyes sweeps him into his great arms--ay, sweeps him up, lifts him from the ground and reels on.
Eric reels on to the brink of the gulf. Gizur sees his purpose, struggles and shrieks aloud. But the strength of the dying Eric is more than the strength of Gizur. Now Brighteyes stands on the dizzy edge and the light of the pa.s.sing sun flames about his head. And now, bearing Gizur with him, he hurls himself out into the gulf, and lo! the sun sinks!
Men stand wondering, but Swanhild cries aloud:
"n.o.bly done, Eric! n.o.bly done! So I would have seen thee die who of all men wast the first!"
This then was the end of Eric Brighteyes the Unlucky, who of all warriors that have lived in Iceland was the mightiest, the goodliest, and the best beloved of women and of those who clung to him.
Now, on the morrow, Swanhild caused the body of Eric to be searched for in the cleft, and there they found it, floating in water and with the dead Gizur yet clasped in its bear-grip. Then she cleansed it and clothed it again in its rent armour, and bound on the h.e.l.l-shoes, and it was carried on horses to the sea-side, and with it were borne the bodies of Skallagrim Lambstail the Baresark, Eric"s thrall, and of all those men whom they had slain in the last great fight on Mosfell, that is now named Ericsfell.
Then Swanhild drew her long dragon of war, in which she had come from Orkneys, from its shed over against Westman Isles, and in the centre of the ship, she piled the bodies of the slain in the shape of a bed, and lashed them fast. And on this bed she laid the corpse of Eric Brighteyes, and the breast of black Skallagrim the Baresark was his pillow, and the breast of Gizur, Ospakar"s son, was his foot-rest.
Then she caused the sails to be hoisted, and went alone aboard the long ship, the rails of which were hung with the shields of the dead men.
And when at evening the breeze freshened to a gale that blew from the land, she cut the cable with her own hand, and the ship leapt forward like a thing alive, and rushed out in the red light of the sunset towards the open sea.
Now ever the gale freshened and folk, standing on Westman Heights, saw the long ship plunge past, dipping her prow beneath the waves and sending the water in a rain of spray over the living Swanhild, over the dead Eric and those he lay upon.
And by the head of Eric Brighteyes, her hair streaming on the wind, stood Swanhild the Witch, clad in her purple cloak, and with rings of gold about her throat and arms. She stood by Eric"s head, swaying with the rush of the ship, and singing so sweet and wild a song that men grew weak who heard it.
Now, as the people watched, two white swans came down from the clouds and sped on wide wings side by side over the vessel"s mast.
The ship rushed on through the glow of sunset into the gathering night.
On sped the ship, but still Swanhild sung, and still the swans flew over her.
The gale grew fierce, and fiercer yet. The darkness gathered deep upon the raging sea.
Now that ship was seen no more, and the death-song of Swanhild as she pa.s.sed to doom was never heard again.
For swans and ship, and Swanhild, and dead Eric and his dead foes, were lost in the wind and the night.
But far out on the sea a great flame of fire leapt up towards the sky.
Now this is the tale of Eric Brighteyes, Thorgrimur"s son; of Gudruda the Fair, Asmund"s daughter; of Swanhild the Fatherless, Atli"s wife, and of Ounound, named Skallagrim Lambstail, the Baresark, Eric"s thrall, all of whom lived and died before Thangbrand, Wilibald"s son, preached the White Christ in Iceland.