But Emund Ulvbane promptly found himself on the ground; he must have struck too eagerly at his opponent's head and thus badly missed his target. Yet the boy did not have the wit to exploit the God-given opportunity. He stood quite still, waiting for the raging royal giant to get up and attack again.

   Three times Emund now struck at his opponent, who effortlessly and always moving in a circle avoided his sword without even parrying it with his own. Those who were standing far off and could not see clearly thought at first that Emund was toying cruelly with him, as a cat does with a mouse. But those who stood close saw clearly that that was not at all what happened.

   From the Folkungs and the Erik clan now rose scattered laughter, and soon the battlefield thundered with laughter which washed like scorn over Emund Ulvbane, who despite all his furious efforts could only slice big holes in the air.

   Arn already felt confident, for even though his opponent was big and rough, he wasn't as big as Brother Guilbert and not a tenth as skilled with a sword. The most important thing now was to spare Emund's life, not to be affected by pride, and soon, when Emund's panting got heavier and closer, to go on the attack. Arn was pleased that despite all good advice and the attempts to talk him out of it he had stood by his decision not to wear chain mail or a helmet. If he were going to win without killing he had to be able to move quickly, and he had to have good vision at every instant, for the slightest mistake would mean his death.

   When Arn suddenly began to defend himself, Emund had already grown so sluggish in his movements that everyone could see it. And Arn made him even wearier by beginning to meet his opponent's blows with his sword or his shield, although always at an angle so that he deflected Emund's blows to the ground. Time after time sparks flew from Emund's heavy sword as he struck stone. Arn pretended to parry these blows straight on, but each time turned his wrist so that Emund's blows slipped past, and he didn't need to test this method long before Emund once again fell to the ground from his own weight and strength. Then Arn rushed up and pointed the tip of his sword at Emund's throat and spoke to him for the first time. Emund was on his knees, panting mightily, and it looked as though it was his final moment.

   The two combatants were out in the middle of the battlefield, too far from all the shouting men for anyone to hear what was said between them. But one thing could be surmised, that the man who some called monk boy had offered Emund a chance to save his own skin if he surrendered, handing over his sword. Instead Emund suddenly threw himself back, away from the threatening tip of the sword, and stood up. So the battle was on again.

   But now even the king's men realized what was happening and what they at first could neither see nor understand. The Folkung that Emund had insulted as a bitch puppy and nun was utterly superior to him, and it was no miracle or sorcery or accident, for they watched for too long for their eyes to have been deceived. Experienced warriors who stood close to other skilled warrior combatants began to describe what they were seeing, as they tried to understand and follow along in their minds what Arn was doing with his sword. They were already agreed that Arn's skill was great and that Emund had met his match. From the Folkung side the taunts began to grow louder, hurled toward the defeated man, and from the king's side scattered shouts were heard for Emund to surrender and hand over his shield. All had seen that his life had been spared several times over.

   But Emund Ulvbane valued his honor higher than yielding to some puppy, and he had been in battle so many times that he was well aware that even hopeless defeats could suddenly turn without any miracle involved. But as he continued to fight he grew more cautious and began to move so as to save his strength.

   At first Arn was somewhat confused by this and realized that now he could not win by causing Emund to surrender. That would have been the sensible thing to do when Emund noticed that his blows never hit home, and he should have begun to realize that Arn could strike him whenever he pleased. Arn felt that he had to think very clearly and not be affected by pride, no matter how defenseless Emund seemed. With great resolve he laid his shield on the ground to tempt Emund into new wild attacks that would sap him of all his strength.

   A murmur of dismay spread across the battlefield when everyone saw that Arn had laid down his shield and shifted his sword to the wrong hand, for now Emund's chance to strike with one of his mortal blows was twice as great as before. And Emund took the bait. Reinvigorated, he attacked in both desperation and rage. Arn, who was now circling constantly in the wrong direction to Emund, had more opportunities to strike at his adversary's head or neck. Many saw this, though no one understood why he held back.

   But Arn had a special plan. He had his eyes fixed not on Emund's head or neck but on his right wrist, where the Nordic chain mail offered no protection. The longer he circled around Emund, the more often that weak spot appeared, but he waited until he saw it openly displayed. Then he struck for the first time with all his might.

   A gasp of horror passed through the thousand men gathered there when they saw Emund's great sword fly through the air with his right hand still gripping the hilt.

   Emund dropped silently to his knees, tossed away his shield, and grabbed his severed wrist with his left hand to stanch the spurting blood.

   Arn went up to him and pointed his sword at his throat, and everyone waited in abrupt silence for the mortal blow that was Arn's legal right.

   Instead Arn picked up Emund's red shield with the black griffin head, turned his back to Emund, and picked up his own shield. Then he walked over to his father and handed him Emund's shield.

   Some of the men who served Boleslav, the king's brother, hurried to Emund and carried him quickly out of sight.

   With tears of pride and relief Magnus Folkesson triumphantly raised the conquered red shield to the sky, and the Folkungs drew their swords and beat on their shields so that a great battle noise erupted.

   No man who was there would ever forget that day. And those who were not there would hear so many tell about it that they might as well have been present too.

Chapter 10

Like a stormy wind in the fall, Knut Eriksson, the aspirant to be king, came back from Norway to Western Götaland. First he rode to see his father's brother, Joar Jedvardsson, and celebrated Advent in the church at Eriksberg, offering prayers of thanksgiving for his return. But after that he had many kinsmen to visit and could say if nothing else that he came for the hunt. It had turned into a bitterly cold wolf winter in Western Götaland, when the snow was not too high for horses or plodding thralls but hindered the fleeing wolves. In such a winter the custom was for daring young hunters to ride from one estate to another to hunt for wolves. But besides the hunt there was a good deal to talk about concerning the victory of the Folkungs and the Erik clan at the landsting in Axevalla. And Knut had much to say about this and many ideas that he now wanted to sow to make it easier to reap when the time was ripe.