At dawn on the morning that everyone in Western Götaland would remember in times to come and about which many sagas would be told, almost as many men gathered as were at the ting. They gathered at the place that was called Three Roads Meet. It was three arrow-shots from the tingsite, and that marked the boundary for the peace of the ting. Few had gone home the night before, even though business had been concluded, because few men wanted to miss seeing with their own eyes the fight that could be the cause of war.

No one among the Folkungs and none from the Erik clan had

left for home, for together they had to show the king's men that he who killed a kinsman directed a blow against them all. Also, it was even more important to stand by the man whose life would be ended for the sake of honor. A man must stand by his kinsmen from birth until death, and now was the hour of death.

   From the west the Folkungs and the Erik clan approached, all of them silent and solemn. From the east came the king's men and kinsmen with cheerful laughter and scornful talk, since they knew that victory was theirs, no matter how things turned out. If Magnus Folkesson chose to save his life by not coming, the king's men would be victorious because the Folkungs would be disgraced. And if Magnus Folkesson met Emund Ulvbane in battle, victory was equally assured but would be more entertaining to watch.

   Foremost among the Folkungs came Birger Brosa, Magnus Folkesson, and his two sons, all wrapped in their thick blue mantles lined with marten fur, all wearing helmets and carrying the lion shield of the Folkungs on their left arm. Now the four took up position in front of their silent kinsmen and waited. Emund and his retinue deliberately arrived late.

   The weather was cold, and the sun about to rise, coloring the sky red as blood behind the king's men. It would be a good day to die, everyone thought, as with an impatient murmur they flocked around and waited for the sun's first rays to break forth. That was the hour when the battle would be joined.

   And when the sun's glowing rim was first seen, an inciting war cry rose from the king's side, and Emund Ulvbane threw off his mantle, drew his heavy sword, and walked with long, mighty strides out to the middle of the battlefield.

   But what happened next no one could have imagined. The smaller of Magnus Folkesson's sons, the one they called the monk boy or the nun, now cast off his mantle, took off his helmet and his scabbard, drew his long, fragile sword and kissed it as he uttered an oath that no one could hear. Then he crossed himself and walked slowly but without hesitation toward Emund.

   At first there was a great silence among the thousand men gathered, then a growing murmur of displeasure. Now all could see that the monk boy was not even wearing chain mail, so that the slightest blow could smite him dead to the ground. His helmet he had also left behind.

   For Emund Ulvbane this was a raw affront since now they were trying to force him to quit the fight or without much honor slay a defenseless monk boy. That was what everyone must have thought. All the Folkungs realized it as well, and they were just as surprised as the king's men to see young Arn walk into single combat to the death instead of his father. It was a foolish and risky undertaking, for no one thought that Emund Ulvbane was a man to show mercy or walk away from a fight when victory was certain. But there was courage in that boy who was risking his own life to save his father's and the honor of his clan, and so thought the king's men as well.

   But Emund Ulvbane would not let himself be trapped. Instead he decided to put a quick and humiliating end to the battle which this insult from the Folkungs deserved, and he now ran with great determination toward Arn with his sword raised, ready to sever the boy's head at once.

   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.