Her cry was cut short by the flashing of a blade before her. They had passed
through the hail and reached the lightning! Throwing up her sword, she swerved
to one side and escaped the bolt. Another faced her in this direction. The air
was shot with bright flashes. Swish--clash! they sounded behind her; then a
sickening jar, as Rothgar's terrible axe fell. A yell of agony rent the air.
Swish--clash! the blows came faster; her ear could no longer separate them.
The thud of the falling axes became one continuous pound. Faster and faster,
heavier and heavier,--they blended into a discordant roar that closed around
her like a wall. Here and there and to and fro, Rothgar's great charger
followed the King; and here and there and to and fro, on her foam-flecked
horse, Randalin followed the son of Lodbrok, staring, dazed, stunned.
Her wits were like a flock of birds loosed from the cage of her will,
alighting here, upstarting there, without let or hindrance. Sometimes they
stooped to so foolish a thing as a notch on her horse's ear, and spent whole
minutes questioning dully whether the teeth of another horse had made the
wound or whether a sword had nicked it in battle. Sometimes they followed the
notes of the horns, as the ringing tones passed the order along. From the
blaring blast at her ear, the sound was drawn out on either side of her as
fine as silver wire, far, far away toward the hills.
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