# The Black Jarl/Chapter 7

Argosy 08 Dec.. 1923, pp. 371-374.

### CHAPTER VII.
#### THE AX THROWER.

WAVES of loud laughter rolled back from the throngs. Men-at-arms joined in, save those who followed Svend the Bloody, for these latter recognized the black jarl and wondered how their master would take this affair.
Svend seemed on the verge of choking, yet he stood straight and proud. His eyes flashed, and the anger clouds gathered on his brow. Edvard Haakonsson urged Eric onward, straight toward the king, laughing back at those who laughed at him, waving his hand to the maidens, pretending now and then to prod his unusual steed. On he came, until Eric was a few paces before Svend, and then Edvard stopped him and stood to the ground and bowed before his kinsman.
Svend's eyes blazed into those of his brother's son. He felt that his dignity was outraged. And he remembered his wish that Edvard remain at the camp, his fear that he would become a friend of Olaf.
"How is this?" Svend cried.
But Olaf stopped him with a gesture. "Who is this man, who wears the ornaments of one of my jarls?" the king demanded.
Svend was compelled to turn and face his ruler. Once he bowed low, yet when he spoke there was anger in his voice.
"Great Olaf, this man is Edvard, the son of Haakon the Lover, and my nephew," Svend said. "He is but new come from the lands to the south, where his father long resided, and where this jarl was born and bred."
"Son of Haakon the Lover? Then is he welcome according to his just rank. But why does he come before us riding the back of a thrall? Is it a new method of approaching a throne?"
Though the king's voice was firm, his eyes were twinkling.
"Those are questions for which I await the answers also," Svend said. "I thought it better that my nephew remain in command of my camp. Word of honor he gave me to do so, unless two trusted men of rank were there to take his place. Yet he is here!"
"Can a jarl forget word of honor?" Olaf demanded, his brow suddenly black.
"Great Olaf, word of honor has been kept," Edvard replied. "I did give it not to ride or walk to the fair. Yet I am here, but I call upon all of you to witness that I did not ride or walk—I was carried."
Olaf laughed at that, and his favorites with him, but Svend did not. The Bloody one stepped forward again, and his voice rang with venom when he spoke.
"But how about the remainder of your oath?" he cried. "You have left my camp, and you promised there to remain unless two men of rank were there in your stead."
"And so they are," Edvard answered. For a moment his eyes met those of Magnus, and the lieutenant betrayed his nervousness.
"Two of your company dropped out of the march and returned to the camp, my kinsman," Edvard continued. "They thought it best to pick a quarrel with me, for some unknown reason. Two giants they were, too. But they remain at the camp."
"Dead?" Magnus cried before Svend could speak. "You have slain them—you?"
"I had no wish to rob my kinsman of two noble warriors," the black jarl replied. "So I merely stunned them and had them bound with thongs and placed in a tent. Perchance, if they see fit to attack me again, they will bring a larger company."
Once more Olaf roared his laughter. Svend turned purple, and the face of Magnus was white. Magnus knew well that the black jarl understood, yet had not betrayed him. And he promised himself revenge on the two warriors who had failed in their undertaking.
"This small black jarl pleases me much! Olaf cried. "Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover, I must have speech with you before the end of the fair. You have come from lands I visited when I was young. There the religion of the cross is strong, and I would speak with you later concerning its developments."
That which Svend the Bloody had feared was coming to pass. Edvard was making a friend of the king. Svend's rage was withheld in a measure, yet it was almost consuming him. He felt compelled to expend it. And he did not dare expend it upon Edvard Haakonsson after what the king had said.
His eyes turned to Eric the Dumb. The thrall was but a thrall, and upon him Svend could work his will. Slowly, the Bloody one drew a dagger from his belt.
"Accursed thrall!" he cried. "You have done this thing! Would you make a mock of me before Great Olaf by turning yourself into a horse? Your blood shall pay!"
He raised the dagger to strike, but Edvard Haakonsson sprang before the thrall and held up a hand in warning.
"If there be blame, it is mine, kinsman," he said. "I commanded the thrall to do as he did."
"One side, jarl! I punish my slaves when I please!"
"But it is not just!" Edvard cried. "The thrall did only as I ordered. Can he be blamed? I appeal to the king!"
Olaf's brow darkened. He had no wish to affront Svend now, after the new pact of friendship. And there were laws regarding a thrall's relations to his master.
"It is Svend's right to punish the man if he so wills," the king said. "I can only hope that he will be merciful. But, if he thinks it better not to be, I can do nothing to stay his hand. A jarl may discipline his slaves."
Svend took another step forward, gloating, and once more the black jarl raised his hand.
"Then let me be champion for this thrall, since the fault is mine!" he said. "It will furnish sport for the throng."
"Champion for a thrall?" Svend gasped.
"You have men of skill among your followers, kinsman. Put one forth against me. Let us throw the javelin, or the ax. If I win, the thrall is mine to do with as I please. If I do not win, you compel him to punishment."
"You would throw ax or javelin?" Svend gasped.
"Against any of your men!"
Magnus surged forward and touched Svend on the shoulder. He thought that he saw his chance to humble Edvard Haakonsson before the king, and when he spoke, Svend had the same opinion. Olaf loved rough sports, and he did not love losers.
"What would you?" Svend asked. "The king has not given the order for the sports to begin."
"I have no hand in this," Olaf said.
Edvard bowed before him again. "Then we will throw the ax," he said. "Let my kinsman choose his man."
"You would pit yourself against Magnus, for instance?" Svend asked.
"Even against Magnus."
"He throws the best ax in my jarldom."
"But never has he met me," Edvard said.
"So be it!"
The throng surged backward again, eager for the test. Here was sport they loved. Far in front of the royal pavilion there was a huge tree, with a blazed space upon its trunk.
"There is the target!" Olaf said.
Now there was a clear space between the king's seat and the tree. On either side pressed forward the throng, noble men and women in the front rows. Howling dogs were kicked backward out of the way. Magnus stood forth, a smile upon his bearded face, and took up his ax.
He turned and looked once at Edvard, gloating in his manner. But the black jarl showed no sign of nervousness. He stood to one side, his hands resting lightly against his hips, his body bent forward.
"It scarcely will be a test, jarl" Magnus said. "Your pet thrall soon will know the taste of Svend's steel."
"You have not yet thrown, nor have I," Edvard replied.
The brow of Magnus grew dark again. One step forward he took. He balanced the ax, and his great arm drew back. The crowd suddenly was still.
An instant of silence, and then the flashing ax whizzed through the air. There was a thud as it struck and quivered. Its blade had bitten deeply into the bole of the tree, and less than the width of a hand below the blazed space. Shouts came from the men at arms and the common folk.
"It is a good throw," Edvard admitted. "Many men could not beat it. If I do not, 'twill be no reflection on my skill."
"Then you think that you will not?" Magnus sneered.
"In a moment we shall see," said the black jarl.
He sprang forward and toed the mark and took up his ax. Eric the Dumb crouched behind him, his lips moving. None knew to what god he prayed, yet all knew that he was praying. None knew better than Eric the Dumb what depended upon the black jarl's throw, and it is not surprising if he had small faith in the outcome. For Magnus was known the breadth of the land as an ax thrower.
The son of Haakon the Lover flashed a smile at those on either side of him, and then set his face grimly. A moment he stood poised. Then his blade flashed through the air.
Again there came a thud, then a cry of surprise and wonder. The ax he had hurled was buried to the hilt in the trunk of the tree. It quivered in the center of the blazed space above that of Magnus.
Edvard Haakonsson stepped backward and bowed to the king. A chorus of cheers assailed his ears. But Magnus strode forward, his face black with wrath.
"Accidents happen!" he cried. "Can the black jarl throw so well again?"
"I have won, have I not?" Edvard demanded.
"You have won," Olaf decided. "The thrall's life is spared, and he belongs to you. But I would like to see yet another throw, if you are willing."
"I am willing," Edvard replied.
Magnus snarled and stepped to the line again. A thrall came running with the axes. Magnus took his and balanced it. For a moment he hesitated, and then he threw. A cheer answered his effort.
It was a better throw than the other, for the ax cut the edge of the blazed space, yet it was not so good as the first throw Edvard had made.
"Let us see you equal that!" Magnus said.
The black jarl laughed and once more stepped up to the line. He waited a moment, for there was a commotion in the throng. Two hounds were fighting, and men and women and children were pushing back out of the way, while thralls ran forward to separate the big dogs.
Their fangs flashed, their howls rent the air. Other dogs fought to get in the battle. The crowd surged backward.
And then a gasp of horror came from the throng. One of the great dogs had broken away. Foaming at the mouth, his eyes blazing, he was darting across the clearing. Women and children ran from his path. Warriors could not get through the press to use their weapons.
And in the path of the crazed hound stood a maiden, dressed in flowing robes, her costume denoting her the daughter of a jarl.
A bedlam of shrieks and cries frightened the hound more. The maiden turned to flee, but tripped and fell. The great dog sprang at her.
Then it was that Edvard Haakonsson gave a cry and hurled his ax quickly through the air. Over and over it turned, yet it struck true. The sickening thud came when the hound was but a spring from his prey. The great dog paused in his leap, and dropped, gasping out his life.
A moment of horrified silence, and then a shout from those who were the first to realize what had happened! Half a dozen aided the maiden to her feet. A score rushed toward where Edvard Haakonsson was standing.
But he thrust them aside and ran across the clearing. He fought his way through thralls and warriors and men and women. He reached the side of the maiden, who was standing wild-eyed and panting, and she whirled toward him and clung to his arm for support.
"You are not injured?" he asked.
She fought to regain her composure, for she had remembered that she was the daughter of a jarl. And then:
"Not injured, thanks to you, Edvard Haakonsson," said Thyra, daughter of Harald the Just.
The crowd fell back, and a big jarl thrust his way forward. His face was stern, yet a suspicion of tears glistened in his eyes. His hand fell upon Edvard's shoulder.
"I thank you, jarl!" he said. "Our daughter is precious to us!"
And then another chorus of cries rent the air:
"Hail, Edvard Haakonsson! Hail, Edvard the Ax Thrower!"
The black jarl had won a name.