A Fine Tale Quickly Told
“Bjorn gave Ari a choice: either he fight him on the island of Stokkaholm in Surnadal or hand over his wife, Ingibjorg.” […]
“Bjorn gave Ari a choice: either he fight him on the island of Stokkaholm in Surnadal or hand over his wife, Ingibjorg.” […]
” After making his will he did in fact attempt to kill himself again; when the dagger was taken from him he became more violent. He sought poison from a doctor, who killed himself to avoid giving it.” […]
“He made worthy widows wail with sorrow,
Weeping and howling they wrung their hands.
And everywhere in his wake he wasted through war
Their wealth and their houses, and awoke their woe.” […]
“Then they wished their father and mother a good life and set off on their way, journeying until they reached King Hrolf.” […]
“Dromund took hold of the sword and immediately wielded it and struck at Hook. The blow hit him on the head with such force that it sank down to his jaws. Hook dropped down dead to the ground, ignobly.” […]
“Next morning, when they were on the point of setting out, the hot wind came down on them and stifled them all, so that not one survived to carry back the news to their lord.” […]
“The young man took it, turned to one side, unfastened the peace straps and drew the sword. When Thorkel saw that he said, “I did not give you permission to draw the sword.”
“I did not ask your permission,” said the lad.” […]
“Then he rode into the host, hacking through helmets,
Riving off rivets and ripping through shields,
Causing carnage in the ranks but keeping his course,
Rampaging through the rearguard and riding onward,
Then reigning back, that right royal battler,
And returning to the ranks of his own Round Table.” […]
“Frodi invited him to remain there, offering him a half-share of everything. But Bodvar declined. He thought it wrong to kill people for their wealth, and so he prepared to leave.” […]
“Lunging at Paris, he grabbed his horsehair crest, swung him round, started to drag him into Argive lines and now the braided chin-strap holding his helmet tight was gouging his soft throat – Paris was choking, strangling.” […]
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