Staring at the bleeding wound, with the utmost horror, Sigrún was to attempt to keep from elapsing into a fit of panic. Overwhelmed by the sight of her closest friend bleeding in the snow, she was to begin to tremble just before she began to scream. "Auðun! Auðun! Auðun!"
The hoarse cry that was torn from her lungs, her heart, which had seemed to drop from her ribcage and onto the ground when she had first set eyes upon the shadow-rider, was now torn from her chest. Such was the force of the terror that overtook her when she saw the severity of Auðun's wound.
Seeing the state Sigrún was in, and how panicked she was becoming, Thorgils sought to calm her, but without successful. Next to speak up was her stepfather, who attempted to take the matter in hand himself, saying to those around him, "Is there a physician or goði of Eir or a völva of hers?"
Eir was the goddess of healing, said to often be in attendance on the Queen of the gods, Freyja, and said to be the most loving of all the gods towards the races of men, and other various mortals. It was said that it was her Elvish followers who had first passed along the miracles and gifts of healing, surgery, and the like throughout the lands of Scandia, many millennia ago. Since that time, men, beast-folk, and Dwarves had learnt the arts she had given so that her temples were places of healing and peace, in a land so often divided and rent by blood and hatred.
There were no answers; such was the continued fearful state of mind of the local people at what had just transpired. None of them had ever seen the shadow before, and had not expected it; a great many of them had yet to recover from the shock of seeing the fire.
The battle to put out the flames was one that saw almost a dozen men and was one that could only be defined as hard-fought. It was one that was to see a number of heroes glimmer and shine bright as the stars, with more than a number of them to resort to sending their wives to seek out aid. The aid they sought was from those men who lived on the outskirts of the region, men who hurried hither to the rescue in less time than most had thought it might take them. Such was the great wave of fear that had spread throughout the community.
This did not escape the notice of those to the front of the inn, those who had witnessed the attack of the dark figure.
"Allow me to look at him," Thormundr had said to Sigrún, no less full of worry for the youth who lay between them. His eyes downcast, his lower lip trembling as he studied his apprentice's back, "I will see if I might be able to save him."
The longer he attempted to heal the young man, he was to refuse to declare his attempt to help Auðun a failure, no matter how many times he waved his staff over it. His frown was to deepen with each attempt, one that soon spread to the likes of Guðleifr and Thorgils.
It was the former who was to attempt to declare to Sigrún, "There is naught that you can do, Sigrún."
"There must be more!"
"Such a terrible night," Thorgils grumbled wearily, running a hand over his face as he held onto his youngest sister, as she wept for fear of what might happen to Auðun.
The question that exploded from Sigrún's lips, this next one coming from her in a raw voice. Her query was one that startled the warrior. "Where is Wolffish? Auðun is injured, and Wolffish is missing. What else may well go wrong?"
"Did someone call for me?" The Wolffish suddenly spoke up from off to one side, as he appeared covered in soot, bruised, and looking utterly miserable.
Pulling on the reins of two of the horses, he was guiding them along from just south of the inn, and was accompanied by one of the most beautiful figures that any of them had ever seen before.
Golden-haired, there was a beauty and sheen to her hair that differed from that of Sigrún's; it was as though it shone bright as the light of the suns. Her hair, though, was almost entirely covered despite its length, by a war-helm that she wore as lightly as she might a hair-pin. Dressed similarly to her companion, she, however, wore upon her hauberk a different emblem, with hers being that of a crimson sword beneath a red sun.
Her eyes were a simple green colour, beautiful to behold and piercing as the blades attached to her belt. Full-lipped, her face oval-shaped and with a hint of mischief to it, she was a warm, almost motherly in her disposition and bearing, so that where the male set them ill at ease, she did much just with her presence to calm and soothe those around her.
Throwing herself against Wolffish, the overjoyed Sigrún was to be followed by her stepfather and half-sister in the most profuse demonstration of joy imaginable. Such was their relief that it took them some time to notice how the Wolfram attempted to rear back, away from them.
"Have a care, he has been ill-used," The woman warned them, in a clear voice that could well have sung a bird from its nesting spot; such was the beauty of her voice.
Astonished by this statement, there was more that might have been said or asked of them. It was with a start, though, that they noticed that she spoke true; Wolffish had indeed been injured. Clutching at his left shoulder, he looked on at them apologetically, a hint of guilt in his eyes.
"I made the mistake of seeking to stop one of those strange shadow-riders, when he sought to strike our horses dead." Wolffish explained, adding for good measure, "I caught him in the stables, as I was strolling about the neighbourhood, as I had smelt someone I did not recognise. There was something off about the scent, so I followed it to the stables. It was this lady who came to my rescue just as my end seemed at hand."
"Thank you, milady, we are truly in your debt," Sigrún murmured at once, only to flush red as the other woman studied her closely, almost searchingly. "Without Wolffish, we would be lost."
"You flatter me, Sigrún," he replied quietly, as he was encouraged to seat himself.
"Do not quite thank me yet, not until I have had the opportunity to glance at that shoulder wound of his." The lady remarked to them, as she aided Wolffish to shrug off his tunic and fur, so that she might help bandage his wound.
Doing so with great care, she was hardly able to pay the rest of them any mind for several minutes, whilst everyone looked on in either impatient curiosity or with worried expressions. The concern of those such as Sigrún, Guðleifr, and her younger sister was visible, while those such as the two magi and Thorgils watched with more impatience than worry. The thought that the Wolffish might bleed out did not cross the latter grouping's minds, such was their faith in the canine's strength.
It was as she pulled the bandage back up that the warrior was to ask of her, "What is thy name, milady? How did you come to be here? Who are you?"
"My name?" She studied him for some time ere she answered his query, "Skalmöld I am. This is the name that my father gave to me when he took me in."
"But how did you come to be here?"
"I came seeking the map of which Völmung spoke of," Skalmöld answered readily, regaining her feet to stretch in a manner not unlike a cat.
"You came to the defence of Wolffish, which is all well and good, but what of the shadow that was in the stables? What happened to him? Did he set the fire?" Thormundr demanded of Skalmöld.
The young woman studied the old man, raising a golden brow in his direction before her expression shifted to a thoughtful one. It was one that might well have pulled at even the most hardened heart's strings.
Skalmöld was not the one who answered him, though, with Wolffish picking up the tale once more, saying reluctantly, "If I may, Thormundr, the lady came upon me when she was searching for her own horse, wherefore she saved me. As to the fire, it began just outside the stables, with the flames spreading rapidly to the stables."
"It is exactly as he said," Skalmöld agreed at once, whereupon the statuesque lady made to regain her own horse, a tall pure-white steed that was a little larger than those which they had used to reach the village. "And what of yourself, Thormundr? Where were you when the fire was started, and it began to devour the whole of the house?"
They were thus introduced to the beauteous Skalmöld, who was also known as Skalmöld of the Many Swords. This was in part for how her mount, Sigrvængr, had four swords sheathed and girded to its saddle, and for the two attached to her own waist. Fierce did she appear to them then, as she was to appear always in the days to come.
Her beauty and direct manner, along with the strangeness of her accent, so fascinated them that they might well have loved to ask more questions of her.
*****
More might well have been said, with a great deal more to be discussed as our heroes were to discover. Wolffish, who was distracted by closing up his clothes over his wound, did not notice at once, quite as quickly as the rest of them, looking up in alarm, as an angry hiss cut through the air. "You there, the witch-woman! What have you done?!" The one who spoke was one of the men whom Thorgils had seen with Ari in the bar, having approached them whilst they were distracted. "It was you, was it not? It was you who set Ari's home ablaze and hewed him down thereupon the snow bank just north of it."
Startled to see not only Ari's friend, but a number of others just a short distance behind the man in question, their eyes angry and suspicious, Thorgils could not help but stare. Stepping forward to confess to his sin, he was, however, to prove slower in responding to them than Thormundr, who, being irritated by them, sought to reprimand them. "Now see here, my apprentice was wounded in this entire skirmish, so let me ask of thee: what possible reason could we have to start such a fire?"
It happened that those who stood there before them were not half so foolish as one might mistake them, nor were they dull-witted or without reason to suspect them. In the dead of night, they stood, under a thousand stars which were formed in the shape of countless constellations, with the brightest one that night being that of Oðin, on his throne.
Quite what rebuttal the locals might conjure forth from the ether was a mystery to each of them, even as they quietly dreaded it. None of them had felt wholly at ease since their arrival there within the village of Hvítriðraskr, and even fewer of them felt a great deal of confidence in their hosts.
It was a large auburn-haired man with a thick beard who stepped forward, with a pair of blazing eyes that could have pierced the very hardest of ring-mail or dragon-scales. "I have seen many things in my life, yet never have I heard or seen such strange happenings as those that I have been made to bear witness to on this night. Since the arrival of you lot, there has been violence, a murder, and a fire, and we have nary anyone else to blame for it."
"What of that shadow that rode into the stable? Did you not consider him a possible culprit?" Guðleifr yelled back at the old man, eyes narrowed and hand drifting to the pommel of his sword while the other went to that of his hatchet.
Seeing him, began to doubt himself. The warrior's son was to pounce on this particular opportunity, "My good man, it must be said that we came as travellers and not as murderers or with the intention of burning a building to the ground. We are no criminals, but we have more to worry about than a corpse and a dying fire; our friend lies badly wounded and in need of help, for that reason, I beg you to help us!"
The locals eyed him cynically, none of them terribly impressed by his words. Certainly, Guðleifr had proven himself to have the right of it in terms of the argument, but this did not mean that he or his son had won them over. Already, there was a growing sense of outrage against the newcomers, one that set them against them and threatened to do so somewhat permanently at present.
One of their numbers did, however, come up to argue, "We have no proof of this shadow beyond a few strangers' words, and therefore we have no reason to believe you!"
"My sister saw one, surely you would take the word of a child at face value," Thorgils argued back.
"As did we," one of those men that Auðun had rescued said, stepping forth between the two groups, saying as he did so. "Without that brave youth, we might well have been burnt to ashes and cinders, and just as we burst forth from the tavern, I happened to see a dark figure. One who loomed above the girl there, and though I cannot say which one he threatened, I do swear on my mother's head that I saw him."
*****
The argument could well have waged for the remainder of the night. It was one that was at an impasse, as travellers and locals alike who had seen the dark figure were doubted. The villagers were angry; they wished for someone to blame. This went without saying; however, their insistence on the matter wore on the resolve of their guests too rapidly. Add to this the fact that the inn had burnt to ashes, and there was little to naught left of the Slobbering Hog, and it was soon resolved that they must leave.
It was Egill who was to inform them, though not without some measure of sympathy and guilt in his eyes, that they must leave. A good man, he was to say as the crowd dispersed, "I would suggest that you depart this night, lest some ill-begotten 'accident' or other nefarious misdeed befall you lot. This village was never all too good to begin with, given how often it gave refuge to the local bandits, yet now there is quite a bit of animosity towards the lot of you. So I say to you, not out of malice but out of sincere worry, go and do not return this way."
Hot words surged forth to Wolffish's lips just as they did to Guðleifr's, with it being Thorgils who was to calm them and Sigrún as best he could. There was to be little to no assistance with regards to this task offered by the rest of their group, as Thormundr fell to brooding and Myrgjǫl's persistent questions after Auðun's health.
It was, however, to be their newest friend who was to stand up for them, to address them with the warning, "The wound will not close. At least not completely, just as that of the Wolffish, as you call him, will not."
These words served to unnerve them, as they looked at one another in a panic, with the likes of Thormundr and Sigrún thoroughly unnerved. The best read of those who remained uninjured, they were equally convinced that there might be something strange about the wounds that had been inflicted upon their friends. Both of them being the most familiar also, with the nature of those shadows that had sought to destroy those they loved.
They might well have remained there, wallowing in self-pity and grief for their loved ones. They might also have thrown themselves upon the pity of the local villagers or doubled back to Heiðrrán. But they did neither of these things, as Sigrún at last found once more that great flame that existed deep within her heart and soul.
"There must be something someone can do! We must not give up," She was to shout, as she regained her feet, so that she might rouse them. "Skalmöld, you said so yourself that there is little you can do, did you not?"
"Yes."
"But do you know of anyone who might be more familiar with the healing of such wounds?" Sigrún asked her, her concern for her friends overshadowing any other concerns or thoughts that may have resided within her.
"I am not certain, though it is possible that King Dagfinnr would know," Skalmöld admitted quietly, adding after a moment's thought, "He has long been said to have the healing touch of old."
"What healing touch?" Thorgils asked, feeling as though she were speaking some foreign tongue at that moment. "I have never heard of such a thing."
"It is said that the Kings of old could heal with a touch or carry with them the knowledge of ancient herb lore," Skalmöld told him irritably. "It is also said that most of those who possessed such gifts have long disappeared from the earth, save for a small number in Beveriand and mayhaps in southron Gallia."
"I have heard tell of such things in the past also," Guðleifr admitted with a distant look in his eyes, "But that was in reference to the High-Kings of Caledonia."
"Dagfinnr would know what to do to help them?" Sigrún demanded of the golden-haired lady who stood before them.
"Sigrún!" Guðleifr hissed, "Think of thy mother, I promised her I would return you to her at once!"
"That is not my concern, I must help Auðun," Sigrún snapped at him, with a fierce look in her ocean-blue eyes, which seemed to almost hurl daggers at her stepfather.
"Nor is it mine," Thorgils agreed, which drew a startled look from the other man, "I shan't let Wolffish die, not when it was I who brought him so far from home, father!"
Looking desperately now, to Thormundr, who showed him little in the way of pity or sympathy with regards to returning home to his wife. It was at last that Guðleifr gave way, succumbing to the reality that they could not yet return home. Though he may not have liked it, and likely would have preferred things other than how they were, or were to become.
Guðleifr was to, upon giving in, advocate with a frown on his bearded lips, "We ought to take flight at once, if such is how you all feel, though I will be returning my daughter to her mother."
*****
It was decided they should separate into two groups, with it being Skalmöld who was to depart ahead of them, with the likes of Wolffish to be placed on one of the horses, and tied to it. The young woman was to share a horse with Auðun, who was tied similarly to how the Wolfram was arranged. It was decided that the Shield-Maiden should go on ahead, whither to the nearby palace of Dagfinnr, with the rest of them to journey just behind her.
It was after she had departed that Thorgils decided it best to first thank Egill for his hospitality and gift of two days' worth of rations. Worth a small fortune to a farmer such as him, his gift of food was not one that they casually overlooked, thanking him profusely.
Their breaths came out visibly, as they stood before Egill, who had guided them to his home, all while the middle-aged farmer glanced frequently in the direction of the other homes that lay to the south-west of his own.
"Thank you, Egill, we are truly in your debt," Sigrún murmured, taking up his hands in her own, in a display of feminine gratitude.
"Think nothing of it," he replied sincerely, as his wife came and went from within their home, bringing out with her on each sortie a little more mutton. "I would, however, not stay much longer, and were I you, in spite of her great beauty, not place too much trust in Skalmöld. She is a stranger to these lands, and though she said little to anyone, she arrived here days ago with several companions, most of whom carried on or left her. Yet still she waited."
"What do you mean to say? That she was waiting for us?" Thormundr asked with a hint of suspicion and nervousness in his voice.
Assuming his apprehension to be connected to Auðun, whose fate was now inextricably linked to the lady of whom they spoke, Thorgils was to lay a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was not an unsympathetic gesture, with it being Sigrún who was to disagree with them, with a ferocity that startled the farmer and the sorcerer.
Her voice was cold as the frost beneath their feet, and that hung in the air even as it was defiant as the Allfather in his youth, when he had faced the wicked Ymir, in the age that preceded all ages. "Skalmöld is trustworthy and will not betray us or our hopes in her."
"How can you be so certain?" Guðleifr asked her. "How do you know this? Are you privy to some hidden lore that we remain ignorant of?"
"It is simply what my heart tells me," Sigrún replied to him, if rather more softly than before, speaking almost shyly.
It was a strange turn of phrase, with regards to the lady who had swept in to the rescue of Wolffish, yet none of them wished to speak out against her. They had all had an exhausting night and were soldiering onwards, through the unknown, towards the palace of Dagfinnr the Wise. It was also hoped by some, such as Thorgils, that his father might continue to accompany them.
*****
The horses were skittish, seemingly grumbling to one another and staring wide-eyed at one another, as much as at some distant point on the horizon. Backing away, it was almost as though there were some spectre once more amongst them that sought to bring them down. Yet not one person heeded the inherent warnings cast by the animals and instead tightened their hold over their reins.
It happened that as they turned to go, mounted their horses, and made to separate in two very different directions that the first of the torches was seen. Spotting them before the others, Sigrún was to observe them quietly for nearly a full minute. It was evident that she at first did not know what to make of them, staring at them with a perplexed expression on her face.
Once that moment had been drawn to an end, she was to point this out to those around her, saying to them, "I think we had best precipitate our departure!"
"What?" Guðleifr gasped, turning on his newly mounted horse, only to gape at the distant torches that were growing in number and in size.
It happened that they were not alone in being afraid. Terrified, Egill was to turn to them, hardly able to hide his fear, "Do hurry, my friends, my wife and I will withdraw into our home now! Goodbye and may the gods protect you all!"
The door was slammed closed after them, with Sigrún suspicious that the door had just been locked, which served to only worsen her own nervousness. It was Thorgils who took the matter in hand, as he studied the small army of torches with a worried frown.
"I do not think it wise to separate into two different groups now," commented the warrior with a glance in the direction of his father and younger half-sister. "I do not think it wise that we stay a moment longer either."
"But-"
"He is right, say what you will about promises, Guðleifr, but even you shan't afford to risk, poor Myrgjǫl, by taking her through that crowd." Thormundr pointed out, in the most pensive of tones imaginable, adding for good measure. "Add to that, we all know it was in that direction that the first shadow- that which was in the stable with Wolffish, flew in the direction of the Burrows."
Guðleifr hesitated for a moment longer, his eyes falling upon his daughter, who had already begun to doze. Tired from the most eventful of nights in the whole of her life, Myrgjǫl was struggling most valiantly against her eyelids.
*****
The village of Hvítriðraskr had a natural preponderance, it was said before for violence, with more than a few of her residences having participated in banditry of the worst sort in the past. The village, as all knew, was founded centuries ago, prosperous in the days that had succeeded the Wars of Darkness, but it had taken up a dark path.
It was because of this that they naturally resorted to violence, to purge themselves of the interlopers who had brought such untold sorrow down upon them. This was their justification, along with the suspicion that Thorgils had had something to do with the death of Ari. While this was certainly true, the circumstances were quite different from how they likely imagined it to be. The tale, being one that the man's friends were when told the truth, were to react with mixed horror and consternation to. Listening to him tell of how he had clashed with the tavern-owner, as they rode north-east through the nearby Hárviðr woods, not a one felt any relief by the end of the tale.
"If that apparition could overpower or frighten one such as yourself, Thorgils, then we are in far worse straits than I originally imagined," Thormundr remarked, clinging to the reins of his charger until his hands went whiter than the snow beneath them.
"It is far worse than that," Sigrún muttered quietly, her hair fluttering in the wind as they travelled, eyes distant and with that distinct sheen that hinted at tears. "Their appearance in the village of Hvítriðraskr means that they have been following us hitherto now, and that they seem to be resolved to continue to do so."
Her words seemed to drift away in the same wind that had lifted up her flaxen mane. It was a terrible realization that they all came to the same conclusion as she. Only Thormundr failed to look at all surprised. Each of them felt their hearts and chests tighten at her words as they were filled with apprehension at the thought of those terrible wraiths following them. There was to be no recriminations; they were much too tired and too absorbed in their own respective thoughts for such things.
It was to be quite some time before they said more than a half dozen words. The trees that stood at the entrance of the forest were the most arresting that any of them had ever seen in all their lives. Barren of life and leaves, as a widow is after the passing of her man, they were colder than snow, and icier than the terrible spectral figures seen in the prior forest. They appeared so similar to a cadaver that at that moment that if he had had the chance to turn back, Thorgils would have done so in a heartbeat. The trees moaned loudly, hissed, and threatened them as the wind passed through them, making their branches wave as arms might, with each of the oaks, ashes, and all the rest of the great trees white and grey, even in the moonlight.
In the snow between a great many of them were the hoofmarks of Skalmöld's horses. This was the only sign that they were on the correct path, which was a comfort as there were no roads or paths that any of them could see. Their only choice was to follow along after the imprints of her hooves, and to hope for the best as they travelled between the various trees.
The 'path', such as it was (if it could be deemed such), was narrow as most of the oaks clung to one another as might children in the face of some dark nightmare. It was also for each of them an uphill slog, one that was as slowed down by the snow as it was by the nature of the hillside they sought to climb. Far behind them, to their horror, a number of the torches continued to follow after them, so that they were to tug at the horses' reins even more fiercely than before.
"Really, shame on the old Kings for not wiping out this village from the face of the earth," Thormundr was to be heard from off to one side, throwing a number of fearful glances over his shoulder.
None of them answered him at first, as they made for the forest interior, their hearts in their throats as they pressed onwards. It was with a number of sighs and many grumbled vulgarities of the blackest sort that they put the woodlands' entrance behind them.
It was impossible to say how long they trudged onwards for, journeying whither into the bleakest of landscapes one can imagine, even in the deadest of winters. If the entrance to the forest of Hárviðr was no less inhospitable than the first forest they had crossed, the interior was even worse. There was little in the way of beauty in the dead of night, premonition rippled through the air riding on waves of wind as might boats the tides of the sea, or they might have were it not for the great urgency that drove them forward.
Carried along through the forest, they were to, now that they were no longer climbing uphill, begin to make good time. The horses wearied as they were, were to carry them through the woodlands faster than any men could follow.
This was both a source of relief to all of them, as well as dread, especially for the likes of Sigrún, who was more than a little daunted by the waving trees. As they travelled, the trees slowly receded and gave way to more trees, each one ever larger, ever more ferocious-looking than those before them. What struck her all the more about that night was how cold it was, with each passing breeze she withdrew ever more into the folds of the fur-cloaks wrapped about her shoulders.
It happened that as the village of Hvítriðraskr and her occupants disappeared with the morning mist, so that they were soon well and truly alone in the woods. It was at this time that, as the hills rose in the east and in the south, they were surrounded by the splendour of nature. The splendour was increased all the more by the stars that shone overhead with such brilliance as to light up their surroundings.
The hills high as they were could not quite be described as grandiose, for they were small and only increased in size by virtue of the snow that had been deposited atop them. Such was the stillness of the wintry hills in those directions that they trapped and held prisoner the gazes of the travellers. If the lands to the west were flat and unimpressive, the north was hilly. The path ahead though had begun to flatten so that they were walking downhill at present.
"We shall soon be out from the forest," Thormundr murmured after an impossibly long period of time, one that had been passed in silence, except for the noise of their breathing.
"We shall soon be out of the forest," Thormundr murmured after an impossibly long period of time, one that had been passed in silence, except for the noise of their breathing.
"Thank Meili the Road-Wise!" Thorgils exclaimed grateful and more than a little eager, to put the woodlands behind him. "This forest is a cursed thing, nothing like that to the north of Heiðrrán."
"Remember Thorgils, it is from the north that those Death-Riders rode hither from," Thormundr warned him tartly.
Guðleifr was to snort as they pressed onwards, past low-hanging branches and upraised roots, passing as lightly as the Allfathir atop Sleipnir the Swift. "Certainly, we ought to have a care in our travels; however, I would remind you all that once they have been healed, we must take the wounded back home."
"Do you still continue to refuse to pay heed to the signs, and to the warnings I brought down from the north, Guðleifr?" Thormundr retorted irritably, adding when he saw the displeased look that the younger man threw in his direction. "We have stepped out from the realm of reason and into that of night and darkness."
"Certainly, but surely once they are recovered-"
"You mistake my meaning, my friend. I meant that since my return to Heiðrrán, all has changed, and with the appearance of that woman, Skalmöld, is a sure sign of these changes." Thormundr said with quiet conviction so that at last even the doubts of Guðleifr were quieted, if only for a time. "But let us not speak of this; I would have us rest soon."
"Is it wise to slow for a time?" Sigrún asked of them, this in spite of the exhaustion that now dominated her.
"The villagers have long given up, and we must rest the horses," Thormundr informed them, at once a hint of weariness in his own voice. "And I for one must rest."
"What of those 'Death-Riders' as you called them? Will they not come upon us as we sleep?" Thorgils was to ask of him, raising a large blond brow in his direction.
"They are creatures of the night; likely they dread the suns' and find them painful to bear, so that I doubt that they shall trouble us until nightfall."
*****
And so it came to pass that they settled themselves, thereupon a great hill to the east of the Hárviðr, one that Sigrún first noticed just as she was who first took notice of the torches. The great mound upon which they established themselves was higher than the rest and was covered in ash trees and redwood trees. The trees all about it rose higher by a great many heads than the hill, which they were guided thither to by Thormundr.
When he saw it arise on the horizon, to the north and east, he gave a glad cry, one that echoed throughout the vast empty fields covered in snow. "At last! The Mound of Kalthéa! We are truly favoured to have reached it without the slightest tumult or difficulty in our journey."
At the reference to Kalthéa, Sigrún perked up ever so slightly atop her horse Sigrvængr, eager to see the great hill long associated with that great lady. One of the greatest of all the ladies ever born, in the north-lands, Kalthéa was one of her favourites of all the figures of the days of yore.
"Will we be safe here?" Thorgils asked of their guide, quirking an eyebrow at the old man who stared at him quizzically.
"Safe you ask? There is no safety, so long as the Death-Riders stalk the land."
There was more that might have been said, but as they settled themselves thereon the high hill associated with Kalthéa the Bold, they set about making a small fire. The fire was to be kept alive with a number of tree branches they found all about them, with the small group resting on the hill's peak,so that they might have a view of the whole of the land. Most of the land was bare, so that they might see for leagues in all directions, save only the south-west.
Pushing aside the snow with spades brought with them, for just such a purpose, they were to once they had started a fire, threw themselves upon the ground and pulled up their furs up to their chins. Only Myrgjǫl was to remain awake when the rest of them at last succumbed to exhaustion, with the young girl left to keep watch as they snored.
Annoyed as she was by the dampness of the grass and by how her thighs ached from too much riding, Sigrún gave herself over gladly to sleep. Her last thought as she drifted away was that she could have sworn she heard once more the sound of the sea.
*****
When she next awoke, it was to find the suns beginning to dip on the horizon. The skies were cloudless, almost cheerily so. Airy and beautiful, such that it at once soothed her soul, so that the horror of the prior day seemed distant and already forgotten. It happened that as she lay there, staring up at the heavens that she almost smiled. Almost was the key word in this situation, due to her ongoing concern for Auðun.
"Good morning, Sigrún!" Myrgjǫl exclaimed, her face appearing suddenly above that of her elder sister.
Frightened by the younger maiden's appearance just above her, it took all of Sigrún's force of will to keep from jerking upwards. Startled as she was, the surprise she felt at the sudden appearance of her sister above herwas not the greatest source of shock that the day had in store for her.
Reaching out to seize her by the scruff of her neck, to pull her away, Thormundr was to remark as he did so, "Apologies, she has been excited for some time. I blame Völmung; he only encouraged her before his departure."
"What? What do you mean? Völmung is here?" Sigrún queried, hardly able to believe her ears, so stunned was she by this revelation on her friend's part.
Seeing her eagerness, Thormundr was to frown, a hint of displeasure in his eyes and mien, as he reclined a little so that his back was pressed against a nearby oak. Thick was its waist, and mighty and tall it was, so that it could have passed as much for a fortress as for a grandfather oak. There was only the slightest of similarities between them; one seemed full of light and warmth, and the other cold and dreadful.
Feeling discomfited, Sigrún was to attend to the fire that Thormundr had neglected, and was on the cusp of going out, tossing branches that Myrgjǫl had collected upon it. Doing so slowly, and with a great deal of caution for fear that she might snuff out the withering flames.
To one side slept her stepfather, and to the other side of the small campfire, Thorgils snored ever so slightly. Loud and obnoxious, he slept on and on, twitching and shaking ever so slightly from time to time, as Myrgjǫl pranced about collecting what branches she might find and singing as she went.
The song she sang was one that Sigrún remembered well from her own childhood, when she was scared and in need of comfort. It was a lullaby that had comforted, as well as amused her.
"One spring, two springs,
And with no rings
About one's hands that wring,
Now what say ye ducky?
You are quite lucky,
For ye are safe,
No cloth to chafe,
And no stars late!
Lo! Sleep tight darling,
No Grendel will be startling
Ye, my babe for old Grey-Beard
Is out and about, singing and dancing
For ye, and all his children!"
Just as the last verse was sung, it happened that a shadow was cast over the whole of the small grove in which they found themselves. Climbing his way up the small hill, it happened that Völmung paused with a large deer thrown over his shoulder, his attention drawn to it and to whistling some tune to himself.
When he drew near, both sisters were to exclaim his name with a great deal of eagerness, with the distracted warrior amused by their enthusiastic welcome. Pleased to see them, just as they were him he was to throw down the stag near to the fire, next to where Thormundr sat. Skinning the animal with a hearty laugh, he was to greet them with no less joy than they did him.
"My friends, it is good to see that you are in good health," He said, working quickly to skin and prepare the animal for them to eat.
"It is such a joy to meet you here, though I must ask how you found us," Sigrún asked of him, curious and keen to hear his own tale.
"I was visiting King Dagfinnr, who has long been a dear friend to my family, when a messenger arrived warning of Fránir's betrayal and that his riders had ridden out whither for Heiðrrán," Völmung revealed his good mood wiped away, to be replaced completely and utterly by melancholia of the deepest kind. "I rode out at once, for Heiðrrán out of concern for you all and keen to make certain that the village had not yet been attacked."
Moved by his fear for them and desire to be of assistance, Sigrún was to flush red with joy as she smiled gratefully. Her sister, who flushed no less red than she, was to sit near to him as he carried on with the conversation with the elder of the two girls.
"But how did you find us here?" She asked of him, as she sat by the fire which she tended to and soon had roaring as it had the night prior.
"It was as I reached the northern pass between the Norðrhrygg Mountains that I came across Skalmöld as she was journeying north. It was she who advised that I make for Kalthéa's Hill in order to await you here. I was, however, delayed and so arrived in the middle of the night to find your encampment." Völmung said with a sad bow of his head, wherefore he added with a stern glance to Myrgjǫl, who looked away, in a display of sheepish embarrassment. "It happened that Myrgjǫl had neglected the fire out of boredom, and just as I arrived, Thormundr awakened, having heard me approach in his sleep. It was he who suggested I keep watch, before he returned to his sleep, this after we properly reprimanded Myrgjǫl and sent her off to find firewood. It was also she who explained alongside Thormundr after he awoke once more, all that had come to pass."
"Why did Skalmöld not explain recent events to you?" Sigrún asked of him, with an annoyed glance in the direction of Myrgjǫl. The girl, for her part, did not notice as she smiled up at her friend, who patted her on the head, once he had cleaned his hand with some water from a wineskin previously girded to his belt.
"I did not ask a great many questions, Sigrún, especially since there were two friends of ours in danger; I felt that to be of greater urgency than my need to know what had happened," Völmung admitted earnestly, as he glanced down at his filthy knife, now that he had finished skinning the deer and preparing it to be cooked. Cleaning the dagger he was to add, as he leant forward a heartbeat later with the spit upon which he had stabbed through the venison. "My companion, though, had many more questions than I when he saw Skalmöld."
"Companion?"
"Ah, yes, I had forgotten to tell you I was travelling with another, but he turned back to journey part of the way back from whence I came, with Skalmöld," Völmung replied, turning to answer Thormundr's query, when the old man had suddenly piped up surprising the girls who had quite forgotten his presence.
The old man chewed on that knowledge, his expression thoughtful and his eyes piercing through the youthful warrior, as he sat beside the fire. "And who was this companion?"
Whoever his companion was was to remain for a time a mystery as Thorgils and his father began to stir at last. The two of them grunting in their sleep, with one snorting a little and smacking his lips almost hungrily as the perfumed scent of the cooking venison wafted its way to his nostrils.
Pleased he was to awaken with a small smile, as he rubbed at his wearied eyes, which were swift to settle themselves upon the meal before him. "Ah, perfect, venison, exactly what I had hoped to wake up to!" It was only when Völmung cut apart a piece for him and went to hand it to him that the younger man noticed him at last, exclaiming as he did so. "Völmung! Oh, by the Great Father's beard, I had not noticed you hitherto now!"
"No, I shan't imagine you would, with your stomach growling so loudly, my friend," Völmung replied with a good hearty chuckle. "I am glad to see you are still hale, Thorgils."
When he and his father had been properly fed and armed with all the knowledge of what had previously taken place, the suns had begun their precipitous decline in the heavens. The horizon was tinted orange and pink so that all who looked at it were filled with awe at the majesty of the heavens.
Much could have been said, in prose and poetry, or in the form of pretty words, or so the heroes believed, yet they did not do so. Why waste the moment in such talk, especially as such moments can be ever so fleeting, just as all things are.
It was, however, to be Sigrún who urged them onwards, if with great reluctance, as she was quite enamoured of the skies in that hour, smitten as a maiden who has never seen a field of flowers in full bloom before. "We must continue on," she said to them in spite of her reluctance to tear her gaze from the skies above them. "The Wolffish and Auðun await us in the halls of Dagfinnr, in Mt-Hæsten."
"Indeed, they do, and by the time of your arrival, I have no doubt that they will be properly rested and recovered, as to carry on with this daring quest of yours," Völmung told them, saying with a great deal of confidence. "I am familiar with many of his and Skalmöld's arts and can vouch for their efficacy from personal experience."
"We should nonetheless press forward with ever greater swiftness," Guðleifr urged as he found his own feet also, and began to prepare the horses.
The horses, having by this time been properly fed and rested, were to noisily groan and stamp their hooves, as Guðleifr and Thorgils hurried about putting their saddles back on. It was Thormundr who saw to stamping out the flames, and Sigrún who was to attach some of their rations once the saddles were prepared for them.
Once all was prepared, they mounted atop the stallions, with Thorgils first picking up Myrgjǫl to assist her in climbing onto his own steed. Saying as he assisted her, "You really have gotten heavier, oh dear, what shall we do? You will soon be fatter than a bull or that tomcat from the mayor's house!"
"I am not fat!" Myrgjǫl objected at once, crying out to her father, "Father, Thorgils is bullying me!"
"Be quiet, Myrgjǫl," Guðleifr grunted at once, "He was only teasing, and I have no interest in taking your side in this disagreement, considering you should not be here, young lady."
The harshness in his voice silenced everyone, and left more than one of them discomfited. Even Sigrún who had treated the young girl with little in the way of warmth, felt a certain amount of pity for her, when she saw her wounded expression. Visibly hurt, by her father's words, Myrgjǫl looked as though she might begin weeping then and there.
It was to be Thormundr, though, who spoke up in the hopes it seemed to divert attention from the present argument. "How far away is Dagfinnr's home, Völmung?"
"It is but two days away at a rapid pace," Völmung assured him, tearing his sympathetic gaze from the girl's father to study the horizon. "Let us hope that we can reach it."
*****
The trouble was not that they had a great distance to travel but rather that the suns were setting by the time they had departed their camp. The echo of Thormundr's warnings about the Death Riders, as he had dubbed them, still rang sharply and loudly in their ears. This was the reason why they hardly glanced up at either side of the mountains that loomed over the small path between them that they chose to journey along. The dark, grey towers to either side of them were magnificent and stretched up high above them, hundreds of meters, so that they were long in their shadows long before they reached them.
Snow-peaked, these mountains were dubbed the Tvillinger-Mounts, grey-sided, few of them observed them all too closely. Most of their group was more concerned with hurrying along the narrow ravine between the twin peaks, so that they hardly paid either of them much mind. The narrow pass through which they were forced to journey through, was so narrow that they had to journey one at a time. Travelling along the road at a steady pace, with Thorgils at the front with Myrgjǫl seated with him on his horse, following a short distance behind them was Sigrún, then Thormundr, then Guðleifr, and then Völmung.
It was only with a good deal of observation that Thormundr was to point out something that seemed quite odd to his mind. "These mountain sides are quite odd, if I may say so, they seem as though they have been chiselled."
"How do you mean?" Guðleifr asked of him without much interest in either mountainside, as he trotted just a meter behind the old man.
Contrary to the flat and craggy sides of the mountains, the earth was ordinarily covered in moss and grass, which their feet might well have sunk into. That is to say, if it was not covered in snow, with their horses' hooves did not sink as deeply into the white snow as one might have expected, due to how the snow had already been trodden down the day prior.
"I mean that these mountains end abruptly and that they appear as though this is the case because someone carved the sides to the point of flatness." Thormundr remarked, bewildered and amazed by what he had observed, adding, "And this pass through the mountains seems man-made also to me."
"You have keen eyes, Master Thormundr," Völmung complimented as he journeyed just a short distance behind the magi's guard. "This place was the place of heated combat, as all know, back during the First Wars of Darkness. It was in this place that Dagfinnr's ancestors allied with King Fitela, the last King of the first kingdom of Norvech, and made their final stand. They did not split the mountain at all, but merely chiselled and flattened their faces that they might force the Svartálfar off the side of the cliff-sides."
"What of the pass?" This time it was Myrgjǫl who spoke up, her natural curiosity shining through despite her nervousness, "I do not like how narrow it is. It is scary."
"It was carved on the orders of Kalthéa," Völmung informed her with a small smile, one that could be discerned in his voice. "But yes, it is quite narrow and daunting."
"I did not know that, for what reason did she command such a thing?" Sigrún asked curiously, "It happened after the battle in which the King Fitela chased the Svartálfar off the side of the mountain."
"Yes indeed, as to Kalthéa's decision to have those Dwarves under her command do so, it was during her own defence of the Dwarf kingdom. She would lure the Svartálfar across this pass just north of here, wherefore she surrounded those who gave chase after her through the pass."
"Who was Kalthéa?" Myrgjǫl asked, speaking out for the first time in some time.
"She was a warrior from the age of the First Wars of Darkness, she who led the first great defence of the kingdom after the fall of the kings. The Mound you saw behind us was where she was said to have fallen. The battle of which we speak came before she tamed a Pegasus and rode it into the battles, against the Svartálfar." Thorgils explained to her with a glance back over his shoulder, "She was along with Sigrún the Defender, the favourite of Sigrún's Shield-Maidens from that era."
This statement surprised Sigrún, who was to gape after him, gaping at him as her horse trod along a mere two meters behind him. His statement so startled her, due to the fact that while she had been cold to him since her return, she had assumed, as she had given those early days before her departure all those years ago, little thought, and had assumed he had done the same. "How do you remember such a thing, Thorgils?"
"Sigrún, I remember most things from that time, and your mother always liked to recount those stories after you had left." Thorgils replied only to add with a short chuckle, "Though if I may say so, I in time grew sick of those stories and wished she would cease retelling them."
They travelled for some time in silence after that statement, with Sigrún feeling for the first time since their departure, a kind of kinship with her stepbrother. It was the first time that it truly struck her just how much they shared, and how much she had missed her mother during her sojourn with Helgi.
Thorgils and she had indeed played together quite often during her early childhood. Though the two were not nearly as inseparable as she and Auðun were, they had once upon a time been fairly close. She could not deny deep within herself that it hurt to think just how far apart the two had become since she had left and returned. Proud as she was, Sigrún felt strangely closer to him at that moment than she had ever felt with any of her foster-siblings.
"If that was her hill over yonder, behind us, how does that mean she is buried there?" Myrgjǫl inquired curiously.
"Kalthéa was the first woman to ride a Pegasus, and was to impart her name to the sisterhood of Kalthéan Knights," Völmung stated sorrowfully, "She was said to be more beautiful than any other woman alive at the time. She was a Shield-Maiden brought up to be a warrior by her sellsword father, who fought for the Svartálfar. Later, she turned upon them and was to abjure their cause after the collapse of most of the northern kingdoms, and it was she who allied with the Dwarf kingdom of Fránnstein. Rallying a great many of those who survived the downfall of the kingdom, it was she who defended the kingdom of Fránnstein and defied the Svartálfar. It was in the Fifth Battle of Tvillinger that Kalthéa was at last laid low, slain at the hand of her own father, who did not at once recognise her."
It was as his sentence drifted off that the old song of Kalthéa came to Sigrún's spirit so that she was to burst into song, unable to contain as they came to the end of the narrow pass. The shadows of the pass that was cast over them were almost completely behind them after they finished their league-long journey through it.
A sense of relief overcame them one and all to have left it. Some, such as Thorgils, heaved a heavy sigh of relief, while Thormundr sagged forward and looked as though he might fall asleep. Sigrún, for her part, glanced all about her, eager to carry on to the home of the Dwarves. Only Völmung appeared to regret having left the pass behind, and looked back on it with a hint of longing and sorrow in his eyes.
The affection he bore for Kalthéa was somewhat evident in his eyes and had been there all throughout his storytelling. It was an affection that Sigrún could appreciate, given how it had been put to use, distracting them from their fear for their friends.
The world beyond the Twin Mountains was a vast one, no less so than it was to the south. The craggy mountains' northerly faces were, however, far more jagged than their southern ones, due to not having been smoothed over millennia. Vast fields stretched far and wide, as far as the eye could see, with the odd foothill here and there to occasionally challenge the perception that all would be smooth riding.
There were many trees to be found, certainly, most of them ashes and oaks, and some redwoods and birch trees also. Many of these were tall and strong, if barren of leaves, as they stretched high up into the air, casting long shadows as they did. These shadows grew ever longer and ever more grasping, the more downcast the light of the suns' became.
The hills were covered in snow, much like that of Kalthéa, but they were, however, built not by the hands of men and other mortals but by those of nature. In this way, they surpassed the mounds seen previously and seemed as though they might have been drawn from the most finely woven tapestry.
Leagues and leagues they went on for, to the north, with the east and west having high mountains, such as those that had been seen to the south. Such was the nature of the land of Norvech, a land of snow and frost, and high mountains and dense forests. It was a land that Sigrún loved and felt greater peace in the travelling of than she did in the halls of her mother or even those of her former foster-father. There was only one thing that served to disturb this peace, and it was, of course, her great fear for her friends.
"If Kalthéa was the first woman to ride a Pegasus in the north-lands, how did the Sisterhood of Kalthéa come to be?" Myrgjǫl asked confused, speaking up after a moment's awe at the beauty of the northern landscape.
"It happened that her closest friend wrote of her life, and later in life founded the Order, having been taught to ride Pegasii by Kalthéa," Thormundr answered for their guide, speaking shortly. "At the time, the Sisterhood was a flexible order, one that was relied upon throughout all of Norvech as arbiters of justice and goodness. But with the centuries, corruption seeped in and the kings in time came to mistrust them, and the Sisterhood dabbled in politics and came near to being destroyed numerous times."
"In our age, though, the Sisterhood has ceased their meddling, friend Thormundr," Völmung snapped, a little shortly, "I have met their heads, and though a little rigid in their views regarding their oaths to their Order, they are good women."
"We shall have to agree to disagree," Thormundr retorted evenly. "I do not have much fondness for them, as I have often found them rigid, as mentioned, and icy."
"They are what they are, I shan't deny," Völmung agreed, saying, "However, let us leave such talk be, we have tarried long enough, and I would have us continue the journey north."
*****
Once the mountains were firmly behind them, they were to manoeuvre their way around one foothill after another, so that the great twin peaks disappeared behind them. The mountains, once they had vanished behind them, were replaced by the foothills, which, by nature's design, stood as shortened midgets compared to the mountainous giants before them.
In time, these hills gave way to a new, smaller series of mounds that could only be dubbed 'lumps' as they rose slightly higher than the ordinary hills, only to give way to more fields. The small, slightly raised points drew curious glances from those of Guðleifr's clan, who studied them for some time as they trotted forward, along the road.
The stars had not yet begun to appear high above them, with the suns having long since descended and been replaced by the moon. This had prompted their guide to urge them on faster and faster, with nary a thought to how they began to tire.
"What is this place?" Sigrún asked of the two guides, who glanced back at her, as she had fallen back a short distance from them as they had surged ahead of her.
"This is Silfrarinn," Thormundr retorted with a sneer and disdainful glance down at the small rocks and stones that decorated the earth.
"What is Silfrarinn?" Myrgjǫl asked sleepily.
"It was the former keep of the old line of Kings who followed the Guntherian line," Sigrún replied, a hint of awe in her voice. She had read a great deal about it and heard a great many tales about it, and had dreamt of it since she was young.
"Yes, this was where the Kings of old ruled from, this was where Gunther's grandson Gunnar I moved the dynasty long after Gunnar and Sigurðr had disappeared and become legends," Völmung explained with a sorrowful bow of his head, looking about him with a mournful expression on his face.
Gunthar, as all knew, had been the eldest of the Guntherian line of Kings, descended from the first wife of King Gunther. They had sought, after the death of Sigurðr, to avenge the insult his own true wife, Brynhildr, had inflicted upon them, to wipe out the line. It happened that it was to be Sigurðr's own great-grandson, through his daughter Aslaug, who was destined to end Gunnar's line, when he slew Gunther II, son of Gunnar II, in the battle of Silfarinn. After Sigmundr II, son of Aslaug's own daughter, had won, he took up the castle for his own and was to rule there until old age took him.
"You speak as though you mourn for it personally," Guðleifr remarked, taking note of this particular peculiarity about their guide.
"I was raised on the tales of those kings, who, though not all as impressive as the Völsungs, were certainly part of the fabric of Norvech's history. It is for that reason, and that reason and one other that I would honour them." The taller man retorted quietly, once again a hint of grief in his hoarse voice as he urged his horse onwards.
"And what is the other reason?" At this time, it was Sigrún who spoke up once more, her brow furrowed as she at last tore her gaze from the earth all around her.
Sigrún studied him and her stepfather intently, both of them reacting sombrely to her query. Guðleifr, who had been quiet since they had left Burrowwoods, fell back into his melancholic silence while Völmung seemed trapped in his own thoughts. Thoughts that were hardly any comfort to him, as he gave way to a gargantuan sorrow that might well have been unbearable for any other man to bear. She suspected that their reasons for their sadness had very different roots, with Guðleifr focused upon his promises to Gertrud, or so she suspected. Völmung, for his part, seemed to sorrow for all of Norvech, a kingdom he loved with all his heart and soul for reasons that escaped her.
"How pitiful Norvech has become! Once she was a Queen amongst nations, and now the greatest of palaces and estates that once decorated her crown are little more than overgrown ruins." Völmung murmured, his eyes drifting upwards to the distant stars that had begun to come out as twilight at last gained her foothold over the skies above. "Those very places now exist nowhere else but in song and folk tales, where once they were made of solid stone."
Once more, they fell silent, having no cure for the outpouring of grief that had come bursting forth from his lips. He was a pitiful figure, Sigrún mused to herself with a little sympathy fluttering in her heart now, trapped in the past and longing for the days when Norvech was united and proud. It was with another swift glance all about the ruins of the gargantuan palace that had once been that Sigrún, for the first time, shed tears not for one of her own, but for the kingdom she was born into. Norvech truly had fallen far, she mused to herself with more than a little sorrow; founded by the sons of Oðin, she was little more than a ruin.
It was into this silence that Thorgils contributed his own voice, singing suddenly, his eyes distant and his hair and beard fluttering in the wind. His song was sung in a melancholic tone, as befitted their current mood, with his words carried along by the winds that seemed to moan with grief for lost Brynhildr and her beloved.
"Ages past, many scars ago
When the moons didst allow
And the suns' didst go
About the skies, long before now,
Lost and blooded,
Against Fafnir, Gram wielded,
Brynhildr's beloved,
A thousand blows inflict'd
Upon those who resist'd
His passion when enflam'd,
From dawn to dusk,
Ne'er did his love rust,
Nor did his fury abate,
But once didst he arrive too late
To profess love and joy to she,
So that days and life endeth she,
Of their union,
Came maiden fair,
Down the years a battalion
Arose each with fine hair,
And cerulean eyes, and valiant
Hearts ablaze, all to dare
Where not even might a nation,
Hither arriveth Brynjarr the Faithful,
The most daring since Sigurðr the Daring,
His blade wrought a just rule,
His brow of gold bearing
The Bear-Crown a true jewel,
Until to the spire went he, dying
At hands most cruel!"
The song was a captivating one, which was one that could have enchanted even the sirens from the old tales of Odysseus, and the Valkyries from Oðin and Freyja's halls. It was meant to be a hopeful one, and yet the manner in which it was chanted by Thorgils made it seem more of a dirge than a psalm celebrating the return to glory of the Völsungs.
"Well sung," Völmung praised with a strange look in his eyes, visibly moved by the words of his travelling companion. "I have heard the most talented of Skálds of Dagfinnr's realm and the most influential of Jarls, and few could sing half so well as you just did, my friend."
"Thank you, it was father who first sang it to me, when I was young and troubled by a nightmare," Thorgils replied, flushing scarlet at the high praise of the other man. "This would have been shortly before my mother's death."
Thorgils was to deflect the compliment to his father, who, for his own part, looked surprised by this gesture on his part, while Völmung and Thormundr shared a look. Their brief exchange of an approving glance between themselves showed a camaraderie that had not been previously seen before that moment.
"I am surprised you remember such a song," Guðleifr remarked with sincere surprise, yet it was evident he was also touched by the comment from his son. "That was a very long time ago, and you would have been quite young."
Sigrún was to be the first to notice as they made to advance along the north, towards the distant Norðraðwoods, the last of those that separated them from Mt-Hæsten. Days away from their destination, they had begun to become hopeful that they might arrive at their destination at long last. After nigh on half a day of travel, they had begun to feel more than a few aches shooting up along the full length of their legs and lower backs, so that most were distracted with Sigrún, as mentioned, the first to glance back.
Feeling alone and apart from the rest of them, as they continued to praise Thorgils for his well-sung song of Bynjarr and the old King's ancestors, she it was who tore their attention away from him. It was Völmung, as always, who followed her glance, and he who was to decide to at once encourage their group forward once more with all haste.
"It would appear that there is to be no further time to be spent on music and on childhood memories," He said tartly, continuing to stare behind them from over his shoulder.
"Whatever do you mean, Völmung?" Thorgils asked of him, startled by his change in mood.
"Because we are being pursued, Thorgils," Sigrún informed him worriedly, pointing at distant figures that moved along the road past the dozens of hills that lay behind them.
The three men of Heiðrrán were to follow her finger, wherefore they began to urge their horses on with ever more consternation. The three of them were no less worried about the shadowed figures that loomed far behind them.
The trees of this particular forest were to prove nowhere near the age of those of the other woodland areas they had passed through, hitherto then. The trees of those forests were the largest oaks, ashes, and birch trees (amongst many other varieties of trees) that Sigrún had ever seen. Whereas those of this forest were far thinner and of a lesser quality, so that all knew that they were not of the same age as those that had come before. The trees were hardly still, as the wind whistled through them, seeming to be in mourning for some distant, long-ago event.
Taking up the rear, it was to be Völmung who was to herd them into the woods, with Thormundr his eyes on the distant mountain ahead of them. "We must reach Mt-Hæsten, only then shall we be safe from those who chase us."
"Mayhap," Guðleifr muttered cynically.
"We ought to hide among the trees here," Thorgils proposed as they advanced thither into the woods, into the unknown darkness of night, it seemed.
"If there is any place to hide there," Sigrún retorted frostily, hardly able to believe their misfortune.
None of those from Heiðrrán could quite bring themselves to rage at her, as they might once have done, earlier in their journey. Wearied and worried for what was to come, they were more concerned with searching for a place where they might find solace.
Solace was not forthcoming for some time as they rode whither into the unknown, with Sigrún giving way to exasperation twice more. It was as they found their way near to a bend of sorts on the road that they happened upon a large rock just to the right.
"There!" Thormundr said, pointing to the large stone that lay nearby, surrounded by a number of large trees. "We must hide here!"
"Hide? Such folly, there is nowhere to hide in this forest," Völmung cried out, agitated, he was to urge them on; "We must carry on until we reach Hæsten, lest we will be run down by those Death-Riders!"
"We shan't outrun them for much longer," Guðleifr protested sharply, "We have two girls, a tired old man, and three warriors. It would be madness to attempt to battle with them."
"I agree with Father, unless the caves of Dagfinnr are nearby, we shan't race through the forest with nary a plan," Thorgils agreed at once, a hint of hope under his voice.
It was as they debated what they ought to do next, and as Völmung's face turned a vivid shade of scarlet out of fury, the word 'coward' likely floated up to his lips that a new sound began to echo throughout the forest. This was a sound that changed the perspective of even those such as Thormundr and Sigrún who might have come to the defence of Völmung.
It was the sound of hooves striking the ground. But what frightened them was not that it came from behind them; rather, it echoed not far from what they presently found themselves.