No one spoke for some time. No one wished to, as though they were frightened that to do so would break some sort of spell or otherwise bring about more tragedy. The stunning revelation that anyone, might attack the Jarl on the road home was not only surprising, it was simply unheard of. At last though, the eldest of those men present took the matter in hand, speaking up in a shaky if loud and authoritative voice.

“Where did you put her up?” Thormundr asked at once, his voice carrying some of the shock that his charges themselves were overcome by.

“I put her in the room nearest to the stairs, just two doors from here. But if you must know specifically where it was that I left her, I left her with my father,” Thorgils informed him at once.

The news struck all present with the same force that one might have expected, from a horse that kicks out with its hind-legs. Sigrún in particular, was certain that had she not already been seated she might have toppled over. If she was too stunned to properly absorb the words of her stepbrother, Thormundr was in motion from the moment the terrible tidings were uttered.

He was followed at once by Auðun, who stopped only to turn about, glance over his shoulder wherefore he exclaimed. “What are you waiting for Lady Sigrún?”

“What but I was just- I mean to say that-”

“Do hurry; your foster-sister will need immediate care, and your support!” Auðun interrupted her, putting an abrupt end to her stuttering.

Still in a state of utter shock, she did as she was told grateful to him for telling her what to do and glad to surrender command of the moment to Auðun and Thormundr. Her legs weak from the shock, she stumbled and might well have fallen several times, were it not for Auðun’s strong arms supporting her.

Grateful to him for that, she was followed after by the still panting Thorgils whom Thormundr had raced past, in his own blind hurry out the door from the library. None dared to tarry, after they were told of where Gyða had been placed.

Gyða when they at last arrived before her was in a most dire condition; the sheets and straw of the bed she had been laid in were covered in blood as Guðleifr struggled to press down upon her wounds. The desperation that could be discerned from his shoulders which were bunched together was so palpable that Sigrún felt the tension already within her worsen. Her legs once more came near to giving out so that she very nearly fell to the floor.

Yet somehow, against her expectations, she made it to the bedside of her foster-sister whom clung to Guðleifr in what could only be described as a death-grip. “Snakes! Snakes… snakes… men, everywhere in the shadow of yonder mountain!”

“Gyða, it is I, Sigrún,” She whispered hesitantly, as she stood next to her stepfather who looked pityingly down upon the noble-woman. “Speak to me, what is it that came about and who was it who laid low our foster-father? Does he still live?”

“No,” Whispered Gyða blinking heavily up at her, wherefore she said in a pained hiss, “They butchered everyone, the snake-men, they looked-”

“What is it she is muttering on about?” Sigrún demanded feeling unsettled and stricken by the dire state her foster-sister was in.

“She has been muttering endlessly about snakes and men, especially when I press her on the matter of what has happened.” Guðleifr informed her, running a hand through his long mane of hair, “I was on my way to take over for Thorgils, and have been with her since he went to fetch thee, Sigrún.”

Much as she was grateful to him, for his honesty a part of Sigrún, a very unfair part of her felt resentful that it should have been he by her sister’s side and not her. It was a petty feeling, one that she felt at once ashamed of, and struggled to hide.

Her stepfather thankfully though, hardly seemed to notice the flash of irritation with the two of them soon distracted by the continued murmurings of her foster-sister. It was with a start that she realized that though he had not yet hurried over to her side, Thormundr had already sent away Auðun. The mystery of what it was that the apprentice had left to attend to, was not long to remain a mystery, as he returned with extra clothes, some wine and also an extra fur-coat.

Carrying the bundles with a hurried step that sent the top and middle sections of his small tower, tumbling all about him he very nearly stumbled into the master-sorcerer when at last he did return. This made his master squawk furiously, “Careful you fool!”

“Yes, Master I was only worried that if I tarried, the lady Gyða may well perish!” Auðun stuttered with such sincerity that even his teacher softened visibly.

“Very well, now give those clothes over and fetch me a wash-bucket, and a large bowl of water, I must first cleanse the lady’s wounds.” Thormundr snarled before he turned away to do just that, ordering Sigrún, “Sigrún, aid me for I shall require thy assistance in this matter.”

Though her fingers trembled at the thought, and she was terrified that she might do something wrong that might cost poor sweet Gyða her life, Sigrún was to swallow heavily before accepting the needle and thread offered to her by Auðun.

What followed was some of the most agonising hours of Sigrún’s life. Not since she had seen her father’s bleed out, when he was brought back newly wounded at war, had she seen so much blood. It was a terrible sight that was to embed itself forevermore, in her soul and into her dreams just as that of her dying father had. Holding his hand, as he passed on to the realm of Valhalla had been dreadful, and had taken its toll upon Gertrud also.

In this situation though, it was not Guðleifr who had brought hither the corpse, of the dying warrior but rather Thorgils. And in this situation, Guðleifr rather than standing patiently at the side of those dearest to the dying showed himself out. “I must go prepare lunch for you all, lest now do come along Thorgils, lest we weary ourselves and crowd the poor lady Gyða needlessly.”

Reluctant to leave them be, he was to nonetheless do as bidden leaving the other three to care for the wounded girl. His brow furrowed, Thorgils was to squeeze Sigrún’s shoulder in a gesture intended to comfort her, as much as it was meant to convey some of the sincere concern he had. It was a gesture that in spite of her reluctance to acknowledge him as her kin, she was grateful for.

If Sigrún’s fingers trembled slightly at first, as she wove the needle through the feverish flesh of her foster sister, those of Auðun were steady, as he wiped the wounds clean, pressed a damp cloth to the brow of the blonde-haired girl and also sewed her other injuries closed. Where Sigrún had concentrated the better part of her efforts, on the large opening just below Gyða’s left breast, Auðun was focused on the open-wound near her right-shoulder.

Stripped naked that they might better care for her, neither of the two men did much more than blanch at the severity and direness of the state in which Helgi’s foster-daughter was in. It took quite some time, but they in time had her injuries sewn closed, and bound up in cloth even as Thormundr worked his magic as best he could.

Some of the blood that had flowed out of her, he had returned back from whence it came as he passed the crystal-tipped oak-staff he always had at his side, over the injuries. Muttering incantations and spells he was to close what injuries he could, just before he was to turn away wearily.

The wounds that had so tormented the foster-daughter of Sidgis and Helgi, may have been gone but this did not mean that it was certain she would survive. “Sigrún we shan’t relax quite yet, we must now assist Master Thormundr, lest he succumb to the injuries that had plagued poor, sweet Gyða!”

“Ah yes,” Sigrún said at once, catching herself just as she had begun to position herself next to her foster-sister, to watch over her. All knew that true healing was impossible, and that the healing arts whether those by miracle or the arcane involved the temporary transference of the wounds to the healer. That is to say, they adopted the injuries for a given time, before the injuries or illness vanished completely. “Do seat yourself, Master Thormundr.”

“No, I have no need of assistance, my arts are sufficiently advanced enough, to not necessitate immediate aid myself,” Thormundr retorted as he stood upright and tall before them. “My arts are flawless without being miracles, though they shan’t heal illnesses.”

“That is amazing Thormundr,” Sigrún gasped genuinely amazed.

Auðun for his part held himself back, visibly confused by this peculiarity as he had never heard of any such arts, save for those of the gods being able to perfectly heal mortals. Confused he was to contrary to the Shield-Maiden, continue to stare at his Master perplexed, for considerably longer than she.

Thormundr exited the bedchamber, and was to address himself to Guðleifr, who had just returned with food alongside his son. Grateful as he was for the food, the sorcerer was to command his apprentice to keep watch over the now recovering girl while he commanded the warrior, in a quiet, consternated voice. “Guðleifr, we must now send for the village, for the mayor to rally what men he can.”

“Yes, Thormundr,” Guðleifr agreed at once, of a similar mind as he. “We must now go in search of they who have torn asunder the lives of the Jarl, and those dearest to him.”

“Peace Guðleifr, first we must brief the mayor and the village on what has happened, before we speak of revenge and hunting men down,” Thormundr replied alarmed by the fervour in the other man’s voice. “We must call for an All-Thing after I have investigated this matter, more carefully… and after I have rested.”

“Yes, Master Thormundr,” Thorgils said speaking up for his father, who looked as though he might disagree. “We must respond, but we must do so cautiously as you said.”

The moment Thormundr left for the third floor, where his bedchambers were to be found, and he was convinced that he could not hear them, Guðleifr rounded upon his son. “Why did you agree to delay the matter? An All-Thing could take days to prepare, we really ought to arrange for a meeting with the men to organise a stratagem and prepare to hunt down those who murdered, our Jarl.”

“Yes, but we shan’t go rushing after these murderers, when we know so little about them,” Thorgils answered sharply.

Guðleifr studied him for quite some time, it seemed as though he wished to say more yet did not. It was a rare time when father and son disagreed so sharply with one another, and even rarer for Guðleifr to be swept away by impulsive while his son was the voice of caution.

Never a man to argue with too much heat with his son, ever conscious that he was his blood, even though the latter’s cautious nature and reluctance to ever behave impulsively, so very often annoyed him.

The father turned away from his son, with the words, “I shall do as I think best but shall not overstep my mandate, if it pleases you my son.”

Pleased by this concession, Thorgils was to leave the matter be for the moment. Bringing plates and food into the bedchambers now given over to Gyða, he was to leave shortly thereafter, with Auðun as the two of them wished to peruse the libraries of Thormundr.

It was hours after this discussion that the pair made their way back to Gyða’s bedchambers, with a small collection of papers and books held high, in their arms. Both of them bore their ‘burdens’ with pride, and more than a little eagerness. Under other circumstances, she might well have mocked them and teased them as she had in other days the likes of Helgi the Younger (the grandson of the Jarl). But at present Sigrún, was consumed by grief for her lost loved ones, and her worry for her last remaining foster-sister.

“Sigrún! You will never believe what it is that we have discovered!” Auðun called out as he ran into the bedchambers, his face aglow with joy and pride.

“What is it?” Sigrún replied wearily, turning about in the chair she had occupied by the side of her beloved foster-sister.

“We have found deep within the depths of Thormundr’s library, several tomes from the ancient histories regarding the likes of snake-men, or Collubar, as they are dubbed within the tome in question.” Thorgils informed her, as they laid their findings out on a nearby redwood table near the door.

“What is it that you have found exactly?”

“A series of mentions from the ancient era, from further south from the distant lands of Beveriand,” Thorgils told her at once, pleased with their discoveries.

“What does Beveriand have to do with our present situation?”

“Very little, except for the fact dear lady that these serpents were first thought to have appeared,” Auðun explained to her, adding for good measure, “I had thought there might be something to the ranting and ravings of Gyða.”

“I had thought that to simply be feverish murmuring on her part,” Sigrún replied surprised by their insistence on investigating this line of thought. “How did you come to know to investigate these particular tomes?”

“You may thank Auðun for his discoveries,” Thorgils said with a loud laugh, as he struck his friend’s back with enough force to almost bring the apprentice to his knees. The younger man flushed a bright scarlet colour at his high praise, as the warrior added to his statement, “He knew which books and scrolls to investigate exactly. He must have memorized where every individual tome, every single record is to be found.”

“Really now?” Sigrún asked sincerely amazed by this remark, and appraising her friend with considerably greater appreciation, and respect than she had hitherto then.

Auðun became even more crimson, as his face came to surpass the redness of his crimson curls, much to the amusement of his childhood friend. “He exaggerates my own influence in these matters, we worked together.”

“Really now?”

“Bah, he lies,” Thorgils said waving away the humble words of his friend, who threw him a grateful look. “But never mind such talk; we must now turn to the matter of what it is that we found in these here scrolls and books.”

“Yes, let us discuss that in place of how you found them,” Sigrún agreed at once, impatient to hear more about these snake-men that they were so keen to speak of.

“Very well, the snake-men are said to have come from Beveriand, and many of them in the ensuing millennia since the fall of Hella the Dark-Queen were driven from that Continent. It is said that they went first to the two Agenors, and were to wreak considerable destruction in those places, and that in the ages since that time, they returned if only to fight during the Wars of Darkness alongside the Svartálfar, and for their Queen.”

“This is all said in those records of yours, Auðun?” Sigrún asked of him curiously, “I have heard similar talk before, and have read some of the history of these people. But I had thought them to have been driven to extinction, at the end of the Second Wars of Darkness.”

“So had most, yet it seems that there are some who may have survived,” Auðun admitted as he threw open one of the heavy tomes in his arms, onto the nearby table. He flipped through the pages rapidly, until he came to a certain page wherefore he turned to her. “You see? It says here that the Jarl Bjørn of Heiðhreimr gave chase after a group of them shortly after the battle of Glaðrängar. It was near the eastern mountains known as the ‘Rosoin-Mountains’.”

Reading through the passage, Sigrún could not help but appreciate his enthusiasm for the topic along, however ever a person with her feet firmly rooted in the here and the now, she could not help but ask of him. “I do understand and respect the interest in this topic, especially if it does indeed somehow connect to those who slew Helgi. However, we do cannot be certain that they were the ones responsible for it.”

“But we do not know that they were not,” Thorgils countered at once, “I think Auðun may well be right about these ambushers. The snake-men in the text were driven westwards, by the Jarl of Heiðhreimr, on the command of the King of Friskalia, and it so happens that we lie to the west of them. None of us may say for certain, what became of them but we know that the hunt for them was not pursued beyond the Fiðri-River. They disappeared far to the north so that we have only theories of what became of them. Therefore, I would say we must consider the possibility that they lived and thrived into the next age.”

“Why is that?”

“Because if we are to doubt their existence at this time, we must doubt Gyða, Sigrún,” Thorgils replied to her almost sternly. “I have never known her to lie, and as she is thy friend I must therefore consider the possibility of these Collubar.”

“It seems impossible,” Sigrún said with a gusty sigh.

“Not impossible, but rather improbable,” Thorgils retorted evenly.

“What must now be discussed is what to do with the knowledge,” Sigrún said reading once more the old, neatly written runes in the page before her. “If it is indeed these Collubar, who ambushed Helgi, what difference should it make? Whether they be men or serpents, they will perish for what they have done.”

Auðun was to nod his head, while Thorgils stroked his short-beard thoughtfully a hint of disapproval glinting behind his eyes. The former was of a like mind as she, yet did not comment much more after this, beyond remarking, “I must study them all the more, if only to understand them better.”

Thorgils for his part was to shake his head, and prefer to return to his duties. His disapproval towards her hotter words, only exasperated her so that she was to sigh, relieved to no longer have his company.

Auðun was to seat himself at the table, and to begin poring over the notes, and the scrolls with a great deal more focus than even Helgi’s most well-read grandchildren. Turning away to return to the side of Gyða for a time, praying privately to the goddess of healing, Eir to take away her foster-sister’s woes ad pains. A part of her also spared a prayer to Tyr, if only to guide her in the days to come, and aid her in the seeking out of vengeance.

The village took the news of the ambush poorly. There was quite some distance it must be acknowledged, between their lands and village, and those of the Jarl. Yet he was still their liege-lord, and a man who had since he first taken office treated them with due courtesy. He had not taxed them, never summoned them to war, and was never keen to impose himself upon them, or his authority. To the contrary, he was conscientious and something of an absentee lord who preferred to worry over his other borders and marches, less they be invaded by his quarrelsome neighbours.

It was because of this that Helgi had been loved. A genial man, who had done them the honour of taking in one of their own, and supporting the girl’s impoverished mother, he had done much to win their favour. Certainly there were those more mean-natured women, and the odd envious girl who spoke spitefully of her, but for the most part his charity had not gone unnoticed. This respect for him had been elevated to greater heights by the frugalness and generosity of Gertrud who had insisted on sharing her good fortune over the years with her neighbours.

It was for this reason that though the mayor had sought to keep the news quiet when it was reported to him by Thorgils’ father, his children and wife had whispered the truth elsewhere. This along with the failure on his part (being a loud and boisterous man), and Guðleifr being no less passionate on the topic, to keep silent had the result of making it so that all soon knew the truth.

Helgi had been murdered to the east of the village.

When the news was brought to the hot-tempered Wolffish, he was to be swept up by a fervour well-known to his people. Wolframs by their very nature are a passionate race, ones who never could quite shed their canine nature. They were pack animals, who once they adopted someone into their pack (or so goes the saying), they considered any slight against this pack-mate a personal insult.

The murder of those close to Gertrud, and more than that, the Jarl he had liked was enough to send Wolffish and all those of his kindred into a murderous frenzy. So that Wolffish who was by the sea, taking in a net full of fish burst out with expected fury. “This cannot stand! Pull in the fish, and gather all that we have caught, my brothers! Pull! Pull!”

And pull they did. They drew to their breasts the net put together by the Wolffish’s sister and mother and drew onboard their small fishing boat the net full of fish. Bursting to the seams with salmon, it was thence that they turned and returned to shore at which time they dispersed among themselves the catch of the day.

Leaving this matter primarily to their women-folk and the children of their houses (of which there was a great many); Wolffish was to turn to his fellow Wolfram and men. “We must away to the house of the mayor, we must away to there to stiffen his spine and dispel any notions anyone might have hosting an ‘All-Thing’ to decide such a matter.”

“But why, Wolffish?” One of the women asked, it was his mother Valhildr who was perplexed by her son’s opposition of an All-Thing. “Mark my words my son, rash action begets rash consequences!”

“Bah, rashness at such a time, is natural!” Wolffish retorted with his typical impetuosity as he charged up the hill away from the hill, to thither where the house of the mayor sat.

Followed by a great number of the other Wolframs of the village, and the other fishermen who were swept up by his fury, he was to present himself before the house of Baggi Birgirsson. The mayor a calmer, jovial sort of man with nary a violent bone in his body reacted with considerable alarm, at the rough rapping blows to his door. His consternation only grew, when he heard the angry barks and shouts of those just outside his door.

No less concerned by this, Guðleifr was to step up to the door, to assist the plump mayor in appeasing the crowd. Though, he still clung to the same notion of what was to be done, as the Wolffish, he had promised Thorgils not to foment the people against the ambushers. It was because of this he sought to say to them if reluctantly so, “Go home! Go back to thy trades, thy fish and thy farms my friends!”

“No!” Wolffish shouted furiously, “We will not do any such thing, not while there are good and true men to be avenged, and that the murderers run free. They run free to do as they fancy, and ought to face justice for this!”

“What you speak of, is vengeance my good Wolffish!” Guðleifr protested alarmed at the number of men the younger male had attracted to his banner.

Wolffish would not be swayed though by moral arguments, he was a simple fisherman; one who dealt with the raw world as she was. He did not deal in philosophy, did not understand poetry in the same way that other men do, and was simple in his tastes and wishes. It was for this reason that he pressed forward without refinement, without the sort of oratory the finest of the Remian speakers and lawyers might have once used in ancient times. “Justice, vengeance these are but words! We are here to mete out to these killers, these ambushers as our forefathers would have done, and as the good Jarl Helgi would have done were it we who were slaughtered!”

“Wait, such brashness can yield only tragedy!” Gertrud cried out, appearing thence on the scene of the clash between the mayor and the fishermen.

Guðleifr for his part cursed his rotten luck. He would have preferred to keep his wife, entirely out of this matter, for fear that it might upset her. She and their family were always foremost in his mind, and foremost in all that concerned him. It was also how he was able to guess, where it was that she was headed to with but a glance in her direction.

“Carry on Gertrud, go now to Thormundr’s home,” Guðleifr advised her over the crowd, more concerned for her than he was for himself or the mayor’s safety. Crowds such as these were ones he was nervous of, especially since he had led more than his fair share in his youth, or had to fight against them in the lands of Bretwealda as a Viking-raider.

Gertrud for her part watched mob, and looked as though she might argue, but thankfully though maddened with outrage at the death of the Jarl, the Wolffish voiced the same opinion. “As he says, Lady Gertrud, this is purely the affair of we men and ought not to concern thee!”

The courtesy and respect in his voice, was at odds with the aggression with which he had sought out the home of the mayor. At that moment, Guðleifr felt such gratitude for the honourable nature of the Wolfram that he at once if unconsciously so, chose to moderate his own tone. “My friends, we should not discuss this here.”

“Why is that?” Another man demanded impatiently.

“Because this is the place of women and children, those of Baggi and it is the middle of the day, there is work to be done.” The patriarch of the wealthiest family in the village said, motioning with one hand to the visibly grateful mayor who looked on with relief at this suggestion.

“But we must discuss this matter! A formal All-Thing can only be summoned through legal means, and takes days by which time the snows will likely be upon us, and cover the tracks of the ambushers!” Wolffish argued furiously, with the unerring instincts of a trained hunter who knew his prey as well, as he might his own kinsmen.

Later, Guðleifr was to ask of his son, how it was that the Wolffish had never gone on a single raid. The man had the aggression, the instincts and the combative nature that would have made him the perfect raider, yet there he was year after year, tending his fishing-nets.

The answer at that time was a shrug, and a, “I do not know,” but at present surprised by how the younger man had struck upon the exact point he himself had just been making to Baggi he gaped.

Thankfully the mayor who had shot the warrior a half-amused, half exasperated glance interceded at once, saying to the villagers. “Return to your work, at least until the end of the day!”

“But-”

“There will be no All-Thing, but rather we shall discuss a stratagem, at that time, with all of you, Guðleifr and ten others.” Baggi cried out loudly to all in sundry, with his hands raised high as he stood in the doorway by Guðleifr’s side. “For now, if we continue to neglect the important work of farming and fishing, we shall not have any food in the coming days.”

There were grumbles and complaints, however none could truly argue with the logic of the mayor, who had at last conceded to them what they wanted; vengeance.

The only one who remained dissatisfied was the Wolffish who cursed and spat venom as he stormed away, back to the sea with a red-eyed glower in the direction of Guðleifr and the mayor. Both older men shared a discomfited glance, wherefore the elder of the two grunted unhappily, “There you have what it is that you wished for, and Thormundr and I must bow to your desires.”

“This was not the way I would have had it happen, Baggi,” Guðleifr replied uncomfortably.

“Yet it remains what you wished for.”

The fishermen returned to the sea, and their boats with more than one working off their anger. Some such as the Wolffish were able to work stoically, preserving their rage for when the time came to meet with the rest of the men of the village before the mayor’s house. This did not mean that the Wolframs of the village, or the other men who had shirked their work temporarily remained idle where their concern for vengeance, was concerned that is. To the contrary, word soon spread throughout the village of the meeting so that a great many women hissed and complained about the men-folk. Or where some were concerned, they supported the men out of fright that their own, might soon be targeted with such an ambush also.

“Something must be done,” Hildr said over at the tavern, when she heard the news, “Really I do hope that the men do something.”

“Something? Such as what?” One patron asked of her irritably.

“Something bloody, lest I take a hatchet to them myself,” She harrumphed with her hands on her shapely hips.

This was how the city had reacted to the news. Well might you wonder, dear Reader how those at Thormundr’s large hill-fort took it. Wonder no longer, for it happened that the lady Gertrud leaving behind her younger daughter with her friend Ynga, who lived in a nearby long-house and was wed to another fisherman named Storr, made her way to the fort.

Troubled by what had happened with her husband, she had refused to tarry and convinced that her daughter and the three men there would at once take her side. So worked up was she by the time that she arrived, she was nigh on prepared to tear even her beloved Guðleifr apart for his part, in the whole sordid affair. True he had resisted the crowd, in both words and actions but this was hardly noticed by her, in her irrational fury against him.

When she erupted within the castle it was to find Thorgils in the kitchens, fetching something to lunch on for his friends and employer. Surprised to find her so furious, he was at once filled with dread and suspicion of what may have incited her wrath.

Auðun for his part guessed at once, while Sigrún remained utterly oblivious to why her mother was present, or why she was so infuriated. Both of them had been left in awkward silence, the young man because he was unsure of what to say to her, so that he preferred to contemplate the ancient texts. Sigrún for her part was intent upon her prayers and so hardly noticed him her eyes fixed on her foster-sister.

When Gertrud and Thorgils burst into the room, the latter having shown the former the way to them after she had taken the tray of food from him, insisting that she perform this duty. “Really! That father of yours ought to pay better heed to the needs of others, and to the consequences of his actions! Myrgjǫl I expect this sort of comportment from, but him? Why I never!”

“Calm thyself Gertrud,” Thorgils snapped wearily, “I understand you are upset, yet raving in this manner helps neither him, nor thee.”

“What has happened? Why so much noise and bustle?” Sigrún grumbled, her blue eyes flashing with irritation of her own.

“Apologies dearest,” Gertrud replied at once, without thought only to add, “But the village has lost their wits!”

“What wits do you speak of?” Auðun asked slyly, only to withdraw back into himself, when he saw the warning glance Thorgils sent his way.

He had further cause to regret his words, when Gertrud took them for encouragement, to recommence her ravings against those of the village, who longed for vengeance. “They would risk their lives for naught, by charging forward against what? I do not know. They should only vote on what to do, once they have calmed themselves. All that charging ahead shall do, is result in further losses and tragedies.”

“We know,” Thorgils interrupted wearily. “It is only that they loved their Jarl, and would have him avenged just as the finest of his Hersir would, and children might.”

Sigrún had listened in on their discussion with rapt interest. At first she had known little of which they spoke, because when they spoke it was at first vague for someone ignorant of what had transpired hitherto now. Suspicious, she was relieved when Thorgils had clarified the matter for her if without knowing it, so that she raised her head from her prayers to study them.

“When do they intend to meet?” Sigrún asked of her mother, who spared her but a passing glance.

“The end of the day, they will meet before the mayor’s house,” Gertrud told her, before she once more returned to her great flood of complaints to the exasperation of Thorgils.

Neither of them paid much attention to her, being too invested in their shared woes regarding the village, with Thorgils only now learning that his friend Wolffish was involved. Only Auðun, paid her any mind and observed with interest as she studied in turn her mother and stepbrother.

Sigrún attempted to dissimulate her true intentions, as she slid back down so that she crouched by the side of Gyða, all under the careful observation of Auðun who turned back his gaze to his scrolls and books.

Others might think him foolish for believing Helgi’s foster-daughter, when she spoke of serpents with blades and steel, yet he had felt the hand of truth thereupon his shoulder. It was truth that had guided her back, and truth that had not thickened her tongue. No, he did not doubt nor would he ever the words of Gyða.

Gertrud left not long thereafter, convinced that she must give her husband a piece of her mind, regarding what had transpired. Leaving as suddenly as she had arrived, all else even Sigrún forgotten in her anger, with the three of them watching her departure with a mixture of different reactions. Sigrún was uncertain of what to do; whether to follow or to stay, so that she preferred to stay, Auðun returned to his studies and Thorgils preferred to return to the kitchens to prepare them their supper.

Excusing herself after some time, Sigrún was to leave for another bed-chamber that had been set aside for her. It was one that had been given over to her foster-father and his wife, and later it was where many of the gifts they had given her over the years had been left. There was not so much as what others might have assumed; the possessions in question were stored primarily in two large chests.

The chests were hardly all that special being made of wood, and with iron locks with the keys hanging from young Sigrún’s neck, on a pendant she had also been gifted. One of the chests did not contain what any might have expected from her, that is to say those who knew little of what Helgi had taught her. Deep within one of those chests was a secret, and there was magic in that secret or so she thought at that moment.

It was not simply two chests that had been left to her, by the closest man she had had to a father, since the death of her true sire, there was one other gift. So that after she had donned, in place of the raiment she loved so much, in place of the dress sewn in Helgi’s grand, bronze-hall, the ring-mail gifted to her by Gautstafr’s successor she took up his last gift to her.

Lo, this was the maiden that crept down from the hill, torch in hand and steely face cast forward with blue eyes blazing, with cerulean fire. Such was the bewilderment at the ferocity of her mien, the coldness that hung about her. Iciness she wore as she might otherwise have worn a shawl that a great many of the men that had crowded about outside Baggi’s home backed away.

Caught up in their shouting, and their fiery speech most had not noticed her approach, until she stood behind them, with the Shield-Maiden staring at them pointedly until they took notice of her. She refused to speak, refused to address them until she had stepped through the crowd, which slowly dispersed as men and women paid heed, to her presence silent as the grave.

It was only when she stood near the Wolffish that she took account, of what was being said, “-Always respected you lady Gertrud yet what you ask of us, is to forsake that most sacred of oath which men swear to one another; to guard one another in the darkness. To shield one another, and to bring to justice those who might mock nature’s law and those which we hold dearest, in our hearts. The Jarl was kin to thee in a manner of speaking, and not quite so to use, but as all are friend to one another here, so too was the Jarl. Therefore, what sort of men would you have us be? If we were we to forsake him, his memory and those who perished with him, how might we continue to call ourselves men?”

“I understand the passion that grips thee Wolffish, but think of what this will mean should you all fail,” Gertrud countered on behalf of a large number of the women.

“This is why women are best left out of such decisions,” Wolffish growled impatiently.

“Not all women I should think,” Sigrún replied interrupting the two as she arrived at last near the head of the mob, torch high and spear in her other hand.

“Sigrún, you should not be here,” Gertrud said to her, “And why are you dressed in that manner?”

“I am here mother, to do my duty as thousands have performed, before now and many others will do in the days to come,” Sigrún retorted sharply, turning once more to her stepfather and Baggi. “There has been enough talk, we must decide if we will avenge the Jarl. I for one though, will not simply sit about and wait for men to be men. Either all those present herewith me now are men or none of those present are, now I would hearken you all to decide which you would be.”

Her words galled many of the women, most of whom though they glared furiously at her did not have the nerve to speak out.

But for those men who stood all about her, it was as fire on a log. Her words inflamed them, awoke the beast that lay dormant never very far from the surface, and invoked in each of them what Wolffish had sought to awaken.

“She is right!”

“What man should forsake his own, simply for his own comfort?”

“There can be no peace, with these snakes! Or any for that matter, now let us do unto them, as they have done unto Helgi and his kinsmen and guards!” Wolffish barked waving his torch and turning to those men all about him. “What say you?!”

There was a great roar that was heard.

Guðleifr by this time weary of resisting his own views was to become no less swept away, by the mood that had overtaken those around him. Cheering no less loudly than others, though it drew an alarmed glance from Baggi, he was to say.

Seeing this, Gertrud horrified and angered was to exclaim in horror, “Guðleifr, Sigrún you must see reason, this is dangerous!”

“Gertrud, danger has come hither, we can either hide from it or confront it while it remains unprepared,” Guðleifr snapped, no longer of a mind to heed his wife on this matter.

Gertrud’s disappointment was to now move to her daughter, whom she sought to forbid from participation in the battle that was to come. “You are my daughter, and not yet wed therefore though I shan’t move Guðleifr to reason; I would not have you Sigrún dishonour thyself or join in this folly.”

The coldness with which Sigrún looked on her mother, made even her stepfather flinch, and the mayor look on with pity, as mother and daughter looked less alike, than they ever had before. Fury danced within her eyes, as Sigrún spoke to her mother as one might a disobedient child, “Go now, back to thy home Gertrud ere you disgrace yourself further! I would do for Helgi, what he would for any of us! If you have not the stomach for this, and seek to deny me, if shall be I who denies thee from this day forward, until the end of days.”

The clash might have worsened, with Gertrud visibly affected by the harsh words her daughter had uttered. So long had she waited, and for so long had she pined to have her daughter once more with her, such was the certainty she felt that the little girl had not changed since her earliest days. But that had been proven false, with Sigrún’s rejection serving to if briefly so, stall any talks of vengeance and clashing with brigands, as all coughed and glanced at one another.

All were discomfited, an ambush was one thing to support but a clash that saw mother and daughter renounce one another publicly, and squabble was different. It was made worse, by a number of their own daughters and wives and sisters, taking the side of Gertrud.

It was just as things were falling to chaos once more that Sigrún rallied them once more, “An All-Thing while the proper way to settle such matters, would also require the guilty party to be present. If we do not know who is guilty, and still must track them this simply means that it would prove little more than a waste of time. Therefore, we cannot afford any further talk of the proper order of things, when an improper event and tragedy has taken place.”

“Thorgils, what say you?” Baggi asked keen to allay the women in the village, who now called for the newest arrival to put his thoughts forward.

Thorgils had arrived some time after Sigrún, and had not at once joined in the clash. To say he was displeased by the impious words his stepsister had uttered was to speak lightly of the matter. However, his own views were ordinarily of a milder nature than that of most men, but as he revealed he was not immune to the influence of his closest and dearest friend since childhood. “Wolffish, has spoken true, we shan’t delay endlessly, and we must avenge the Jarl, this much is evident to all.” Seeing the horror in the eyes of his stepmother he added, “But first we must track as would a hunter, and QUIETLY so, the tracks of the ambushers, lest we fall into the same trap. What is more, is that we must appoint someone to lead, one who still has his wits about him and yet burns with fervour for our cause.”

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“Then it must be you, wise Thorgils!” Baggi decided at once.

“No, never! All who saw what became of me in Bretwealda, would not dub me that,” Thorgils refused at once, genuinely horrified by the proposal.

His own father looked prepared to speak out, when Wolffish grunted, “If not you, then it must be thy father, who leads us! There is no one in the village, more experienced in war and more respected than he since these ten years of peace began.”

There were many ‘hear hears’, and nods if only because it was the Wolffish who had declared it so, as he had gained in popularity since he first began rousing the people to action. It was with visible reluctance that Thorgils gave way to the wishes of his friends, and deferred to his father.

“If I am verily to be entrusted with so important a duty, as to lead you all in combat, I shall do so properly with a clear-mind rather than an enraged one, as my son advised some time ago.” Guðleifr said with a nod to his son, who was pleased that his father’s initial fervour had calmed herself if ever so slightly. “However make no mistake, we shall kill all those involved even if it is the last act performed by every man here!”

Contrary to any expectations set down by the likes of Thorgils, Baggi and Gertrud, or even Thormundr, Guðleifr was to prove a more clear-minded and rationale captain than expected. Fierce and passionate, he was certainly devoted to the cause of avenging the house of Helgi, but this did not mean that once he had committed to including his son in all decisions made, he reneged on this promise.

So committed was he that even the passionate Wolffish was to relent ever so slightly, and follow his every directive. In this regard he was not alone, as the icy Sigrún did much the same, though it took some persuasion by her and also Thorgils to include her in this quest.

“Gertrud would never forgive me, were anything to happen to her,” Guðleifr worried adding softly so that only his son and Wolffish overheard him, “Or myself. She is Freyvar’s son, and I would not still be here, if he had not perished saving me.”

“I understand that father, but you heard the girl speak; if she is not brought along she will simply race on whither into the woods, and should she do this we will have truly slain her.” Thorgils argued no less reluctant, to bring her along but better able to see that they had no other choice set before them.

“And she is kin by fosterage to Helgi, therefore it is right and proper that she be brought along, she will lend legitimacy to our justice.” Wolffish added earning for himself an annoyed glance from the other youth.

Confused by the irritation of his friend, he was to shrug his shoulders and grumble ever so slightly, about the soft nature of men.

Displeased, and full of guilty Guðleifr was to nod his head ever so slightly, aware that they spoke true and that he could not possibly live with himself were he to allow such a thing to happen. So that against his wishes he called Sigrún hither, to inform her that she would accompany them, but when he did he was to ask of her. “Are you blooded, girl?”

Pleased to be included, Sigrún answered hesitantly, “I- no, but I have been on many hunts with my foster sisters and the other children of the house of Helgi.”

“This will be different from a hunt,” Her stepfather answered sharply, “Very well; as you are not blooded you shall stay close and act as my deputy first and foremost. You will keep the men informed of my orders, and ensure that there are no stragglers, and that all the scouting parties are accounted for.”

Though, she was suspicious that he had appointed her to the position, simply to keep her from the front, and though she had little fondness for her stepfather, Sigrún reluctantly agreed. “Very well, but why not appoint Wolffish or Thorgils to such an honour?”

“Because I must have the two of them lead the scouts,” Guðleifr replied, only to add hastily with a suspicious glance in the direction of the Wolfram. “Wolffish you have little experience with regards to combat, therefore you will stay by Thorgils’ side and obey him in all things, is that understood?”

“Yes,” all could see how little pleasure the wolf took in muttering those words.

“Excellent, as to yourself Thorgils you will go on in advance, along with the best trappers and hunters of the village, and follow the Jarl’s tracks. But do not engage with any enemies until the main body; of our forces have arrived whither also.”

“Yes father,” Thorgils acquiesced at once, before he stepped away to organise and select his men with the care an artist might his brush, or a writer his pen.

This was the manner in which Guðleifr organised to have scouts ride out; he was a skilled commander one with considerable experience. Despite this though, he still insisted that the main body of men sally out so to speak from the village, quick as possible. All were on foot as the few horses available were given over to the scouts, so that they might follow after the Jarl and his household’s tracks faster.

Departing with him, on the only horse given over to be used by those in Guðleifr’s own group, if only that she might not slow the company because of her shorter legs, Sigrún refused to share a proper farewell with her mother. Angry towards her for having refused, to give her blessings in this most pressing matter of honour and filial duty she turned away from her, when it came time to depart. Gertrud for her part, pleaded one last time with her husband and stepson, both of whom remained resolved to see through this hunt for the murders of Helgi and his kindred.

Never a lady prone to quietness, the ordinarily bubbly and warmly maternal first lady of the village was to subside into disapproving, resentful quietness towards those around her. Her displeasure was quick to spread throughout the whole of the village, so that more than one woman took to criticising their men for leaving. Others took the opportunity to complain that Gertrud was setting a poor example for the whole of the village.

Displeased, she was to pronounce just as Guðleifr took his leave that, “Not only would you rob me of what has become my son, but also my daughter! You now have the chance to have the vengeance you desired so foolishly, and have now infected the children with thy folly.”

“Gertrud, my dearest it is their own choices,” Guðleifr replied stubbornly, “And they are both full-grown and therefore must stand on their own now.”

“They are still our children!”

Seeing how futile it was to argue with her, his face fell wherefore she turned away from him with a curse. Cursing even more horribly than she, as he was overtaken by his own, fouler temper Guðleifr stamped down the road ahead of a number of his neighbours.

“We leave now,” He ground out from between clenched teeth. “And let not a man return, without the heads of our enemies, less he be forsaken forevermore from Valhalla.”

Journeying ahead of them, whither into the forest Thorgils and his scouts were to venture forth, eyes fixed on the ground and hunting dogs at their sides. The dogs sniffed the ground, and went off all in the direction of where the company had disappeared. There was not a tree, not a branch that escaped their notice, so that soon they were straining at their leashes. The scouts galloped on ahead of the main body of some one hundred men, who hurried after them as best they could.

It seemed that every house of the village had seen a volunteer pick up his family sword or axe, and in some cases they were given hurriedly crafted spears, by the likes of Thorgils or Wolffish’s mother.

Hours passed as the men marched through the autumn night, which darkened and became ever more oppressive as the wind howled all about them. Owls hooted, and there were other strange sounds that arose all about them, which made more than one man apprehensive. Even Guðleifr seemed to become ever more nervous of his surroundings, the further they went into the forest. Sigrún alone remained untouched by fright or uncertainty. Her eyes blazing with an inner flame and her heart, set on vengeance as neither the late hour, nor the darkness of night succeeded in tempering her fury.

Such was the emptiness that haunted the night that, the slightest crunching of leaves or whisper of the wind set every man’s nerves on edge. Fearful though they were, of what lay within the forest, the rumour of serpentine men having by this time circulated throughout the village, there was however not a single murmur to turn back. All were resolved deep within their hearts, to see this through as all of them burnt with the desire to see Helgi avenged.

It was some time before they heard the distant gallop of hooves striking the ground, a sound that made everyone jump (Sigrún for her part leapt some fifty feet higher than the rest!). Each of them waited with bated breath, ere the rider revealed himself to be one of Thorgils’ men, with the man in question being a middle-aged man with a thick dark beard, whom Sigrún recognised as Aghi.

“What is it Aghi?” her stepfather asked of him, his brow knitted firmly together in a perpetual show of consternation since they had entered the forest.

“We have found the corpses,” Said Aghi at once, if breathlessly so. “And have found the tracks of the ambushers.”

“I had no notion Thorgils could be so swift, at the hunt,” Sigrún exclaimed honestly impressed and ever so slightly annoyed at her own lack of knowledge regarding her kinsman.

Guðleifr let slip a slight breath from his nostrils and though there was a proud quirk to his lips, he showed few other signs of amusement. “Indeed, though it must be admitted that the Wolffish and his relatives are even swifter.”

“Indeed they are sir, they were the ones who directed the dogs and the scouts towards the corpses which are over yon rise,” Aghi informed them all at once, quite eagerly.

“Good man, take us there!” Guðleifr replied at once, signalling to his other men he motioned them to follow along with one arm. “I must admit that this hunt, has been considerably easier than I originally expected.”

“There is one thing that concerns me though, Guðleifr,” Sigrún said speaking up suddenly, “If it was so easy and so close to the village, what does this tell us of the ambushers? Did they not fear us?”

“I do not think they much cared,” Her stepfather retorted thoughtfully, looking away so that she did not see how disturbed he was by this query. He had not thought about that detail, they were nigh on a day away from the village by this time.

Following after Aghi, it took them less than two hours to reach the place where Thorgils and Wolffish now found themselves. By which time, the stars had begun to disappear in the heavens above and with more than one man becoming frustrated, from lack of sleep.

The sight of so many of those she had once known, and lived with lying all about the forest, slaughtered and where some were concerned in a horrible state of dismemberment disgusted Sigrún. It was all that she could do to retain her lunch, as she searched among the bodies with her eyes, recognising friends and some she had considered family. There was Olaf who had danced and spun about with her, the night before their departure for Heiðrrán. There was also Harald, the stable-hand and guard who though fierce in battle and on the hunt, had stumbled for words more than once with her.

There were others, whom she recognised as her heart was torn asunder. The worst of it, she thought would be the discovery of Helgi, but no that honour belonged to the corpse that Thorgils and Wolffish were desperately seeking to hide. It was a pair of corpses that lay, in the shadow of a nearby tree, a large linden tree that loomed high and swayed menacingly as the wind howled through the forest once more.

Suspicious as they were intent upon putting a cloth, over a pair of corpses, she threw herself off of her horse, so that she might race over to them. Doing so just as her stepbrother, sought to hold her back, “It might be best if you do not see this Sigrún.”

But Sigrún would not heed his words, slipping past him when she recognised the feet that stood out from the cloth. It was that of Sigdis.

“Sigdis!” She hissed as she threw herself forward, tearing at the large cloth that Wolffish tried to use to hide the deceased under.

As she did so, Sigrún was greeted by the sight of not only Sigdis’s sightless eyes and pleading expression but the ruined corpse of Fríða, her foster-sister. A buxom beauty, that had trained with her in the use of arms, but had always lagged behind even as she demonstrated herself to be ever more vivacious in the pursuit of boys, she was popular and beloved by all. There had been many times when Sigrún had found her irritating, just as she found her impossible not to love.

“Oh Fríða!” And she shook and trembled, to see what the ambushers had done to her beloved foster-sister and foster mother.

The two had been not only attacked, but had not been spared, from being dismembered as Fríða was missing her left arm and right foot. It was evident from her expression that, these limbs had been severed when still she lived. Sigdis for her part had in death, Thorgils was later to conclude, seek to cling to her foster-daughter and beg for her life just before an axe had been buried into her side then into her face. Half of which was missing, just as part of her shoulder had been torn, from the force of some of the blows inflicted upon her.

This vision of death, was to prove almost too much for young Sigrún, who was to try to cling to the corpses of her loved ones. Torn from them, by Thorgils, Sigrún was to once more push him away or attempt to do so, as she struggled against him.

“Let me go!”

“You have become overwrought!”

“I have not!” She screamed furiously, drawing an uncertain stare from him and some of the other men.

“Let her go Thorgils, for if she is overwrought, she ought to be allowed to indulge her grief, and if she is not she will prove herself,” Wolffish counselled at once with a sniff at the air. “Let her have several minutes ere she and the rest follow us, while we continue the search.”

It was the first demonstration of calmness, shown on the part of the Wolffish so that Thorgils hesitated, staring at his dearest friend. Reluctantly, he released his stepsister when his father nodded his head approvingly at those words.

“Release her and let her do as she would please, Thorgils we have no right to deny her, and I would do unto her as I would thyself, or thy sister,” Guðleifr replied sternly, ever dutiful.

Thorgils did as his father commanded, and was to release her whereupon Sigrún was to throw herself upon the corpses. It was impossible for her to measure the time that passed, as she wept brokenly over the corpses of the sister and mother she had known for a dozen years.

Her show of grief was one that made most of the men turn away, as she broke before them swept away by the sense of loss she felt for the two of them.

Through this great tempest that rocked her to her very core, she overheard Guðleifr say worriedly to Aghi andThorgils. “Where is the corpse of Jarl Helgi?”

“We could not find it, I think they took it away with them,” Said Thorgils apprehensively, and with a shake of his long-haired head.

“What sort of beasts take away a man’s corpse? It is not right, and in complete defiance of custom for all men have the right to their corpses.” Wolffish growled plaintively, genuinely bewildered by the actions of the ambushers.

“Have you found no further trace of them?” This time it was Guðleifr once more, who spoke.

“Give us several moments,” Thorgils requested, granted them he was to spend them searching the surrounding area, so that it was not long ere he exclaimed alongside the others. “We have found it father! They seem to have dragged a pair of feet through the dirt, away from the horse here. Bring Sigrún hither to confirm if it was his!”

As they spoke trembling with the force of her emotions, it was all she could do to keep from racing away in the first direction she was pointed to. Thirsting for vengeance at that moment, as a man in the desert hungers for water, Sigrún was to clench her teeth. Shedding a few more tears, she wiped them desperately from her eyes, even as she rocked herself back and forth.

Stricken still, even as she clung with mounting fervour to her anger, she still had need of her stepfather’s assistance to pull away from the two corpses. It was easier to separate herself from them, when one of the men, Ivarr Baggisson, one of the mayor’s sons threw a cloth at last over the corpses.

“What was done here, was the very worst of crimes,” he grunted reassuringly to her.

“And there must be blood for it,” Sigrún agreed at once, with a heavy swallow, before she turned to her stepfather, “Which direction was the corpse of Helgi taken to?”

“North, though quite how far north I do not know,” Guðleifr replied gently, reaching for her shoulder, “If you would prefer Sigrún, you could accompany the corpses back to the village.”

“Never! I will see these murderers’ punished and their heads separated from their shoulders!” Sigrún hissed passionately, trembling with the force of her emotions.

She did not know what annoyed her more, the suggestion or the pride she saw in his eyes. Brushing these ill-feelings from deep within her, along with the lurch in her stomach at the thought of what might have been, had they waited to come along to find the corpses.

This one detail made her wonder as they took once more to the rode, so deeply did this question burn within her that she could not help but ask. “Why were there no ravens or crows by the corpses? They were left alone for a day.”

“Yes.”

“But if so, then why were there none when we found them?”

This confused query brought her mother’s husband to a brief halt. He had not considered this possibility, it was something neither of them had a ready answer for.

The question such as it was, was to be answered after several more hours of advancement, when this time Aghi came back to report to them, with a wearied, yet perplexed expression on his face. He looked so very alarmed, and was so flustered that Guðleifr had to tell him thrice to calm himself, and tell them what they had discovered.

“There is a man! He is strange, and he is there by yon cavern! And there is the mountain and within it are… there are beasts, but they are not beasts! They are strange and I shan’t describe them, they are as serpents!” Aghi reported utterly aghast so that he rambled to the bewilderment and irritation of many of the men.

“Calm yourself Aghi, for you seem to be running mad, man!” Guðleifr hissed at him.

Many of the men concurred with him, while the sole woman present felt her stomach drop to her feet, as she remembered Auðun’s words. Those regarding the Colubar, and how the very most depraved of nature’s creatures had survived the vicious hunts to end their species after the Wars of Darkness.

It happened that evil had indeed survived, she mused with no great joy, but increasing apprehension even as she could not help but ask. “Thorgils did not charge forward, nor did the Wolffish now did they?”

“No, they sent for you at the suggestion of the man!”

“What man?” The exasperation in Guðleifr’s voice was unmistakable.

But Aghi would not answer, rather he guided them back still quivering and trembling as one might expect from a leaf. When next he spoke, he mentioned to the shock of those present, what they thought to be a figure that they had almost forgotten. “This man is a cloaked fellow, one with a dark disposition and an unpleasant air about him.”

At once, Guðleifr was to leap to the single conclusion all could agree upon, “It is him! The interloper!”

Only Sigrún remained doubtful. It had seemed to be a warning he had intended to deliver, and once given he had vanished away like the morning fog. Therefore, why return after a massacre? It was with a great deal of trepidation though that, she was to turn over the description in her mind and feel hesitant to assume it was the green-eyed man.

They followed after Aghi, who led them north off the old road that the Jarl had taken his family on, through the Vestrian Forest (this was the name by which most knew the woods). Thither they went, until Mt-Myrksteinn, elusive and distant grew not only in size but ever nearer. The mountains were ones that Sigrún remembered having played near alongside Auðun, with their games having horrified their fathers, ere their deaths in battle.

It was why she had not been therein years, thinking on this Sigrún was to ask herself and almost ask her stepfather, why it was that the two men had forbidden them from playing there. But she was once again gripped by her old dislike for him, so that she found the words stuck in her throat.

Thorgils and his men were exactly where Aghi had described they would be; just outside the cavern filled mountain, almost a quarter of a league away. They were well within the shadow of the dark mountain, one that cast a pall over the whole of the land near it.

Apprehensive, the warrior paced the length and breadth of the forest it seemed, as his men glanced between him and over their shoulders, towards the mountain. Wolffish was the first to see them and reacted with a visible shout of relief that won him a sharp glance, one that left him fairly sheepish.

“Where is the stranger?” Guðleifr barked at his son, and men.

“Further on, he wished to maintain an eye on those… things,” Thorgils told him with a shiver, “Father they are unlike any other creatures I have ever seen in all my life.”

“What creatures?”

“I- it might be best for you to see them with thy own eyes.”

“And what of this stranger?” This question made his son’s expression change, from one of nervousness to one of irritation.

“Him?” Thorgils cast now an exasperated glance in the direction of Aghi, “Really Aghi, I told you it was not him! You were not there that night.”

“Yes, but the way all spoke of the man who appeared that night, makes him seem exactly like this one!” Aghi protested indignantly.

Still frustrated, the son of Guðleifr threw up his hands in the air, whereupon he turned to lead them all towards the mountain. “There is a pass part of the way up the mountain, one which allows a good vision of the interior, we could spy upon the enemy ere we mount our assault proper.”

It was agreed that Wolffish would remain there, along with the likes of Aghi and the rest. The pass part of the way up the mountain was an unpaved road, one that was only slightly less steep than the other parts of the mount. Guided up thither, with Sigrún impatient to meet this stranger, so that she almost leapt before her step-family, it did not take long to scale partway up the mountain pass.

The journey was one that felt as though it took an eternity, and as though it took considerable more effort, than it had crossing through the forest.

It is now that Sigrún, and her travelling companions made the acquaintance of a man, they had not expected on this journey, nor had they known to be in those parts. Quite why he was there, was likewise at first a mystery to them. He was lightly dressed in raiment the colour of night, raiment that was torn and as ill-used, as the man himself appeared to be.

The stranger as Aghi had called him, was also tall. Taller than the dark interloper, this Sigrún could see at once, as she caught sight of him stretching out his legs, in a lackadaisical gesture. The cloaked man sat with his back to a rock, with his cloak’s hood thrown over his head with the cave to his right as he contemplated the distant stars up above them.

Formidable in a way that no other man, they had ever met before, had proven himself to be, there was not one soul present who did not feel as though they were in the company of a bear. Few there were who were given over to wonder, why it was that Aghi was so apprehensive about this man.

“Ah, at last you have returned Thorgils, and if I may not a moment too soon lest the serpents, the Colubar finish their nefarious rites.” The figure said to them, as he looked up in their direction, pleased to see them.

His voice though deep, did not carry the sort of sepulchral air about it that that of the interloper had. This man’s voice was deep to be sure, but it was more akin to how one might imagine a bear might well have spoken. There was a melancholy about it, a weariness that might well have reminded of a man on the cusp of death but nothing quite like that of the other man.

What was more, was that this man when they neared him expressed irritation at the sight of their torches, “Away! Away with thy torches, lest the enemy is alerted to our presence here.”

“Who are you?” Guðleifr demanded of him.

Guðleifr as well as all others, could discern thanks to those very torches that the man before them, though bearded and some of his tresses poked down out from his hood, and along his shoulders. He was in no way dark bearded, nor was his mane dark though it was certainly filthy, but to the amazement of all, his locks might have been as blond as those of Sigrún, if it were not for the dirt that clung to him.

“A friend of Helgi, therefore do as I say if you wish to survive this day, to avenge him wholly and completely,” The man snapped at them, trembling with impatient fury at their slowness. “Kill those flames, man if you wish to live!”

They did as told, with Sigrún staring at him, he was she could tell already with a glance at the back of his hands a hirsute figure, one who was heavily armed. His hatchet which was girded to the left-hand side of his belt, and his sword to his right immediately caught everyone’s eyes. The latter in particular, as there were silver-scintillating runes on the scabbard.

“I wish to see the enemy, ere we charge,” Guðleifr growled at the other man impatiently, as he agreed to throw away over the side of the cliff, his own torch.

Nodding his head, in agreement to this condition, the stranger drew himself up to his full height. Towering over all others, he had to measure somewhere about two meters in height, six-foot eight he had to bend down ever so slightly to gain entry into the cave, due to its low-ceiling. Impressed though he wished to hide it, Guðleifr shared a questioning glance with his son.

“Who are you though; you said you would answer when you stood before my father so now you stand before him, so tell me.” Thorgils demanded of the stranger, who scratched at his neck and looked at him.

Heaving a sigh, the stranger was to reply, “I have gone by many names, over the course of my life.”

“Tell us the true one, or your preferred one,” Guðleifr snapped at him.

“Very well, Völmung is my name at least that which my father gave to me and my brothers called me by, when they still drew breath.” The stranger confessed as he drew back his head at last that they might look on his face. His eyes were deep-set in a slightly wrinkled, tanned face and were of a similar blueness as those of Sigrún, yet at times they seemed grey. His hair was long, as was his beard and he bore a long jagged scar along the right-side of his face just by his eyebrow and the corner of his eye, with his mane hiding a portion of the scar as it drew near his ear. “Now that you have seen my face, and know my name now will you look on our enemies and agree to speak of battle and war, Guðleifr of Heiðrrán?”

Reluctantly, most nodded their heads with Sigrún looking from one man to the next, before she hissed at them, “Wait! By the grace of Queen Freyja, you would trust this man? We do not know from where he came from, or of what clan he belongs to, for all we know he might well have aided in the murder of Helgi!”

“Quiet Sigrún,” her stepfather hissed, “We will determine his loyalties after we have examined the position of the enemy.”

“You need not fear me, Sigrún, I have heard a great deal of you from thy foster-father and know that Helgi was in his own way dear to me, as he was to you. I count him as an uncle of a sorts, and have always honoured him, and would see him avenged.” Völmung assured her, seeing her cynical expression he added almost sternly, “Though I would have you, and all others judge me by the swinging of my hatchet, rather than by petty, and meaningless words.”

There was merit to his words, and though she harboured still some doubts, the memory of the ravaged cadavers of her beloved foster family, pushed Sigrún to trust in him.

Into the cavern they went, with Sigrún not seeing anything at first. Coming near to falling over, she was grateful when Thorgils caught her be the wrist, saving her from cutting herself on another nearby rock.

Shushed when she went to thank him, she was to repress a surge in irritation, and followed after the other men, and deeper into the cave, until at last a hint of light peeked at the edge of a nearby crevice. There was an outcropping of stones that poked upwards, jutting up as though it were teeth that sought to close over them but could not quite do so. From this makeshift window of sorts, the light of a dozen torches lit up a scene far below where they knelt.

It was far worse than any scene Sigrún had ever seen, or heard in any story, and far worse than the most terrible of those Helgi, or his men had told her about their time away at war. Not even the Black Jarl, as Hróarr Snorrisson, was known. Hróarr was one of the most northerly, and most barbarous of all the Jarls in the broken kingdom.

The men far below them, were in the midst of decorating a large altar. It was decorated with the torn clothes of their victims’ raiment cast over what seemed to be a ‘table’ of sorts made of bones and lined with skulls. In the midst of pouring themselves red-wine, the cloaked figures lifted up several skulls ere they placed them, upon their hurriedly made altar.

Though they could not find the corpse of Helgi, it happened that just as they peered down one of the snake-men, threw over the altar at the centre of the cavern an old cloak. It was dark and made from wolf-fur, one that all had last seen thrown over the Jarl’s shoulders.

As to the snake-men they were all tall, yet thin with most green or yellow scaled, and dressed in large robes with some few near to the edges of the cavern dressed in hauberks. All about them though were a number of skulls and bones that had been arranged into a series of altars that horrified and disgusted the Northmen as much as they served to anger them. To dishonour the dead in their eyes was a horrifying sacrilege.

But it was not only the bones and skulls that drew the attention, but how they proceeded along with their rite as they passed along drinking-horns and what seemed to be wine.

“Where did they find those skulls?” One of the men asked.

“Tush, you fool!” Thorgils hissed at him, with a glance in Sigrún’s direction.

It was all too horrible for Sigrún so that she felt suddenly faint, at the thought of where it was that they might have found the skulls, and the bones for the altar far below.

Evidently her moment of weakness, caught the attention of Völmung, who was to comment, “Away, we must go, take her thither.”

They did as bidden, with the men urged not to stop just outside the cave, but further down near the base of the mountain. Once they had rejoined the likes of Wolffish and the rest of those who had stayed just outside the principal cavern that led into the mountain. There they discovered, a number of the men in the midst of organising themselves for the inevitable charge inside.

This displeased Guðleifr, who took it as an act of defiance against him as their commander, while their new comrade-in-arms was to attempt to calm him. “Leave them be, better that they organise to attack than attack outright, ere we returned.”

“What is it that the enemy is in the midst of doing?” Wolffish asked impatiently.

Without tarrying for a moment longer, Thorgils explained to them what they had seen wherefore his stepsister had by this time recovered enough to stand better. Her stomach though still felt horribly nauseous due to what she had borne witness to.

She was broken from her attempts to repress her bile, from rising out from her mouth by Wolffish exclaiming in disgust, “If they have truly resorted to such a sinful rite, and defiled the Jarl I say we charge! Let us slash their tails, hew them down to the last child, tear open their innards and impale them to the last man, after we have fed to them their own children and wives!”

Such was the horror felt, by the barbarity of his exclamation that they all stared at him, as though he had grown a second head. Some such as Guðleifr, were caught between approval and also shock at the statement, others such as Thorgils simply gaped while Sigrún felt naught but revulsion, just as her stepbrother did.

Völmung was among those also disgusted, except he was the first to demand of the Wolfram, “What is the matter with you? Have you no sense of shame, and propriety?”

“Well, in the old tales such as those of Guðrun, she did these sorts of misdeeds to several Kings.”

“And what makes you think, we ought to comport ourselves in the same manner as Guðrun?” The stranger muttered wrinkling his nose at the sheepish Wolffram.

Next they moved to the discussion of how best, they might proceed against the enemy, and the numbers they could expect to encounter.

In this, latter matter it was their new acquaintance Völmung, who told them, “I have been chasing these Colubars, for some time and have tracked them from their lair further to the north. They number closer to a hundred. The greater proportion of their tribe is to be found elsewhere, and believe you me, they are gathering in ever larger numbers, where I do not know.”

“If we wish to slay them, we must strike now if you speak true,” Thorgils said as he glanced from their newfound ally to the cavern.

“Yes, though tread lightly my friends, less we fall into danger,” Völmung suggested carefully, whereupon he took up a stick and drew a small map of the locality in the dirt. “There are three caverns through which, we can enter.”

“We should send men to encircle them,” Decided Thorgils at once, wherefore he suggested, “I shall lead one of the others with thy permission father.”

“Very well,” Guðleifr said turning at once to one of his men, he was to say loudly to one of them, “Birgir Baggisson, ought to lead the third group.”

This arrangement was one that pleased all involved. He must have suspected that there was a certain lack of faith in him, so that Völmung’s acquiescence was a surprise to all. One could well be excused for thinking he might lead that group, rather than Birgir, who was a fierce, dark-haired man possessed by a terrible shyness. Yet the middle-ground was certainly to be found, with the mysterious man, offering to combat under Birgir’s command.

Pleased to see that the other man had consented so readily, to this arrangement Guðleifr was to wait until he was informed by scout that the other two troupes were in position. It was at this time that he paused if only to turn to his stepdaughter, to ask of her, “I must ask Sigrún, if you might not prefer to wait outside.”

“What? Why would I do that?” She hissed insulted by his words. “I was foster-daughter to Helgi, and therefore must avenge him! Honour demands it!”

“Yes, but this will be thy first battle,” the middle-aged man answered her hesitantly, almost mournfully, “The first battle is always the worst.”

There was more that might have been said. But their plan, so carefully groomed and so carefully orchestrated, was set ablaze, by the most expected source, so that all concerned cursed their own stupidity in not foreseeing such a possibility.

Dear Reader, you must know that this was not only the first battle for Sigrún alone, but also for several other figures of the village. Birgir was experienced to be sure, as was their new friend, and Thorgils as you might well have guessed had considerable experience.

Yet none was more inexperienced than Sigrún than the Wolffish. It was in this hour that he gave way to that great courage, and great madness that so very often possessed his people, in the most dire of times.

Seized by madness, he let loose a wild, hyena like howl and charged straight past the startled Guðleifr who gaped after him, alongside his other men. “JARL HELGI AND TYR!!!”

Charging into the cavern ere they had received the signal, it was with a violent curse that might have made Gertrud flush scarlet that Guðleifr, followed after him. Joined by the rest of his men, who came as a tide that breaks through a dam, throwing themselves forward with a howl that might well have sundered the heavens, such was the madness of it.

Wolffish, gone feral as he was took up his axe and tore asunder the life of the first Colubar he ran across, near the entrance. Coming upon him from the front it must be admitted, but the other more experienced warrior dressed though in a hauberk, and with scales harder than bronze was hewed down at once. Stunned to see the Wolffish, he did not see the large axe swing through the air until it had given him a second pair of crimson lips.

The other snake might well have struck out at the wolf, or raised the alarm were it not for Guðleifr, gripped now by battle-frenzy hewed him down also. His sword so long in its scabbard showed itself to be sharper than the blade of the Wolffish.

But if he hoped that this might temporarily soothe the maddened dog, he was mistaken. Seized by this time by a kind of berserker fury (though not a true one), the fisherman threw himself forward with another roar. His battle-cry echoing throughout the cave, so that all the Colubar knew that they were under siege.

Horrified and enraged at this show of stupidity on the part of Wolffish and Guðleifr, those such as Birgir, Thorgils and Völmung cursed no less violently, than had Guðleifr.

The flood of Northmen fought as men possessed, taking the guards of the enemy by surprise, who sought to close their gates to them. But the wooden doors would not hold as axe struck upon the hands that sought to force it closed.

After this first vain attempt, to bar them passage the warriors took up their spears and their own battle-axes and hissing and snarling attempted to form a wall. Their wall may well have been a proper forest of spikes, and might well have had more effect had the others not burst forth from the other two, undefended openings into the mountain.

At first nowhere near the front of the line, Sigrún was to suddenly find herself beset by a Colubar, as the man before her fell back, wounded in his shoulder. Another had sought to set himself between the monster and her, but was felled by a blow to his throat.

After this the daughter of Gertrud, stepped thither in defiance of the enemy and found that as she struck with her own spear it was diverted from its target. Her own buckler rose as the suns’ in the east might, and parried the first axe-swing if badly. Feeling the blow race up her arm, not unlike the liquid-fire that the distant Ogres of Korax were said to use to torture their enemies, she hissed in pain and backed away.

Striking once more, as she ducked under another strike, she was to this time try to back away from her enemy, whereupon she was thrown forward if inadvertently by someone behind her. This surprised not only Sigrún but her enemy, as she was suddenly pressed against his off-arm so that he had to shift ever so slightly back if he should wish to use his axe.

But that was not what he thought to turn to as a weapon first. It was brief, yet for a moment he reared back his head, opened his enormous maw so that outside his poisonous main two canines, there were a dozen index finger long teeth that unfolded to menace her.

Staring at these fangs, Sigrún felt her stomach shrivel up, and her extremities go cold. At the sight of those fangs, and also the glittering yellow eyes that stared laughingly, down at her.

Nauseous, she could not move so caught up was she in staring at the monstrous beast, before her. It was in the next moment that Wolffish’s own hatchet struck between neck and shoulder, throwing the beast to the ground.

“For Helgi and Tyr!” He howled throwing himself ahead of Sigrún, who stared dumbly if briefly so after him.

She might well have fallen to her knees, had she not been full of shame, her cheeks all the way up to her ears scarlet. Shame, a voice seemed to whisper from deep within her, one that sounded rather akin to her father’s voice. Shame!

Wishing for Helgi, or her mother to be present was futile, she told herself, so that Sigrún swallowing her fear and nausea forced herself to leap forward.

The next enemy that she confronted likewise wore a hauberk, and parried her blow easily. This time however, she was not to let herself be convinced to back away, but instead stepped into his blow. Throwing herself at him, as she swerved around the Wolffish and into the larger, more open centre of the cave, just past the gates she struck at her enemy’s large elbow with her buckler. Wearing this defensive ‘arm’ of sorts on her left arm, her blow only lightly bruised him but that was not what she sought to do.

Seized by fury, as by panic she was intent on forcing him back into the snake-man behind him, as had been done to her, so that when he was pushed back towards her, she lifted up her spear. The trick was to succeed, and soon his blood poured down from his throat from where she had stabbed him, with a wild cry of victory torn from her lips.

It was too soon to succeed, for hither came a new serpent, this one cleverer than the last and no less resolved. Hither he came, his own spear raised high as he thrust forward a large muscular foot to crush the end of the weapon now trapped in the throat of his comrade.

Stricken, as she saw this large figure looming over her, Sigrún sought to withdraw her weapon, but found it to be trapped and when it did draw back as she wished, it was after a sickening crack was heard. Staring at her broken spear, the last of the gifts given to her (alongside a large jewelled necklace) of Helgi, she could only stare in horror.

The enemy’s spear though thrust at her, with a blinding lightning speed that might well have ended her life, had she not ducked. Throwing herself forward, she cast aside her spear, and moved as much by fear as by a primal fury at the loss of her spear, she drew her dagger. Drawing it up, she thrust it forward, at his wrists.

The enemy was swift, backed away so that her thrust went wild. The next strike was his, and this one struck her shield, and while it did not make her arm ache, the next two that followed in quick succession almost sent her to her knees. It was at this time that she advanced, and fell forward, tripping over the corpse of her last victim to the delight of her intended second one.

Victory was not meant to be his though, as Sigrún stabbed down with her dagger at the almost tail-like nail-less foot before her.

Howling with pain, the serpent hissed at her yet was slower to react than she, as Sigrún carried aloft on the wings of desperation stabbed up, reversing her grip on her knife as she did so. Blade met throat, and the Shield-Maiden had good reason to cheer.

Her sense of triumph soon metamorphosed, into a sense of despair as the corpse of her thrashing, dying foe was suddenly thrown at her, shoved forward by another. This new entry into the conflict, was one of the priestly caste who seizing a spear, thrust now through his foe and at Sigrún’s shoulder. The flash of pain was as a tongue of fire, as Sigrún let loose a great cry of agony, even as it became a choked one, as she was briefly crushed beneath the greater weight of her enemy.

Thrashing and panicking once more, she felt not unlike a doll being crushed beneath a boulder even as the robed serpent hissed triumphantly, looming over her.

Frightened that this might well be her last hour, Sigrún attempted to throw the large Colubar off of her, to no avail. It was at this time that Guðleifr caught sight of her struggle. The serpent looming over her was suddenly stabbed through the skull, wherefore he was kicked away and the corpse above Sigrún thrown aside.

Hot-tears very nearly came to her eyes, as she almost sagged in relief, as the battle-rage subsided from the eyes of her stepfather. “Sigrún, by Oðinn’s beard are you- let me help you!”

And she was on her feet and in his arms, ere she could put together her thoughts properly, with Guðleifr patting her on the back, and whispering comfortingly.

This moment was brief, as rage when he saw the flesh wound on her shoulder awoke once more in him. The slaughter that followed, was one that later she was to quietly approve of, even as it stunned her as it took place. The few remaining enemies were stunned by the large, bear-like man that threw himself against them, hewing first one robed figure, then another and then a third as Guðleifr struck at them with the rapidity of thunder.

In the midst of readying their spears, as the first defensive shield-wall broke, the first priestly one fell back, was run through and then just as a second readied himself his throat was slashed. The third was able to strike thrice to no avail, before Guðleifr severed his arms then his head from him.

The battle after that, with Thorgils and the likes of Birgir and their newfound ally, Völmung went so well as to inspire songs in the following weeks. The earth of the cave was soon drenched with the blood of the serpents, which though at the outset superior in number, were disorganised and unprepared for this new ambush. The frenzy of their assailants was also to prove, all too much for the wicked beasts as they were hewed to a man.

The bones that they had desecrated were to be gathered up and brought to the fields outside, while those of the serpents along with many of their possessions burnt. This latter act was done at the insistence of Völmung, “We must burn them, lest who knows what dark curses might flutter down from this place.”

This argument carried much weight among the men, with many of them only letting themselves at last loosen themselves from battle-rage and indulge in their victory after they had left the mountain. They had plundered what gold and treasure there was, and burnt all else, with the corpses brought to the fields outside, thereupon the road where Guðleifr was to organise them into two groups. One was to bring the corpses back to the village, to prepare them to be properly cremated according to tradition, and the other was to guard the corpses.

This would be done slowly, with Guðleifr also wishing to count the corpses of those they had lost in the battle, to his dismay of the fifty or so volunteers they had brought with them, eight had passed. “Eight men dead, O by Oðinn how they fought well and ought to have lived to a ripe old age.”

“Saving Sigurn, he was already seventy father,” Thorgils remarked tartly, “He died as he might well have wished to.”

“True and I shall miss that old man, it is a pity Aghi died also, his wife and daughter are close to Gertrud.” Guðleifr murmured sorrowfully, head bowed as the first trip carrying away a dozen corpses was performed, with the warrior turning next to Wolffish. “As for you Wolffish, what in the name of the Allfather did you think to do by racing ahead, in such a stupid manner?!”

Wolffish who had been leaning against a nearby oak-tree jumped at his words. Wolffish wounded in the battle, if only slightly to his side and his left arm was in the midst of having the wounds treated by another man, stared in bewilderment at Guðleifr.

“I wished only to help, to charge the enemy,” he confessed embarrassed, his ears pressing against his scalp as his tail drooped also. “I think I did well.”

“By the Æsir man, you took out a dozen by thyself and bit through the throat of one of them!” Thorgils praised only to then exclaim incredulously, “Even as you very near threw the whole of our plan to the four winds!”

Wolffish flushed, but was to be dismissed to go aid by helping carry the corpses of the women back to the village. This last dismissal was intended as a punishment, yet the relief painted onto his face showed he did not see it as such.

“That wolf is the maddest beast that ever lived!” Guðleifr exclaimed once he was gone, and could not hear them.

“Yes, mad as a Gallian or Caled, I daresay,” Völmung agreed as he crouched down, with his back against a nearby tree, a wine-skin in hand and his prior melancholy returning in full force.

None argued with him, with only a few having met Caleds or Gallians from across the Glacial-Sea, yet those who had met them nodded their heads in agreement with his words.

It was now that Sigrún, won their attention. After the battle she had stared in a daze, as the men went about their work, this until Thorgils had guided her by the arm from the caves. Drawn near to the ambush, she was to lose her supper thence.

Wiping at her mouth, she stared up at the men still dazed, grateful when Guðleifr told her, “Go home Sigrún.”

“I would first see to all my duties, to Helgi,” She protested irritably.

“But-”

“Leave her be, let her catch her feet and regain her bearings,” Völmung said airily, wining him a scowl from Guðleifr. “I must ask, if any of you or thy men happened to find aught else than simple treasures, and drinking-horns after the battle?”

“Of what do you ask after?” Sigrún asked a small hint of relief and also suspicion intermingling in her voice and vivid blue eyes.

“I seek a map, if I am to speak plainly good lady,” Völmung told her pointedly, at which time all stared at him stunned. “It was why I could not simply wait, for Helgi’s return and hurried onto the road, and why I sought to hunt down those Colubars.”

“Why do you seek this map?” Thorgils asked suspiciously.

“That is my affair,” Völmung retorted evenly, a hard gleam in his eyes.

“We found nothing, else one of us would have reported it,” Guðleifr sighed wearily, wherefore glancing at the corpses that remained he muttered. “We must send away the ashes, and the treasures to the Jarl’s family, but winter might soon be upon us. What are we to do?”

Though he did not look convinced by Guðleifr’s words, and continued to study him and the rest of them with an impassive gaze for some time, Völmung let the matter slide. Sinking back into his own brooding thoughts, he let them be, while Sigrún piped up in response to her stepfather.

“I could escort them ere the onset of the first snows, if I leave on the morrow all should be well,” Sigrún proposed adding for good measure, “Honour and piety demands it, given they were my kin.”

“It would not do, the roads are still dangerous, as we do not know if these serpents worked their sinister toil alone or not.” Thorgils snapped at her, at once to the approval of his father.

“Besides you are only newly returned, thy mother would not be keen to see you go.” Guðleifr added.

“I shall carry away the remains, after the funeral,” Völmung said decisively, rising to his feet.

“But you are hardly kin to them!”

“I am if distantly so, and I think it best you remain with thy own Sigrún, the roads might prove too much for thee, at present but not for myself,” He snapped harshly.

Unhappy with this command, she might have continued to argue were it not for the stranger brushing past them.

“He shan’t decide and treat the matter as closed, without our permission,” Sigrún complained bitterly.

“Silence Sigrún, he is correct, your place is here and not on the road,” Guðleifr snapped at her, a hint of fury in his voice. “You ought to think of thy mother, before you volunteer for such a duty.”

“One of us should think of duty, since all you sought to do was bicker with my mother, for all of thy bluster it seems as though whenever duty calls, you have a tendency to become deaf to it.” Sigrún retorted coldly.

“Enough of this squabbling,” Thorgils intervened as some of the men stared on in amazement at this public bickering between the two, “We must return the remaining corpses to the village. Then after the funeral, we shall all do better with food in our stomachs and some sleep, afterwards we shall speak of who shall leave and who shall stay.”

“You cannot command me,” Sigrún complained.

“This is not a command, but a reminder then sister, after all it ought to be you who lights the funerary barge of Helgi and his wife.” Thorgils snapped at her.

Sigrún might have argued except that conscious of her duties to those of whom he spoke, she swallowed her harsh words and complaints.

Reluctantly she nodded her head, at which time she turned to go only to stop when Thorgils caught her up by her arm. “Also; you did well.”

Hardly able to meet his gaze, or believe his words, she looked away as she said, “No need to cozen me.”

“I do not cozen; you did well for your first battle.”

“But Wolffish-”

“Is half-daft, never you mind him,” Thorgils snorted with a dark glance down the road where his friend had disappeared down.

Refusing to say another word, the weary girl departed down the road without a backwards glance eager though she did not say it to return to the village, to cremate the dead and to have some food in her belly. Exhausted, her shoulder throbbing and her head buzzing from lack of sleep; she was escorted by the last of the men carrying away the last of Helgi’s company.

Once he saw that they had all disappeared, Guðleifr ordered the last of the five or so men to return to the village, each of them advancing wearily.

As they trod along the road, on the last of the horses, each of them sagging forward a little on their mounts, Guðleifr grumbled to his son. “I hope this puts to rest this matter, enough of vengeance and maps, bah good men have died, I for one shall be glad to put it behind us.”

Thorgils fidgeted next to him, he had done the same earlier if ever so slightly when Völmung had spoken of the map also. Catching this out of the corner of his eye, Guðleifr stared at him as he spoke up, “Yes, but er, father if I may the matter is not entirely at rest or wholly concluded.”

“How so? What do you know Thorgils?” Guðleifr repeated himself, eyes narrowed as his son looked away guiltily.

Slowly, ever so slowly Thorgils drew from beneath his cloak, what he had discovered near the altar, “You see, those Colubars were not sacrificing to their dark gods but giving thanks to them. The map, which Helgi denied he had and which Völmung sought is here, father…”