With my objective now clear, my return along the north road was speedy and direct by comparison with the route that had brought me down to Egypt. The moonstone at the center of my Compass still glowed steady and bright. Nonetheless, it was a long trip by any estimation, and Riodhr took the opportunity to share more visions of the history of Skogtårn-i-Sør along the way.

The days of this story are lost in the mists of time, but in the sight of the Universal Eye, time itself holds no meaning, so I saw the events as if I were there myself:

The village was smaller then, and there was no wall around it. The only buildings I recognized were an old section of the Town Hall, and a modest stone shrine to our Lady Freya which stood on the common. It was morning in my vision, and a group of merry travelers were making their way forth from the village heading north toward Sessrumnir. Cries of “Farewell!”, “Sessrumnir welcomes you!” and “Our Lady’s blessing go with you!” filled the air. It was, as the Lady Freya had said, a joyful last stop for pilgrims along the road to Sessrumnir.

The scene shifted suddenly: a different season, a setting sun betrayed the passage of some time. A slight aura of decay on some of the buildings seemed to indicated the village might have fallen on some harder times. In this vision, another band of travelers appeared, but these were new arrivals to the town. The exhaustion of a long day’s journey was written in their posture and weary faces, and they were covered with the grime of the road. I recognized the pleated linen robes as those customarily worn in Egypt, and their sleek black hair was adorned with thin headbands in the shape of snakes, and the phases of the moon were embroidered upon their cloaks. Hathor’s devotees, then. They had with them a beautiful white heifer who followed docilely on a slim silver chain, and inquired where they and the heifer might find rest for the night.

Immediately, an innkeeper - a widow, judging by the gray veil she wore - stepped forward and offered lodging for them in her in, and a space in her stable for the cow. “Or, you may pasture her on the common if you prefer - it is quite safe here and in the heat of late summer, less likely to be swarmed with flies.”

“Hilde! Be silent!” a voice thundered; as its owner descended the town hall steps to move toward the group of travellers and their would-be hostess, the crowd parted for him. “These Hathor-worshipers are not welcome in Skogtårn-i-Sør!”

“But brother Hjalmar, where will they stay?” Hilde protested.

“That is not our concern,” Hjalmar responded stonily, “But it will not be in Freya’s town, that I do know.”

“But we are on our way to Sessrumnir,” the leader of Hathor’s pilgrims explained, “ We are seeking an audience with Freya herself. We even bear her a gift,” she said indicating the heifer.

Another elder of the town now spoke up, and their was venom in his voice, “A likely story,” he said, “Spies is what you are! And no spies will find succor under our roofs!” It was then that I noticed a darkly hooded figure moving through the crowd, and I noticed a thin tendril of smoke that seemed to trail from him to the elder who had just spoken; as he moved, the tendril wound itself around more and more of the villagers, and angry voices of agreement began to rise in the crowd.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I asked Riodhr about this mysterious figure, and he complimented my observation; “That,” he said, “Is your problem: Jorgmundgandrsson himself - sowing fear among the villagers of Skogtårn-i-Sør.”

Hilde was not so easily cowed, though, and she stood up to the elders. “We are a town that welcomes the pilgrims of Sessrumnir, and are you great warriors afraid of a few slight women from the south? Shame on you,” she said. “I will take these women into my inn for the night, and they can be on their way in the morning.” And so the matter ended for the moment, with Hilde giving shelter to the pilgrims of Egypt, and the old men withdrawing to take their council against her around a tankard of ale…or three or four.

***********

After Hilde and her guests had gone their way, Hjalmar called for a council in the Hall; and so the villagers grumbled while the visitors slept.

“We have seen these strangers come in, unkempt and unannounced,” he said, “and they claim they come to pay homage to Freya while wearing the adornments of another goddess!

“I tell you: they seek no such thing! They are spies sent to scout our towns and roads and lands. If we let them pass, it is not Freya’s honor they will bring upon us, but the armies of Egypt in a locust horde! We must turn them back now, before it is too late.”

“Even now they may be sneaking away into the night,” chimed in another voice.

A cacophony of voices mingled in calls of “Hear hear!” and, “Turn them away!” and , “That’s the truth!”

A younger man’s voice arose now above the crowd: “But how shall we turn them away?” he asked, “We cannot force them back onto the south road all the way to Egypt: they will simply circumvent the village and continue on their path.”

It seemed a good question to the increasingly drunken crowed, and the villagers took turns batting it around.

“Send a delegation,” said one, “to make sure they turn back.”

“Send a guard forward with them, to stop the from spying,” offered another; this suggestion was loudly booed.

“I really think we’re overreacting a bit,” said the young man who raised the question of logistics, “I mean, Freya is hardly a helpless maiden! Even if the so-called pilgrims of Freya are false, god help them when they go up against the Goddess of War!”

A chorus of agreement rose heartily around this sentiment, and I saw the hooded figure of Jormundgandson again - this time with an annoyed look on his face as he realized he was losing the crowd to the logic of Freya’s young champion. He decided to risk directly addressing the crowd.

“Or you could be under-reacting,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at the young man, “Why do you have such sympathy for these strangers, eh?”

The accusation had the desired effect, and paranoia again began to take hold of the villagers’ imagination.

“He’s right, he’s right.”

“Why do you want to let them pass, Erik?”

“To arms, to arms - we must drive them out tonight!”

Jormundgandson spoke again, “But the young man does raise a good question: if you drive them South - how will you ensure they do not pass by another route?”

“We’ll post a guard.”

“I have a better solution,” he said. “You go now and chase them South…but keep the Heifer and bring her to me when you return. Do this, and I shall use Hathor’s own power against her, to build a wall her army shall never pass, nor any man tear down.”

“Yes, yes!”

“Bring the heifer!”

“To arms!” and

“Chase the infidels away!”

And so the pilgrims of Hathor were driven that night from Skogtårn-i-Sør, and the beautiful white heifer was given to the old hooded man. As soon as it was presented to him, he sloughed off his cloak and human form like a molted snake-ski to reveal his true form, and swallowed the heifer whole. Feeding on the heifer, Jormundgandson then grew rapidly in size, and encircled the village completely, out to the impassable hills that flanked it on either side of the valley. Biting his own tail, he sank into the earth and stone by stone the wall of Skogtårn-i-Sør rose over the foundation of his body.

And that is how Skogtårn-i-Sør was lost.