And so it was that they hid themselves behind the large stone. Frightened by the shadow of the echoes that resonated from further along the road, they were to gather together, and cling to one another. Though they clung to one another, few if any of them shook or trembled out of fright of what lay ahead and behind them. Most in their group were warriors and for this reason had little fear of the clash they felt certain lay ahead of them.
If any shook it was because of the cold, with only Myrgjǫl afraid as she pressed her face into her father’s side, it was he who held her close even as his spare arm went to his sword.
Though she had not truly distinguished herself in the last battle, a strange sensation overcame Sigrún as she waited therein the shadows of the large stone. A sense not of fear, but rather of expectation of sorts one that left her irritable and impatient for the future.
Of all of them, the most still to her surprise was not Völmung or Thormundr but Thorgils. Her elder stepbrother had long since closed his eyes even as he clung to their horses’ reins. There was a marked tranquility in him that seemed to radiate all about him. Strangely, his hand went not to his axe as Sigrún and even Thormundr might have expected but rather his smaller wineskin. Thorgils it must be explained had two with him at all times when on the road, or at sea; his larger one which had a good supply of wine and a smaller one. Quite why he never drank from it, was a mystery to most of those around him, yet they never questioned him, or thought to ask for a draught of it.
At this moment, his hand drifted to it and came to grip it as one might some special talisman. It was this gesture that caught the attention of his father more than any other, and caused him to whisper his son’s name and to shake his head. A worried glint in his eyes, Guðleifr appeared to be beside himself, even as he sought to remonstrate his only son.
Yet the youth would not be deterred, and clung tightly to the wineskin, his eyes hardening with resolve. Quite what it was that he was resolved to do, Sigrún did not know, and she was not to learn more about this matter for quite some time.
The reason for this was that the new arrival’s horse, slowed at first from a gallop, down to a trot. Glancing about the area, the figure who had arrived hither from further within the forest, paused to consider the situation it seemed.
It was as Thormundr closed his eyes and began to murmur, his staff held close even as Guðleifr his hand on his sword prepared to rise up to his feet. Each of them was ready for war, with none more prepared than Völmung, who rose to his feet axe, already in hand and beard trembling, and with wild blazing eyes seemed to resemble the war-god Tyr more than any mere mortal.
“You lot had best come down from behind that rock, we have little in the way of time and I have even less of it with regards to patience at this present moment. Now do come along, that is if any of you have any desire to live to see the suns’ set.” A powerful male voice spoke out harshly, the voice boomed and seemed to come from deep within the earth.
The voice seemed familiar yet Sigrún could not quite place it, and after a few minutes of trying gave up. She was not alone, with her stepbrother and stepfather doing much the same, as did Thormundr.
As he did so, Guðleifr was to regain his feet alongside their guide, wariness of the most dangerous kind on his face and in his every movement as he followed after Völmung. The two men were arrested in their movements a heartbeat later when they came down from the rock outcropping to confront the stranger.
It was Völmung who acted first, letting out a great cheer when he saw who it was, “Vegarðr! It is you! I had thought it might be you, but was not certain! Well met!”
Vegarðr was a tall figure, almost impossibly so. Though a little shorter in stature than Völmung, he was however no less daunting a figure. Dark eyed and dark haired, with a long beard that was no less pitch black he was dressed in a dark hauberk, with a cloak made of raven-feathers thrown over his shoulders, and kept in place with a brooch in the shape of a long-sword. He was tall, with a mane of wild dark hair, and a short beard his emerald eyes flashed with mirth and kindness. He was by no means old, yet there was something almost ancient about him, so that Vegarðr appeared to be nearer to Thormundr’s age than that of Guðleifr.
Taking in the figure looming above them, Sigrún was more than a little impressed by him and was at once filled with a sense of familiarity towards him. It was as though, she had seen him before yet could not quite place his face within her memory. Annoyed by this pervading sense of familiarity she was to after failing to properly remember where it was that she had seen him, step forward from behind the rock.
“A friend of yours, I presume Völmung?” She was to ask of him.
“And of yourself dear lady, if you are indeed friends to Völmung,” Vegarðr replied in his deep voice. “Fear not though, you will soon be safe.”
“How do you intend to guarantee our safety?” Guðleifr asked him a hint of weariness in his voice, and with a continuous series of glances thrown over his shoulder. Visibly worried over the possibility of the Death-Riders as they had come to know their pursuers, sent south by Fránir in pursuit of them might happen upon them. “We have been pursued over the course of every kilometre, from Heiðrrán up until now.”
“Then let us cease chattering about, and hurry back onto the road,” Vegarðr retorted, just before he climbed back onto his horse, signalling an end to their conversation.
Most of them still had questions for him, yet were not to press the issue, worried as they were of being caught by their pursuers they set them aside. Once again they took to the road, though in this matter they were urged on by their newest travelling companion, whom Völmung assured them was a friend of Skalmöld.
But it was not the likes of Guðleifr or Sigrún that were to be the most sceptical of their newest travelling companion, but rather Thormundr who gazed at him suspiciously. Hardly able to place the man in his memory, despite never forgetting a person’s name or face, he was to ask once on the road. “I have seen you before, yet I shan’t place it. Who are you?”
“I am exactly who I have told you I am,” Vegarðr replied as they rode north, his tone hardening as they rode. “It seems to me that the more important question is who are you? Thormundr might be your name, but there is more to a man than just his name, as you and I both are aware.”
This was a strange answer, and in spite of her fondness for him, Sigrún could not help but begin to wonder about both men. It worried her that she knew precious little about one, and yet recognized the other though she could not quite place him in her mind’s eye.
“I sincerely hope we reach Dagfinnr’s hall soon,” She was to mutter more to herself than anyone else, and it was surely a testament to just how morose they all felt, and worn that neither Thorgils nor Guðleifr objected to her remark. To the contrary, the two seemed to nod their heads, with the younger of the two doing so visibly where the older of them merely bowed his head pensively.
The journey continued for three days without any more encounters or incidences, though contrary to his statements, Vegarðr was hardly able to guarantee an end to the sound of distant hooves echoing far behind them. His brow furrowed, he became ever more stricken the more they travelled along through the lands north of the Tvillinger-Mounts. It was in that place where the rain battered down upon the land, and the wind tore a path, with the land once more overshadowed. A looming shadow that seemed prepared to devour the whole of the land, and all those who lived within it, so that all the birds in the branches above took flight with a squawk of fear and alarm. They’re suspicion and apprehension was not exclusively restricted to the most nervous of birds such as crows and ravens, but also to the most relaxed of herons and red-tailed birds.
These birds fluttered off one and all, before any of the travellers so much as had the opportunity to near them, and thus frighten them off. At the first, they all assumed it might have something to do with them, but as they soon realized there was the echo of distant hooves thundering down upon the ground far behind them. Even the thin oaks and thinner birch trees seemed to moan and otherwise wish to take flight at the sound of the enemy fast approaching them.
The forest was not a densely packed one, to the contrary; it now seemed as though each tree sought to maintain some sort of distance from one another. Yet just as before, there was a notable rigidity to their positions, so that there was little in common between them and those of the other forests they had crossed. Those had in the case of the Burrowwoods seemed haunted, those of the Hárviðr to the south utterly agitated and now these ones gave the impression of being utterly dead inside. They were hardly as aggressive looking as many of the trees of the other forests, yet this coldness of their made each of them shiver.
It was not the only thing that made Sigrún’s flesh crawl, as she advanced through the forest, at a steady gallop. Nor was it the visible fright of every bird, or that of all the small critters that were still active despite the winter. There was an encroaching shadow that began to dominate the whole of the land, one that had begun to haunt it, as far back as south of the Tvillinger-Mounts but now began to manifest in a fog that was not a fog. It was hardly a misty night, it ought to have been utterly clear, it seemed that way and yet with the passage of time it grew ever more difficult for the wanderers to see one another.
What was worse, was that there was a noise like thunder that penetrated the darkness, one that they all knew well and had dreaded the sound of for days. It was a sound that was unmistakeably that of hooves.
What distance that had been put between them and their pursuers was to shrink ever more, with the sound of their horses’ hooves reaching their ears all the louder. “They are not far behind us,” Vegarðr remarked, “I was not aware they could travel so swiftly.”
“But of course they could, their steeds were personally raised by Fránir, who bred them with Elf-Steeds,” Thormundr explained to their guide who gaped at him.
“Really? I had no conception of this fact,” Vegarðr stated before he turned to the rest of them, “Did any of you know this?”
“I had my suspicions yet did not know for certain hitherto now,” Völmung admitted quietly, adding with a backwards glance of his own to Thormundr. “Why did you not mention this fact, Thormundr?”
“There was little in the way of time to make mention of it,” The older man hissed irritably, “I will not be spoken to as though I were in some manner complicit. Certainly, I will freely confess that you all ought to have been told ere this moment. Yet all know that, none are more affected at this moment than I, for it is my student who lies dying potentially within the halls of Dagfinnr!”
Looking from one man to another, with a fierce expression as though daring them to contradict him, Thormundr was to lower his gaze. Hardly able to maintain those of his travelling companions, he was visibly affected, they could see by the fear of losing Auðun.
Guðleifr was the first to reach out to him, somehow balancing Myrgjǫl in one arm; he was to grip the shoulder of his friend. “Never fear Thormundr, there is more strength in Auðun than might at first glance be perceived.”
“Thank you, Guðleifr,” Thormundr sighed, visibly affected by his kindly words.
Continuing to stare at him for a moment longer, it did not appear as though Völmung was willing to give the old magi the slightest inch, with regards to this important detail. He might well have continued his questioning of him, were it not for his directing them forward.
In contrast to his hardened manner against the old sorcerer, their newest companion took a more aloof manner, and did not seem quite so suspicious of him, as the younger man appeared to be. This harshness towards Thormundr was to win Völmung the dislike of Guðleifr, who was to growl so sharply that his daughter stirred in her sleep. “Why speak against him, and look on him with such disdain? Thormundr is at risk of losing a boy he helped bring up, is that not reason enough to look on him favourably? He has risked all, and has asked for nothing for himself.”
Unmoved by his words, Völmung was to with a glance in the direction of Vegarðr, let slip a sigh and signal for them to draw closer to him. “Forward, and come closer together, it has become dark rather earlier than expected I would prefer not to lose any of you.”
No sooner had he given that order than they began their gallop once more, thrusting their way forward into the night, as might a night in the dark. It was a terrible time for all of them, as they clung blindly to one another, with Völmung suggesting. “We ought to tie our horses together so that we do not lose one another in this strange darkness.”
This they did, with the large warrior throwing the line first to Thorgils who rode a short distance behind him, having inadvertently overtaken his father, in the rush whither towards the unknown, icy north. Then there was his father, then Thormundr, and finally to the rear of their band was where Sigrún soon found herself.
It was odd, but as the line of rope was tossed from one person to the next, and they continued to trot ever more quickly so that as they worked, they broke into a steady gallop, she lost sight of them. Left behind by no desire on their part to do so, as much by her tearing her gaze from them if only for a moment, to glance once more over her shoulder. Fearful of the battering hooves that echoed throughout the dark forest, she had allowed herself to be distracted and when she turned her gaze once more to the path before her, it was to discover… nothing.
Alarmed to find her friends and family missing, Sigrún was to cry out, “Thorgils! Völmung! Thormundr! Guðleifr! Where are you?”
There was no answer.
Shaken, she was to call out to them several more times, all to no avail. A sense of blind panic soon overcame her, one which she fought to repress even as she snapped the reins to her horse. Pushing it forward into a blind gallop, in the hopes that she might soon find her way back to her friends, to her surprise though she came near to being thrown off of it at once.
Her cry of surprise echoed all about her, frightening her all the more, as she thought of how those in pursuit of her must have heard her scream.
Somehow she held on, doing so with the sort of desperation that made Sigrún reflect back to the cave, where she had fought her first battle. Except that battle had been one that came with victory already guaranteed to them. One in which her kinsmen and fellow villagers could not truly lose, as they had the advantage of surprise and had the enemy surrounded. Yet in this one, there was nary any hope to even match the Death-Riders in the battle that loomed ahead.
“Hurry! Hurry forward lest they catch us!” She caught herself hissing at her horse, who taking it to heart, lurched forward ever more rapidly.
Deviating from the path, she was to race headlong past a throng of trees each one had protruding branches, many of which stuck out high enough that Sigrún had to at the first raise one hand, to shield her face. Only for her to be forced to resort to using her other arm to shield, her face also. When the thick oak branch struck, Sigrún for this reason did not see it until it was too late.
Flung from her horse one moment to the next, she was thrown from a state of half-blinded confusion and into utter darkness one moment to the next.
Were it not for the snow, she might have lost consciousness or might well have struck her head hard. Simply winded, she was to blink stupidly for several seconds, as the realization that she was no longer on her horse sunk in.
The echo of the thundering hooves quite some distance behind her snapped her out of the stupor she had fallen into. Glancing about all around her, in desperation she was to unable to see anything regain her feet and stumble about. Hands outstretched before her, she walked as one of the blind might have. Resisting the urge as she stumbled about to call out for help, to call out the names of her kinsmen and friends fearful that her enemies might well find her.
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