If Thorgils was stunned to see his little sister, their father Guðleifr, when he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, was utterly scandalised. Stricken with rage and worry, he was to glare with foul murder at the little girl who shrank from him, ceasing her attempts to break free from Wolffish's grasp. It was not simply her father, though, who was stunned and enraged to see her there with them, but also the old sorcerer who had been trailing just behind Guðleifr.
In the midst of speaking, mostly of how he looked forward to eating some turnips and onions along with some venison stew, Thormundr was to be the first to exclaim. "Myrgjǫl, what in the name of all that is sacred- how in the name of the half-rotted corpse of Hella did you find your way hither?"
"You know this girl?" the barkeep demanded of them, not all too impressed by how rapidly their numbers were growing. "Should I expect more of you?"
It was with a rapid glance in his direction that Wolffish snapped, "Of course not." He returned his stare to his friends, unblinking and annoyed, "I caught her in the stables. She had stolen a horse, quite how I do not know, I only know that she somehow found her way there and was snoring peacefully in the hay next to her own mount."
"But how did she steal a horse?" Thorgils wondered, feeling as though the world were spinning on its axis and as though he had somehow lost his footing and was tumbling away into some distant abyss.
"That I do not know," Wolffish replied, glaring down at the little girl whom he held by the back of the neck.
"I took one of Baggi's horses," Myrgjǫl said helpfully, wherefore she added with more than a little indignation, "And can you put me down, Wolffish?"
"So long as you do not attempt to fly away, as you did after kicking me in the stables," Wolffish growled, visibly annoyed by her.
"Put her down, Wolffish," Guðleifr grunted, making his way down at last. It was when he stood before the young girl that she swallowed audibly. Dropped so that she crashed to her knees, Myrgjǫl let slip an oath being torn from her small lips, not that her father much cared, for this. Taking her up by the arm, he was to drag her back outside, with an almost murderous fury growling as he did so, "Come along."
"Father, if I may-" She began.
"No, you may not."
"If you need my assistance, do let me know, Father," Thorgils was wont to say, yet he was treated almost no differently, such was the rage that had possessed his father.
"I need no assistance, at present especially from one of my children," Guðleifr hissed, ere the door was to shut itself with a great bang that made the hinges creak in protest.
There was a long, tense silence that followed in the aftermath of his explosive fury. None spoke up for some time, all of them far too nervous to speak up or to do much more than look from one to another, discomfited by what had happened.
Wolffish was to excuse himself under the pretence of needing to check on the horses, though Thorgils felt certain he intended to do this only if Guðleifr was not present there. Thormundr, for his part, was to seize Thorgils by the arm, having made his way down the steps rather more quietly than had the leader of their small expedition. "Drink with me, my boy; I would have company whilst I comfort myself after a long day of heavy riding and sorcery."
"What? But I do not drink," Thorgils protested at once.
"If such be the case, you could at the least enjoy a meal with me while I do," Thormundr muttered wearily, pulling him along with far more strength than the warrior might otherwise have expected from the old man.
It was not long before the two of them were seated at a table, near to the chimney, and some deer-stew pouring down their relieved throats. The broth was a little spicier than Thorgils might have liked, yet the venison was soft and full of flavour and intermingled with carrots and onions. It was thus in high spirits that the two of them devoured this well put-together supper, which they finished with a horn or two of ale.
Thorgils but briefly glanced to the rear of the building, over the shoulder of his friend, noticing the number of individuals who sat nearest to the shadows. He also noticed, to the rear of the tavern, a door, one that he was to later hear one of the men mention as leading out, as it was the door through which Ari the tavern-master brought in fresh supplies. Tearing his gaze from it, to return it to the food that had just been laid before them, he was to throw himself into devouring it as swiftly as possible.
Although the food tasted quite delicious, the two of them almost choked on the ale, with Thormundr exclaiming after the first draught. "What is this? I ordered ale, and here you are presenting me with, well, donkey saliva of some sort! This is awful!"
"I have had no complaints; I do not know where you came from, stranger, however, here people enjoy my ale a great deal." The barkeep growled, visibly insulted, as he glowered at them with open hostility.
"Here people must have forgotten the taste of all other drinks," Thorgils grumbled if more to himself, "I would trade my sword-arm for some mead."
"You really ought to have asked for milk," One of the other patrons remarked with a short laugh as he approached them. Short, plump and ruddy-faced, he smiled genially at them, he was to say to them in a cheerful voice, "Neither of you, nor your friends seems to be from around here, where do you come from, strangers?"
"From further west," Thorgils answered before he could put too much thought into it.
Shooting him a glare, Thormundr quieted him that way, and before he could stutter out a response to cover for his mistake, the local who had already guessed gave out another great chuckle. "Heiðrrán correct? I must say there's lots of fellows passing from there, or hurrying thither, quite why is beyond me. There is little to see o'er in yon village."
On that point, Thorgils might well have protested if it were not for the sorcerer giving him a firm kick to the leg, so that he preferred to begin rapidly drinking his ale. Even when drunk as quickly as possible, it did not taste good. It also failed to stupefy him, so that he called for a new drink from the tavern-master, this time though, when he ordered it was milk that he asked for.
The churlish old man threw their newfound friend a dirty look, as though blaming him for recommending the milk did as bidden, if reluctantly so. It was with a sheepish look at that man and a number of those around him that he returned his attention to them.
A few of the other simply dressed farmers, still present at the pub, were to join him. Some seemed haggard, others pleasant, yet the majority of them did not seem all that welcoming to Thorgils' mind as he sipped at the milk that had been brought hither for him and listened attentively.
"Why come east?" Asked one man.
"We came in search of a friend," Thormundr answered at once.
"Who was that little girl?"
"My friend's daughter," Thormundr said, then added with a sharp look, "And we would appreciate it if you would leave the matter be. Do tell me, though, that door there near the rear of the building, where does it lead to? It seems a strange place to put a door."
The door led outside, they explained, though there was some reluctance to offer up this explanation on account of everyone's strange nervousness regarding the innkeeper. There were more questions that they inundated the old man with, with each one that passed their lips becoming ever more distanced from what they initially spoke of. It was not long before they spoke of mead, fishing, and also of local happenings.
This last topic was brought up only after they had finished asking about fishing, as their curiosity about local life in Heiðrrán was exhausted. It was the first man who had introduced himself as Egill, and after his name, had introduced the topic after Thormundr politely asked about their farm fields. "It has been a sore week, just as all others have been since that strange fellow passed through here, all those weeks ago."
"What strange fellow?" Thorgils asked idly, as he felt his head swim ever so slightly from having drunk too much ale, too quickly.
"He was a traveller from the west, bearded, tall, and carried an air of melancholy about him," another man explained, sipping at his drinking-horn.
"He did not give his name, he came and went in a great hurry," clarified another of the local farmers, his mien sombre as his eyes fell upon the fire in the chimney.
"Why did he do that?"
"That we do not know," replied Egill with a shake of his head, "He was a strange fellow, I did not much like him."
"Why is that?" Thormundr asked of them, looking ever more distracted, from the local gossip, not that the young man blamed him. The topic had long since begun to bore him, so that at this time his gaze wandered, with the young man feeling wearier and wearier the more they talked.
The men spoke at some greater length about what had bothered them, about this particular fellow.
The more they spoke, the more Thorgils drifted away, his eyelids growing heavier than the heavens weighed upon Atlas' shoulders. The voices of those around him passed him by, and flowed over him so that the youth found it ever harder to remain awake.
*****
It was some time later that Thorgils roused to find himself still seated in the main room of the inn, his head having come to rest against the wall behind him, as he rested while reclining back in his chair. Blinking several times, he was to leap several dozen feet in the air as he heard a voice loudly penetrate the darkness that had befallen the main hall to the tavern.
Looking all about in search of the source of the voice, his gaze quite naturally gravitated in the direction of the kitchens. It was from there that light streamed, and it was also from that direction that the voice originated.
Noticing that the tavern was empty, Thorgils was to advance towards the kitchens listening raptly as he did so. "-You will find them up the stairs, to either side, I do believe they have long since fallen asleep," The voice, which he realised was that of the tavern-owner, was in the midst of saying. Bewildered by the dark words of the old man, Thorgils was to leap several feet more than when he had first awakened, when he peeked into the kitchens, slipping behind the bar as he did so. Horrified to find the old man speaking to what seemed to him to be at first a shadow, one with a large helm atop its head and a cloak that seemed to weave its way in and out of the darkness, "Now about my payment, milord? I have done as requested."
The voice of the dark figure was sepulchral, horrid to the ears, so that the warrior trembled and was filled with terror. Thorgils inching away was to slowly begin moving away at once, eager to hurry up the stairs, swift as a hare with a wolf on its heels.
No less vulnerable than a hunted animal, in the face of this wicked shadow that might soon menace him, he was to fall to his knees when crossing around the bar thither to the staircase.
On the other side of the bar, from deep within the kitchens, the deep voice of the dark shadow echoed coldly, "Payment shall be awarded in full, once we have their corpses before us and the map in hand."
"Oh, very well, but do cease tarrying, the lout in the main room will not be asleep for considerably longer, and I do worry about what Egill might have said to him and that robed fellow." The innkeeper murmured, concerned, with a glance seemingly in the direction of the main room.
His heart in his throat, Thorgils felt his stomach lurch with every movement he made, his eyes darting from the darkened corner where the stairs lay to over his shoulder. He prayed that the two of them would continue to take their time, continue to bicker over what needed to be done in place of doing it.
Reaching the stairs, he was to regain his feet with many a glance over his shoulder, just as fortune turned her back upon him at the most inopportune moment. Climbing the stairs one at a time at the beginning, Thorgils took great pains to try to avoid making noise, which was why, when he heard it creak beneath him. He felt his heart lurch to a stop.
"What was that sound?" The innkeeper hissed in surprise at the sound. "Is it one of the guests?"
"In a manner of speaking, the one from the common room he has escaped," The large shadow boomed as he moved from the kitchen to the main room. "No matter that he has nowhere to fly to, there are no windows above and no other point of entry to the building than through us."
"What if there are others?"
"Nonsense, my brothers are in the midst of killing the cur that accompanied him."
Stricken as he heard the floor beneath the stairs creak, and the sound of movement, Thorgils threw stealth and reason aside caution. Casting it aside as might a man, casting an oar that had broken in half, into the sea, he was to reach in one smooth motion the top of the stairs. Once thereupon the second floor of the large building, he was to give way to loud cries of panic in an attempt to rouse his family.
"Awake! Awake! Danger lies down the steps, we are under attack!" Thorgils shouted at each of them, throwing first one door open, then the other.
From another room came the angry voices of those other people who had come to the inn to sleep. Startled awake by his stricken voice, Guðleifr and Auðun, who had occupied the one room, were to growl with no less fury than the other patrons. "What is the meaning of this, Thorgils? Have you any idea how early it is?"
"Danger lies down the stairs, we must be away!" Thorgils yelled at them, turning away to throw the door open to the other room, the one occupied by the girls screaming out at them the same message a heartbeat later.
"How are we to escape? There are no windows to this room." Auðun demanded of him, staff in hand and by Thorgils' side in an instant.
Not knowing the answer to that particular question, he was to fall quiet. This might well have cost them valuable time if it were not for the sound of steel clashing from farther away.
"What is that sound?" Myrgjǫl grunted sleepily, rubbing at her eyes.
Everyone listened attentively, each of them searching by sound for reassurance that the shadow that had slipped into the tavern whilst they slept had been driven away. It might well have been some childish side of them, one that, with respect to the eldest of their group, had its roots in decades long past and that each of them felt embarrassed by. It was Sigrún who was to set aside her desperate desire to hide from the dark figure Thorgils had discovered and to take command.
"We must step out thither from this place."
"How are we to get around our pursuers?" Guðleifr challenged, unsure of her impulsive proposal. "But we shan't remain here," Sigrún grunted, though not armed with anything more than a mere dagger, she was to charge forth down the stairs. Her family exchanged worried looks, whereupon they surged after her in an act of desperation.
Making its way to greet them, or so it seemed, was a pillar of smoke that reduced not only Thorgils to tears but also his father. Only Auðun was to resist the urge to weep involuntarily, as the smoke gathered force as might knights from the distant lands to Gallia, and charged them. Stepping past the family of Guðleifr, in the middle of the stairs as he moved to take the lead of the small group, chin upraised in defiance of the shade that had moved to menace his friends.
But this was hardly what he first set eyes upon, while Sigrún set about searching for the shadow of whom Thorgils spoke, most of them were to find themselves more interested in the flames that licked away at the nearby inn wall.
"Where is this shadow, of whom you spoke of Thorgils?" Sigrún asked of her step-brother, who, once he had caught up to her, was to glance all about them, in bewilderment when the figure did not appear immediately, as he had expected.
"I do not know, but I would prefer not to wait," Thorgils retorted evenly.
"Fire! We have to get out of this place!" Myrgjǫl snapped as her eyes focused on the wall of flames that separated them from the exterior of the building.
"We have no choice, we must leave through the back entrance, the one to the rear of the building," Thorgils decided, taking command as he brushed past his stepsister, who was to follow after him with nary a protest.
Only the hope of escape through the rear entrance offered their souls sustenance enough to dare, to brave the flames that had already taken root throughout the principal floor of the inn. None of them hesitated with Thorgils in the lead, followed by Sigrún and then Guðleifr, who had picked up the stricken Myrgjǫl. There was naught to alter their resolve, that is, until Auðun came to a sudden stop a short distance from the bar.
"Wait!" He said, stricken with guilt, "What of the other guests?"
"What?" Guðleifr asked of him, startled and bewildered, "Auðun, wait!" But it was too late, the sorcerer's apprentice had already turned back to race up the stairs. "No, stop, you young fool!"
"Wait,Auðun! Stop, you fool!" Sigrún cried out, desperate to throw herself after the other youth, and she might well have gotten farther, had it not been for her Thorgils, who caught her up by the arm.
"Stop, Sigrún, you must not chase after him!" Thorgils yelled, yet the maiden would not heed his words, such was the fervour which had possessed her.
Tearing herself free, after a few seconds of physically wrestling and struggling with him, she was to tear her way away, past the flames and up the stairs and into the heart of madness itself. Frustrated, it was with a great and mighty oath that Thorgils was to move to plunge on after her, when his father stepped forward, thrust Myrgjǫl into his arms, whereupon he turned to give chase after her. "Take Myrgjǫl, Thorgils!"
"But-" Thorgils sought to protest, just as his youngest sister did, her own heart leaping into her throat with no less a sense of urgency than his did.
"There is no time for protests, leave those two fools to me, now!" Guðleifr barked before he turned away to plunge also into the flames, to the great distress of his children.
It happened that Thorgils might well have wished to go after him, but he now had Myrgjǫl to think of. The girl, for her own part, stricken by her own sense of panic for her sister, father, and Auðun, gave a great shriek that made Thorgils' head shake so deeply did it cut into his ears.
"Father!" She screeched from next to him, as he struggled to keep her from leaping out of his arms.
"We must leave them, Myrgjǫl!" Thorgils shouted at her, if reluctantly so, succeeding where he had failed previously with Sigrún.
The smoke by this time had begun to cover the whole of the main hall of the bar, so that it had cloaked the way to the stairs in smoke. It was with a glance across the room, he determined the best possible route, evading the flames to his right that had enveloped the kitchens in their entirety just as they had the front of the building. Plunging ahead, with nary a thought to himself, as he covered his sister with his arms, Thorgils was to throw himself against the door to the rear of the inn.
The door did not at once give way, as he had hoped, so that Thorgils resorted to desperate measures, shifting Myrgjǫl's weight a little higher onto his shoulder, he told her. "Hold your breath, Myrgjǫl, this will only take a moment, and hold my head!"
Hand to his sword's pommel, he was to pull it free, wherefore it was thrust into the door. Ignoring his streaming eyes as the smoke from the flames that were growing ever more noxious and plentiful by the second began to overtake him, he set to work. Carving his way down, then to the left, he was then to pull the blade upwards, pulling at it with all his might.
This done, Thorgils threw his shoulder against the door, which was thrown open, wherefore he was to leap out from the building. Stumbling forward, blade in hand, he was almost to fall forward into one of the many banks of snow that lay a short distance from the burning wreckage behind him.
Dropping Myrgjǫl thereupon the nearest of the banks, he coughed and was almost wretched, such was the nauseous state of his stomach after his encounter with the one figure, and the panic induced in him from the flames. He was pulled, though, from the natural relief that overcame him, to be able to suck in air of the most ordinary sort, by his sister, "Thorgils, look out!"
A shadow was cast just before she cried out, so that Thorgils was given a forewarning of what was to come, ere her cry. Throwing himself against her, he rolled several feet more afterwards, so that he came to rest with Myrgjǫl in the snow, only to leap back to his feet.
The innkeeper stared down at him with undisguised anger and frustration as he held up his axe menacingly. "Die you filthy cur!"
"If I might; better to be a cur than a pig," Thorgils retorted evenly as he regained his footing, his gaze darting from the blade in his assailant's hands to the man's eyes.
The other man differed in how he chose to react to the scornful words of his foe. Where the youth had simply shrugged them off, as armour might a passing sword-blow, the older man turned red in the face and was consumed by rage.
His next axe-swing was swift yet careless; it might have hewn its way through flesh and bone, had it struck true. However, the fact that it did not have more to do with the nimbleness of his enemy than it did with any flaw of his own.
Still, though, the next strike was so sloppy that it threw the old man slightly off balance. It was this opportunity that the youth had been waiting for, as he ducked under the other man's horizontal swing and brought up his sword to bear.
"Blood? My blood?" The tavern-master whimpered as the blade of his intended victim was withdrawn from deep within his chest cavity. It was a terrible sight to behold, as the old man was laid low before his time, and was covered in crimson.
Bathed in his own blood, which soon decorated the snows all about him, Ari the tavern-master thus ended his days in disgrace and horror, amidst snow and twilight. Though he had known the man only for a single day, there was pity in Thorgils' heart for the old man. If only he had not let himself become consumed by greed and become a tool of dark forces beyond his ken.
"Is he dead?" Myrgjǫl asked of him, utterly horrified yet unable to tear her eyes from the dying old man.
"Not yet, but soon, little sister," Thorgils murmured regretfully, "Do not look now, we must see to finding some means by which we might save our family."
"No, Thorgils, we should look," Myrgjǫl replied, if gently so, with a certain prescient wisdom as she remarked, "If we do not look, he will think himself shunned in his last moments. And no man should die shunned and alone."
It was a lovely sentiment, one that only a child could have the wisdom to see, Thorgils mused, though he had little in the way of pity now after a moment's reflection for the old man. It was Ari, after all, who had attacked them, with the intention of killing them for coin, and had it not been for Thorgils' swiftness and Myrgjǫl's warning, the old man might well have slain them.
Worried for her, he was to watch anxiously as Myrgjǫl, though frightened of what she saw, reached out to hold Ari's hand with all the tenderness of a mother hen with her chicks. Holding fast to him as the light faded from his eyes, eyes that looked to her with a great deal of gratitude before his soul departed for parts unknown. Myrgjǫl was to weep openly, for the lost bartender before her.
"Come along, Myrgjǫl," Thorgils was to say to her, after watching over her for some time, his ears straining for more than just the noise of the flames lapping at the crumbling wood of the inn.
"Why? What of father?"
"Because, Myrgjǫl," He told her, with a frown and a worried glance over his shoulder, "The locals are on their way hither to investigate the cause of this fire."
*****
Wary of being seen near a corpse of a member of the locality of the village, Thorgils was to pick up his sister once more, to take her around the building, and to find someone who might watch over Myrgjǫl. His hope was to entrust her to someone else, that he might plunge back into the inferno to rescue his kinsmen.
Stricken, he might well have put himself in danger of the flames, if it were not for his finding near the front of the tavern, neither Thormundr, Wolffish, nor one of the local men. In place of any of them, he was to almost run headlong into the shadow he had seen encompass the inn's kitchens.
Turning the corner just as the other figure was doing much the same, Thorgils was to gape if only for a second at the considerably tall figure, after the momentary battle-rage that had overcome him, earlier when he had confronted Ari, so that he had quite forgotten the dark figure that he had by chance caught speaking with the older man.
Myrgjǫl, for her part, was to gape with no less great a sense of horror and fear, as she made to point at the shadow.
Swift as thunder, the large figure rose a full two feet larger than Thorgils, blade in hand, he thrust it forward with enough might to fell an ox.
Flinging himself back, Thorgils' breath was torn from his lungs, and his eyes were wide as he tossed the youngest of his kindred aside in a maddened attempt to rescue her from the terror that intended to tear more than his breath from him.
*****
Brimstone and fire were more than mighty enough to tear down any wooden building. Able to reduce even the tallest of oaks to mere ashes so that one could be left with little more than a pile of dirt, and a sense of mourning for the once grand monument to nature's glory. Flames since time immemorial have been a source of fear to more than just nature, her pets, and beasts, though. Just as fire cannot spring to life from nothing, and smoke rises from all flames as might a flower from a bud, or a tree from an acorn, so too had this one begun not by nature's design, but by that of some man or woman.
Quite how the fire had begun was a mystery to more than just Thorgils. It was also a mystery to the local people, who were to hurry to the scene of the crime. Some froze a short distance from the fire, with it being the Wolffish who was to take command of the situation, saying to the villagers. "Hurry! We must not tarry, put this fire out!"
Just as they began their efforts to put out the flames, a great many of them hardly took notice of the shadow that looked to be prepared to end the lives of two of the most recent visitors to their village. Many were those who shuffled off to break the frozen surface of their wells, while others made for the distant sea.
They did not have to wait long before Thormundr appeared from seemingly nowhere, yelling at them and waving his arms. "Allow me to assist in this matter! I have the situation well in hand! Never fear, water is an easy element to transmute from another so that this fire is but a small thing in the face of the power of the gods!"
His was a bold proclamation, one that was cut just a little short as he was before any others took notice of the shadow with the sword.
Before Thormundr could properly do much more, there was a great creak and moan that escaped the great inn, one that saw the whole of its roof fall inwards and the exterior begin to shake and tremble. It trembled with such force, such a shrill air about it that all stared at it.
What burst from deep within was something that none could have foreseen, as a great explosion of what seemed at first to all to be water burst forth from within. The liquid broke through the wooden walls of the top floor and, in a great tsunami, crashed over all who were in front of the building. This included the shadow, the startled Thormundr, and even Thorgils and his youngest sister.
Washing up a short distance from them, as they 'rode' the wave so to speak, or to be more apt were cast adrift within it, only to come to a stop near the warrior, were all those he had been concerned about.
"You see now? Transmuting wood to milk was not beyond my skills!" Auðun shouted at Sigrún, who had drifted a little ahead of him, and into the snow, where she at once began to cough and shiver.
Coughing and spitting out milk, where he had fallen, Thorgils was surprised to find his father almost atop him, doing much the same. The two men might have embraced had it not been for the manner in which they had crashed into one another and fallen in the snow.
"Such nonsense!" Thormundr exclaimed from his place a short distance away, "Now I have snow beneath my robes!"
"And I beneath my dress," Cried out one woman from a short distance away.
There were many more exclamations of displeasure, anger, and outrage from those around them. It was only with a start as his youngest sister pounced onto their father, Thorgils remembered his would-be assailant.
His bewilderment turned to consternation and confusion when he failed to find the shade, who had menaced him not so long ago. Confused and uncertain, he was to swallow down the nausea that had overcome him when in the dark warrior's presence. Searching for him, Thorgils was surprised to find that the dark figure had disappeared.
"Who is it that you are looking for, my son? Wolffish?" Guðleifr asked of him, clambering to his feet with another annoyed glance in Auðun's direction.
"No," Thorgils said with another furtive search of the area, "That shadow… where did he go?"
"Mayhaps he hates milk?" Auðun questioned with a quirk of his lips, one that won him an irritated look from more than one person present. He then added for good measure when he noticed some seeking to drink some of the milk or bottle it. "I would not do that were I you fellows, for anything transformed into another material is likely to return to its original shape and form."
"What? Why did you not say so sooner?" One of the local men, who had been rescued from within the burning inn, demanded furiously.
Auðun was to shrug helplessly, with none of his friends inclined to give him more than a mean look, no less displeased with him. They were also no less worried than the locals about slivers should the milk do exactly as he had described.
"Where is that shadow?" Thorgils wondered almost more to himself.
"Mayhaps Thormundr frightened him away?" Guðleifr proposed, thinking this situation to be akin to that with the wraiths that had sought to murder his son and the Wolffish.
This possibility did not seem all too unreasonable an idea, though Thorgils was not wholly convinced as his father was. But as the moment of panic and darkness was behind him, he turned next to worrying over where his friend Wolffish had disappeared to.
It was Sigrún, though, who was to voice her concern for the canine first, ahead of all others, as she accepted Auðun's assistance in regaining her feet. "Where did Wolffish disappear to? I do hope he has not come to any harm!"
She had hardly finished speaking when, from the stables, from deep within the flames that had enveloped it and begun to tear it asunder with no less force than the inn itself, rode a figure. And it was not just any figure, as Thorgils and the rest of them realised at once, but a tall and muscular one, cloaked in shadows and darkness. Riding at such speeds that he could well have put the finest of riders to shame, even ones as talented as Sigrún herself, or Völmung, he was to close the distance between them in a matter of seconds.
Sigrún, for her part, could only stare in shock as the figure bore down upon her, little in the way of mercy visible or to be shown in the manner in which he made to ride her down. It was to be as she stared up at the dark rider that she was to just as she had done momentarily in the caverns of the mountain so near to her home, freeze in place.
It was to her shame that she saw the blade, the rider wielded too late, not that it could have availed her anything, frozen in place as she was.
Thankfully, Auðun was nowhere near as slow to react as she was to the oncoming rider. Fleet of foot, swift of wit, and of the most ferocious nature when provoked, it was he who leapt to her rescue. Torn from the path of danger, it was with a blink of her eyes and another heartbeat that Sigrún was to come to realise that Auðun lay atop her, having just saved her.
"Auðun?" She breathed, hardly able to believe the rapidity of events.
"Sigrún?" Auðun gasped back, and he looked as if to wish to say more.
"I am quite aright, thank you," Sigrún murmured back, as she made to pull herself up from beneath him, grateful for his swift thinking and rescuing of her. It was only when she moved to push against him; she noticed that her hands came away with blood. "Auðun?"
The youth stared at her, his mouth opened only to close once more, whereupon he sagged down against her. Blood flowed freely from the wound that had been slashed open, as his friends and Sigrún stared down at him in alarm. There he was to lie, as his life's blood flowed out from him.