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. She was gripped then not by a sense of fear, so that she was filled with a strange sense of expectation, so that she was filled with impatience.
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 to 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 with 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, while 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 were 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 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 theirs 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 unmistakably 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 backward 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, as 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. She pushed the animal 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. 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 sank 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 unable to see anything to 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.
Heart in her throat, what happened next caused her to forget, if briefly, of the mortal danger that stalked her. Moving faster as the sound of the hooves picked up, she was to find herself tumbling once more into darkness, this time though it was a darkness without end, as she tumbled down the side of a ravine, tearing a part of her raiment and her right leg as she did so.
*****
The scream of the young girl was carried on wings of nefarious shadows, darker than the blackest of men's hearts, as it flew not only to the ears of friends and family but to enemies near and distant. Certainly, they might otherwise have ignored it; however, at this time, they knew one of their prey to be a young girl, and it was for this reason that two of them peeled themselves away from their group and thither into the darkness away from the main 'road'. In hot pursuit of those journeying to Dagfinnr's realm, they had no need of rest, had no need to stop to hunt or forage for food, and never tired. They need only occasionally rest their mounts, and even in the event where they had need to do so, it was a short thing of mayhaps a few hours, wherefore the horse would be keen to once more give chase.
To these Death-Riders, the need to rest made those they hunted contemptible, almost pitiful in their eyes. What was more was that while the likes of men could not see through such a deep fog of shadows, they saw better in the dark than in the light of day.
Hunters by nature, they were to find their way near to the ravine which Sigrún had stumbled down, dismounting with a speed and a grace that was as inhuman as it was uncanny. Their enormous cloaks blanketed the snow, so that the snow, which was already hardly discernable in the fog, became if possible even more difficult to discern.
Looking down below, the pair searched about with their eyes for several long minutes, hardly moving as they saw with eyes unseen for the barest hint of cloth or girl. Finding naught more than some slightly disturbed snow, they listened as intently as they could.
To their frustration, though, there was no sound to be heard.
The snow had been disturbed; this they could discern, and yet there was not a sound to be heard from the small outcropping just a few meters below them. Able to see as far down as the ground proper, past the slight outcropping, the two did not communicate with one in the manner one might have expected of them. It was undeniable that they somehow did communicate as their heavily shadowed faces moved about, with one of them pointing down far below the cliff. The other seemed to ponder this, his hand coming up to stroke a chin that could not be seen by any other sort of observer than one of his brethren.
It was surely an odd sight, save for the most uncanny and otherworldly of visitors. Being neither of these things, Sigrún was to stare and shiver, able to see them only with the utmost of effort as she had to crane her neck a great deal, to observe them from where she stood.
Pressed as flatly as possible against the cliff-side, her right side aching and throbbing from the pain, and from part of her leg being now almost completely exposed to the wintry cold, she had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering. Whether it was pain or cold, she wished to silently whimper against, even she could not determine, she knew only that were she to let a single sound slip, it would be the end of her.
It also did not help that, as she had landed hard upon her back, she had nearly slipped off the side of the outcropping, only to have grabbed hold of the earth before she had fallen. Pulling herself up that she might escape from the doom that lay far below, she had done so only after a desperate moment during which she thought herself lost. Sigrún succeeded at last in pulling herself up, only after she had grasped onto the nearby root of a tree that had burrowed beneath the earth and out along the cliffside.
Breathless after the fright and effort of pulling herself from where she had dangled over the side of the cliff, Sigrún, hearing the hooves of her pursuers, had then thrown herself against the cliff wall. Heart in her throat, she was to clamp both hands over her mouth as she struggled to stay still and retain her balance on the narrow edge. Backed up to the right side of the ledge, where it was nearest to the cliff which curved outwards, so that only the left side was visible, Sigrún felt herself to be equally cursed and blessed.
Jutting out barely half a meter from the side of the cliff, and about two meters long in length, struggling to keep from gasping, all while her lungs were burning, such was their desire for air.
Up above her, the Death-Riders continued their frantic search.
Praying that they would not hear her pounding heart, she was to stare up, fearful and certain that they would soon discover her and otherwise run her through, with the swords girded to their waists. Terrified, she could feel her heart pounding with the force of a battering ram against her ribcage.
The two moved one inch closer, then another to the edge, then another so that they moved ever nearer.
A distant noise, the sound of hooves once more striking the ground, resonated throughout the land, startling not only Sigrún but also the Death-Riders, who froze at the sound.
It is impossible to say what it was that frightened them so about the newcomer at first; all that Sigrún could discern was that just as there was a pall cast over the land and the cliff-side, one moment, in the next it was cast aside. Once more, the snow regained its pallor; the sun began to ease from behind the clouds, which remained dark still though they failed to entirely overshadow the whole of the land.
It was with the most supreme of efforts that she perceived the source of their fear and bore witness to the most astonishing sight she had ever seen in all her years. Blade in hand, Vegarðr stood tall, his brow cast prominently forward and his eyes ablaze with fire, it seemed. Never before had he seemed so tall, so mighty, nor did he seem almost to glow with a surreal, if pale light that threw back the darkness cast by the pair of Death-Riders.
"Back, I said back, you knaves of fell shadows! Return to thy master, and tell him that Vegarðr the Wanderer has arrived!" His voice booming throughout the forest, so that it rang with the titter of anxious birds, and the barking of apprehensive dogs, Vegarðr was to do far more than simply shout. The sound of steel being drawn from a scabbard was heard, and there was an explosion of light, of the most beauteous and terrible sort that poured down across the land.
Washing over the snow-covered land, not unlike the rain in spring, he swept aside the darkness with the force of his blade. There was to be no clash of steel, as daunted by his sudden appearance and fearful of defeat, the twin riders were to pull back, preferring to fly from that place. Where they flew? None could say for certain at the first, least of all Sigrún or even her rescuer, for he was not greatly interested in where they flew.
Stunned that they had taken fright as they had, Sigrún was to remain where she was, unsure of what to do or whether she should seek to climb back up the cliffside. It was only when a line of rope was thrown over the side, half an arm's reach from her, that she was to be told by an impatient Vegarðr. "Take the rope, fool girl, unless you wish to remain there!"
"What? But Vegarðr, how did you chase those demons away from here?" She asked, shaken and confused by the sudden appearance of her friend.
"Hurry, they will not stay away for long, and will soon return hither and in greater numbers!" Vegarðr informed her desperately, shaking the rope nearer to her that she might take the hint he had given her.
This time, she was to take the hint that the warrior gave her and was to latch onto it with both hands, at which time Vegarðr pulled her up almost in one single pull. Surprised, the girl was to be caught between smiling gratefully at him and thanking him endlessly.
Before she could begin gibbering out thanks, the middle-aged man took in the sight of her tore leg and was to lift her up and almost throw her onto its back. "We must be away, leave your side to me, my dear."
Sigrún stared at her rescuer, utterly bewildered by the quick movements of Vegarðr, who tore a strip from the spare cloak that dangled from one of the larger pouches attached to his steed's saddle. Applying the shred of cloth as one might a bandage, he tore another strip which he used to bind the wound closed. So swift was he that before she could do much more than blink her eyes, he had mounted the dark chestnut stallion he had ridden to her rescue upon, and had snapped the reins, urging the horse forward once more.
"Hold tightly to me, lest you wish to fall once more, Sigrún," He grunted, ere they plunged whither past trees and branches, into the dark depths of the forest.
*****
They rode once more after those he had left behind him that he might come to her rescue, with the two riding with enough swiftness that the young maid almost convinced herself that the Death-Riders were now firmly behind them. She was soon disabused of this notion after a swift glance beneath his arm. Quite some distance away, racing as swift as a bolt of lightning were the riders who had so distressed Vegarðr, with the young maid to her distress counting not two but all six of them.
At their head raced the tallest, and greatest of them; a dark-mailed figure who, though no less shadowed than his peers, wore a hauberk with the symbol of a wilted twinflower engraved upon it. Armed with a great spear made of purest iron, which he hefted with an ease that few men could have done, such was the weight and size of it. Certain she could neither have wielded it, let alone hefted it so easily, nor even consider throwing it as lightly as the dark warrior did.
His spear-throw was the stuff of legends! Magnificent and swift as the chariot of the Ram-Lord, it was no less inhuman in its grandeur than he, such that it was to tear a frightened shriek from Sigrún's throat.
Where another javelin might well have hissed through the air, this one was to roar, it seemed to her ears, past where they rode and into a nearby tree.
"Down, and away to the left!" Vegarðr shouted desperately, covering her with his own muscular frame.
Pushing his steed to veer far to the left that they might avoid the missile, which to their relief embedded itself into a nearby birch tree, splitting it in half, Vegarðr was to urge his horse on faster.
The two riders nearest to the one who rode at the head of their small troupe followed his example by readying their bows and notching an arrow each. Guiding their steeds with their legs, they were to take careful aim, wherefore they let loose their projectiles.
Dread. That was the only thing that Sigrún could feel at the moment that the arrows fell upon them, not unlike black rain. The darts came near to piercing their backs so that the maiden froze thereupon the horse's saddle. Where she gave herself over to a monstrous terror, Vegarðr was to in contrast to her retain his presence of mind, and it was this that allowed him to weave his way about and around each of the trees. Behind him, the two Death-Riders peeled away from where they rode a short distance further behind their brethren, who for their own part were hardly idle. Dancing their way about a number of trees, the two riders sought to notch another series of lethal darts that they might at last bring about the end of their prey.
As they captured and preoccupied the attention of Vegarðr, Sigrún, it was who seated in front of him, found herself staring at first down the path before them, upon countless trees, and right of them, as they raced through the forest. "Vegarðr! They are to either side of us!"
"I see them, Sigrún," Vegarðr replied calmly.
In spite of his cool manner, Sigrún could see from the way he furrowed his brow that he was considerably more worried than he wished her to see. Growing ever more consternated when she saw this, she was to call out still, though she knew it was a needless gesture on her part. The two Death-Riders were to draw ever nearer even as Vegarðr whipped his steed forward with continued focus.
A swift glance at the road ahead showed that while she had been distracted by what lay to either side of them, Vegarðr had guided them towards a great cliff.
The cliff was a large canyon, a gap that had severed the two sides of the land apart from one another, with the canyon stretching more than eight meters wide. Thrown across the middle of it was a great oak, one that had been hewn from its base some distance from the ravine, and that was two horses wide.
Over yonder to the other side of the canyon, bent over the side of it were Sigrún's kinsmen, currently hard at work attempting to hew away at the large log. Their efforts were slowed considerably by the thickness of the block of wood and by how none of their implements were made to cut away at such a thing. Standing impatiently to one side was Thormundr, who watched the approach of the great rider with an anxious expression on his creased and wrinkled face.
"Hurry! Hurry, Vegarðr!" He shouted loudly, waving his arms even as he raised up his staff, with both hands in a defiant gesture against the dark riders.
Heart thundering in her bosom, when she realized what it was that her rescuer had in mind, which appeared far more horrifying and altogether more frightening than anything either rider could do, Sigrún shrieked at him.
Vegarðr ignored her cries for him to stop, his gaze rooted upon the fallen tree; he paid neither her nor their pursuers the remotest attention.
The twin pursuers' spears, well in hand, struck as swift as shadows. The first spear-thrust missed her rescuer by several centimetres, where the second was to leave a great gash along his right shoulder.
Crying out in pain, Vegarðr was to evade a third thrust by leaning forward even more, whereupon he snapped his horse whip and tugged at the reins of his steed. The horse, being no less intuitive than he was to leap thereupon the oak just as the two riders pulled themselves to a halt near its roots.
"Stop, Vegarðr! Stop!" Sigrún screamed, consumed by fear and a sense of vertigo as her stomach gave out and she lost her lunch over the side of the tree.
Gritting his teeth, Vegarðr ignored her once more.
Some distance away, the rest of the Death-Riders appeared, bursting forth from the woodlands, making for the cliff as the two nearest backed away their steeds a little so that they might, one at a time, leap upon the tree's trunk also.
Hardly slowing his advance, Vegarðr was to cross it in less time than one might imagine, yet every second stretched out for an eternity to the frozen Sigrún. Her mind numb from fear of falling, she was to stare up at the man who held her in his grasp, as they made it at last to the other end of the tree.
"Hurry, Thorgils, they will soon be upon us!" Guðleifr urged as he hacked at the log of wood until his small hatchet was rendered dull as a spoon.
"I am trying!" Thorgils snapped as he did much the same with his own axe.
"Hurry!" Myrgjǫl shouted with no less fervour than all the rest of them.
"Allow me!" Thormundr bellowed at them, shifting his attention and magic from his attempts to blast at the enemy to concentrate them upon the log.
Before they could ask of him what he had in mind, a burst of flames poured out from the ball affixed atop his staff and onto the great log. Continuing to pour flame after flame upon it, it was not simply that he soon had it ablaze but that the tendrils of fire began to devour it ever more with every second that passed. Pouring fire not only near the summit of the tree, but upon the middle of it, which began to erode, all of them stared in mixed horror and dawning realization as to what it was that he had in mind.
Seizing hold of it, Thorgils and Völmung were to slowly lift the log whilst the horses of the Death-Riders reared back from the flames that had suddenly engulfed the log.
Struggling to lift the burning log, they were to sigh in relief when Álfþrek his Elf-Steed arrived near the summit of the log, leaping high over their bent heads.
Leaping from his horse at once, Vegarðr hurried thither to join them, in their endeavours, which began to see some success when he and the hesitant Guðleifr at last joined in the attempt to lift up the log. It was with a great deal of satisfaction that the log at last split where the flames had jutted towards, and was thrown over and down the ravine.
Falling far, far below with a series of screeches, the two riders tumbled far out of sight, with each of them staring down after them. That is until an arrow whistled past the sagged and gasping Thormundr's ear, causing him and several of his companions to leap up and hurry away from the cliff sides.
Panting breathlessly after the fright that they had endured, they were to all sag against a group of trees and stones near the cliffs, each one of them fatigued after having danced so closely with death. It was with a sigh, though, as the Death-Riders folded back into the forest, doubtless to find another route across that Völmung said, "Let us put an end to this tarrying, lest we fall asleep and awaken in the underworld."