The valley of Dagfinnr, as it was called by some, was known to a great many also as Myrkhrafn Valley. Such was the number of battles throughout history that had taken place there that few men could ever list them all. It was a place where it was said that heroes went to perish, just as they did near the Mound of Kalthéa. Although, unlike the place where Kalthéa fell and where Sigrún the Defender had made her daring stand and had pushed back the Svartálfar, this was not a place of despair. To the contrary, it was said that this was the valley in which the hero Cormac had first arrived to the rescue of the last defenders of Norvech. Arriving with men brought north from Bretwealda to the distant south, he had forged an immediate alliance with Athaulf, one of the most powerful chieftains in Norvech at the time. A hero who had rallied a great many of the local people, who had joined together with his own army to come to the rescue of Sigrún and those she had rallied together.
Athaulf had gone on to become the father of Ashildr, who it was said had married another powerful Ursidon chieftain, by the name of Brynther, who had fathered Athaulf II Gold-Fur. It was this latter figure who had gone on to found the distant city of Brynheimr to the east in Friskalia. Named in honour of Brynther, the city lay at the mouth of the Athulian River. Athaulf II had, it was said, gone east, convinced that so long as he remained, his own line and that of the old Norvechian Kings would in time war with one another. Therein, the east Athaulf Gold-Fur had gone on to become king for a time, only to end his days as a monk sworn to Freyr, after he had passed his throne on to his adoptive son Brynther, who, being a man and not a Ursidon, had wed a daughter of the line of the Völsungs.
It was therein that the valley of death and rebirth, where heroes had fallen and where warriors had been forged, that they chose to rest. Their horses were unable to truly continue on, such was their exhaustion after days of galloping without stopping to rest even once. Panting, heaving, and coughing, the poor animals had run their course and almost fallen to the ground in exhaustion, the moment they were by the river. Full of pity for them, they were to arrange their camp near where the horses had fallen, with only Vegarðr's steed Álfþrek remaining untouched by the journey they had undertaken, and the exhaustive days-long journey. Drawing near to the horse, Helgi had given her more than a year ago, Sigrún was to take his head into her lap after he had drunk his fill, feeding him what apples she still had. She might have sung to him, were it not for her own exhaustion.
Arriving shortly after the suns had begun to set, the small group of adventurers had discovered down in that valley the very edge of the river Sinfjötlelv, along with a small, peaceful, idyllic-looking forest. The river was so named because it was said that it was this very river, Sigmundr had had to give the body of his eldest son, Sinfjötli, to the boatman, shortly after the prince's death, only for Sinfjötli's body and the ferryman to have disappeared in the fog.
The woods, according to Thormundr, were called the 'Forest of Sigrún' or the Sigrúnviðr, for it was there that she had first harried the forces of the Dark Elves, in what led to the final battles.
The trees in this place had begun to regain some of their vigour after the long winter months, though winter remained in force still. Many of them were ash trees or redwoods, and there were, of course, some oaks, birches, and beech trees, along with the odd apple tree here and there. Spread out throughout the area just as the previous forests' trees had demonstrated themselves to be, they surrounded the river that cut through the land from further east. The river itself was hardly all that wide, leagues long; it was, however, about half a league wide and could be forded in under a day, were the horses less ragged.
The ground for its part gave way strangely, to the minds of those more accustomed to the south-westerly corner of Norvech, to a paved road of stone. So that though the snow still covered the local land, the ground felt firmer beneath it, and in some places where the snow did not cover the earth, the road could be seen snaking its way rigidly northwards.
"This is the Brynjarr-Road, it is so named because he was the first to dream of building in as majestic a manner as the ancient Remians did centuries ago." Völmung explained to them, as he kicked some snow to reveal the road that stretched along near the river, "It was built centuries ago and is said to have originated on the other side of the river, and was connected by a large bridge. The bridge itself owed its name to Thyra, the wife of Brynjarr, who named it in her honour, so that it was known as the 'Iron-Bridge' of Thyragja."
"But there is no bridge," Thorgils pointed out.
"Indeed, it collapsed during the Second Wars of Darkness, in the battle of Thyragja, which was named after the aforementioned crossing," Völmung replied, a hint of wistfulness in his voice, as he looked out along the stretching river that carried on beyond the farthest point of the horizon. Frozen, with the odd crack in the ice here and there where water sought to trickle through, and where they might have otherwise crossed or sought to ford, as said were it not for the coldness and treacherousness of its waters.
Sitting by the snow-banks nearest to the river, they took up camp, lighting a fire only when the dawn broke through the clouds, and doing so reluctantly. Cooking a small meal, which consisted of rabbit and a small number of fish that Vegarðr had fished out some days before, they were to boil them in water in a small pot. The meal was hardly the most delicious they had ever tasted; it was so tasteless that no one bothered to even put up a façade of pleasure. They all grimaced and simply nodded their heads in agreement with Myrgjǫl, who complained endlessly about how tasteless or poor her meal was. Hungry as she was, she still devoured two helpings, which won her the praise of even Sigrún, something that left Myrgjǫl beaming up at her father. Seeing how much pleasure his daughter derived from his stepdaughter's praise almost brought a smile to Guðleifr's lips. Almost.
"If the bridge collapsed during the reign of Brynjarr, how come the road is still present? Why has it not degraded to nothing?" Myrgjǫl inquired confused, as she cleaned her hands with some water warmed in a pot brought along by Vegarðr next to the water.
"The road was reconstituted by Emperor Agmunðr, when he united all the northern kingdoms together, if briefly so, and before he went south to conquer Brittia." Völmung explained in a disheartened voice, "That was more than fifty years ago, in the time of my grandfather. This road is the most lasting, along with the fortress of Naglarjárn legacy of Agmunðr, and is a reminder that he abandoned us to go south. Just as all those of his line have been wont to do."
The bitterness in Völmung's voice when he added this last sentence caught the attention of all others gathered about the fire. Sigrún did not know what to say, while a part of her might well have liked to defend the line of Agmunðr, she could not defend them. Helgi had not been particularly fond of them himself, and had grown up during the reign of Agmunðr, whom he had deemed a traitor. 'He abandoned his kingdom, his homeland!' he was wont to cry out and shout whenever the topic of the Emperor was raised. He had even less complimentary words to utter to describe the likes of Agmunðr's sons.
Thorgils let his thoughts be known by spitting on the ground, saying as he did so, "The whole of the line of Kings was poisoned from the very beginning."
"Not so! What of the line of Völsung? I daresay that theirs is a line that has yet to fail Norvech as Agmunðr's line has!" Sigrún defended at once, with far greater passion than those around her had expected her to speak with.
"Well, I simply meant that-" Thorgils stammered, surprised by her rebuttal, as he was of a similar opinion as she regarding the line of the Völsungs.
"We all understood your meaning, Thorgils," Völmung intervened before the young maiden could, his voice melancholic as he sipped from his wineskin. His head bowed for a few minutes, and he pondered and measured his next words with considerable care.
"Bah, the line of the Völsungs was hardly any better. Recall how Anders lost his crown after the Second Wars of Darkness? He meted out his own brand of justice against a large contingent of his vassals, and then left an open rebellion when he died by their hands, to his son." Thormundr objected with a snort as he glanced disapprovingly at Sigrún. "I would have expected more from Gertrud's daughter, really now, the Völsungs were no less wasteful than Agmunðr's line. Recall to memory how old Fastúlfr, who in my father's time sought to reclaim the crown and spilled the blood of his countrymen in his mad quest to claim what he claimed to be his."
"He only did so because there was no King as such, Thormundr," Sigrún argued back, growing ever more heated on the topic. "If you will recall, this was just before the rise of Agmunðr, and it was he who sought to reunite the kingdom and attempted to end the fractious division of our nation. Really, how you can criticize such a man, is beyond me, Thormundr, when I lived with Helgi-"
"But Helgi is not alive, and he lied to preserve the map and think about what has happened because he did not have the strength to do what he ought to have done." Thormundr interrupted sharply.
Hurt and angry by his words, Sigrún could hardly bring herself to summon forth the appropriate words to counter his statement; such was the heat that consumed her at that moment. "How could you speak so of a man you once called your friend?" She said at last, after several minutes of choking on her fury, "Have you so little respect for his memory?"
"It is not disrespect to criticize a dead man's decisions, or what ruin he wrought for himself and those he called his own." Thormundr retorted evenly, speaking icily, he added, "We have been brought hither to this lamentable place, as much by his poor decisions as thy own."
Chastened and unable to rebuke his words as she thought of Auðun and Wolffish, she subsided into silence.
Staring into the flames, as the cold wind arced its way through the land along the river, bringing to them a collection of shivers that none of them could quite resist. Sigrún was to chew on her lower lip, unwilling to admit Helgi did wrong aloud, even as she began to consider that mayhaps Thormundr might be right about his decision not to confide in them about the map. It is all the fault of that mysterious stranger, she told herself, the more she thought about it, the one who arrived suddenly during the feast celebrating her reunion with her family. It was he who cast a pall over the proceedings, challenged Helgi, and he who had since that day continued to cast a pall, it seemed, or so she liked to tell herself.
It was, however, to be Thorgils who piped up in her defence, "Now I do not think that is quite right, Thormundr, as we shan't fully know for what reason Helgi did what he did. None of us may ever know, for what reason he chose to hide the map."
"That is not quite right," Völmung countered suddenly, speaking up for the first time in quite some time, as he looked from Thormundr to Thorgils. Speaking just as the former looked as though he might object, and leap across the short distance separating him from his guardsman, Völmung was to inform them. "Helgi believed that as it was left to him by his father, who had left it by his own going back to the time of Gautstafr, he had no right to burn the map."
"Regardless of how many lives might be lost because of it?" Thormundr demanded only to shake his head in disgust, "Truly, I begin to ponder if I ever truly knew him, and if we truly ever were friends."
At those words, Völmung stared at him. His glare was far more piercing than that of the outraged Sigrún or Guðleifr, the stunned Thorgils, with only Vegarðr looking on dispassionately. Sitting apart from them, nearer to the river, which he would on occasion glance down into, he was to glance but briefly before turning his gaze away once more.
"I do question the same also, yet mayhaps it is not that Helgi did wrong, though," Völmung snapped an accusing light in his eyes.
"I do not take your meaning."
"I think you do, Thormundr," The taller man growled heatedly, leaning forward with an aggressive air that startled his travelling companions. "It happens that you have spoken poorly of Helgi, a man of great honour who, though he did wrong by hiding the truth about the map, did what he thought was best. I would ask, however, given the circumstances of your own departure from Fránir's Tower to the east, if you truly are injured."
"How can you ask such a thing?"
"We have ridden hard for days, Thormundr, a wounded man would have long tired by this time, and yet here you are far less fatigued than Guðleifr or Sigrún." Völmung challenged heatedly, his brow arched aggressively in the direction of the other man.
Thormundr glared back, with equal venom, visibly offended by the impugning of his honour so that he was to growl from between clenched teeth. "You dare to impugn my honour and question my word; I have spoken naught but the truth since I have returned from the north. This is a great deal more than one might say about how you have comported yourself; you who have hidden who you are."
"I am Völmung."
"We have a name, and a little more that we know of you," Guðleifr interjected after having been silent for what had felt to be nearer to months rather than hours. His manner, though, was far less aggressive, far less disagreeable than that of the man who had once employed his services, as he looked on the two bickering men, with a weary expression. "It would be quite nice to know more, especially given that we have been commanded to entrust our lives to not only yourself, but thy friend."
Vegarðr, for his part, did not react to this remark, preferring to begin carving at a block of wood with a small knife he had carried with him, hitherto then. Studying the small block with great interest, he did not seem aware of the world around him. Before him, stretching along, far to the north was the river, from which much of the local harvest sprang, so detached from the world of men did Vegarðr seem that he seemed almost to belong to the river banks and the world of nature itself instead.
If his friend was utterly disinterested in the world about him, Völmung was cut from a different cloth; wise as he was, he found there to be far too many holes within the tale which Thormundr had spun. It was a story that, now that she thought about it, Sigrún found herself no less confused by, and had the suspicion that Auðun, when he had heard it, had not fully believed it.
This left her feeling cold, miserable, and even more confused as to what she ought to believe and what she ought to do. Certainly, they must make their way to Dagfinnr and his home, in Fránnstein, this she knew, and yet a part of her still wondered about Thormundr's intentions. Feeling ashamed of her doubt, she was to reprimand herself silently; he was, after all, Auðun's Master, therefore his own suffering was likely incomparably worse than that of any of those present.
"This is foolish, we should not be questioning our own," Thorgils interrupted also, no less wearily than his father, whom he resembled far more than ever before. Adding with a sweep of his arm to encompass the vast plains, and distant forests and foothills, and mountains all around them, "Look around us, we have naught save each other. We shall either ride into Dagfinnr's halls together, or perish together."
Sigrún half expected Völmung to reply doubtfully, or to otherwise contradict this statement, but instead he was to ponder Thorgils' words, nodding his head as he did so. "You speak wisely, Thorgils. I spoke overzealously, out of affection for Helgi."
If anyone took notice of the continued heated glares that passed between Völmung and Thormundr, none spoke of them. Though she felt some trepidation about the disagreement that had just been exposed to all in sundry to listen and observe, Sigrún still felt some measure of warmth towards Völmung. Pleased by his affection for the man she had come to regard as a second father, and for his kinsmen, she came near to thanking him for his loyalty.
Thorgils and Guðleifr looked as though they were equally discomfited, and were to mutter between themselves. Strangely, it was not to be either of them, or even wise old Vegarðr who looked on still, quietly sipping from his wineskin, but Myrgjǫl who piped up, breaking the silence. Speaking suddenly, she was to surprise everyone, as quite a few of them, even her own father, had quite forgotten her presence. In the dark, quiet evening, her voice seemed to echo all the more loudly than it might ordinarily have done.
"What of the ruined road? Why did Brynjarr have it built at all?" Myrgjǫl was to ask, visibly hurt and worried over the disagreements that had rocked their small group. Innocent and protected, she had since her earliest days been shielded from such things, so that she was wholly unprepared for so explosive an argument between two people she revered.
Where Thormundr looked prepared to entrench himself further, in his refusal to be civil with Völmung, the latter showed little of this obstinacy. Genial by nature, despite his mistrust of the old sorcerer, he was to look on her with a great deal of warmth. "It was to connect the kingdom together and make commerce easier. It is difficult to believe today, but at one time Norvech's roads were bustling with the continuous traffic of ox-drawn carts and of vessels bringing countless goods to her ports. Notably during the reign of Agmunðr, who aspired after the example of Brynjarr, who himself sought after the shining examples of the Remians."
"And who inspired them?" Myrgjǫl inquired curiously.
"The ancient Dwarves, and their Empire."
"The Dwarves had an Empire?" This time her tone was full of amazement, only for her to ask, "But they are so short, how could they build one?"
Her earnest question drew a chuckle from their mysterious friend, who was to reply, "It takes far more to build an Empire than height, my dear. Once you meet Dagfinnr, you will see this. He is one of the most impressive individuals to have ever lived."
The admiration in his voice and eyes suddenly brought the youth of Völmung to the fore for those around him. He could not be much older than Thorgils, and yet there were many times when he seemed far older, such was the weariness and sorrow that seemed to inhabit him. Each of them had observed it and, in their own way, had almost come to think of him as a decade or two older than he truly was. Such is the way of such difficult times; young men grow old before their time, and old men are made younger or more ancient themselves in turn, or so Sigrún had observed.
"How is it that you came to know Dagfinnr?" Sigrún asked of him, curious about this particular detail more than any other.
Völmung opened his mouth to answer, whereupon he thought it over only to say quietly, "I spent a part of my childhood in Fránnstein; that is all that I shall say on this matter."
"But how is it that you came to find your way within his realm, at so early an age?" Thormundr demanded of Völmung, no less suspicious in his speech as he looked on at the youth.
*****
Völmung was saved from having to answer, thanks to the likes of Vegarðr. Where the younger of the two strange individuals had preoccupied himself with speaking to them, the elder had not. Quieter than even Gertrud's second husband had recently become; he had not met the gaze of a single one of his travelling companions for quite some time.
That is, until Thormundr had spoken up, asking after the youth's childhood, with this query drawing from Vegarðr a chilly reply. "All shall be revealed when you stand in the halls of Dagfinnr. But why and how Völmung came to live within the kingdom of the Dwarves is at present irrelevant to our quest and its purpose, Thormundr."
"How so?" Myrgjǫl questioned petulantly, unhappy with him interrupting the exchange between Völmung and Thormundr. Accustomed to being told stories or sung songs of old by her mother, father, or half-brother at this time of night, she was to attempt to push for another song or tale. "I want another story, tell me more of Dagfinnr, how did he become King? Who is he? Why does he rule only the Dwarves?"
"All questions that you will ask him yourself, Myrgjǫl, when we have arrived before him," Guðleifr snapped at her, resulting in her pouting at him. Hardly daunted, he was to raise a single brow in a display of displeasure, quieting her at once by this simple gesture. "And I think it's high time we all go to sleep."
"Agreed," Thorgils said at once, "I shall take the first watch and-"
"No need to discuss who will take what watch, I shall take them all," Vegarðr interjected at once, with a sharp glance at all of them. "I will sleep on the horse in the morn', now off to bed with all of you."
They might well have argued against his suggestion, were it not for the fact that Vegarðr spoke so firmly, looked so resolved that they could hardly summon up the strength to resist him. He might well have been carved from the very stone he sat upon, so otherworldly, so different did he appear to them at that moment.
More might well have been said, were it not for the bone-deep exhaustion that had overcome the whole of their group. They had travelled far, had endured much, and had yet to see an end to their journey, with Sigrún among the first to happily lie down upon the earth, with her cloak tugged up to her chin.
Wearied from a hard day's travel, and with her thighs still aching from riding for day after day, Sigrún was to almost throw herself from her horse. It was with considerable relief that she once more touched the ground with her own booted feet.
No less relieved than she, those around her were to ease themselves down rather more slowly, their thighs stinging no less than her own. Most of them, though, observed her gingerly manner and stride with speculative looks in their eyes, as they journeyed well into the evening. Most might well have liked to stop also, yet they would not and preferred to look on at her worriedly. Thinking she suspected irritably that she might ask them to stop if only for a moment, in response to these thoughts, she swallowed her pride and her pain and egged her horse on a little faster.
*****
The night was silent, such that even the small amount of wind there made little to no noise, allowing for the wearied travellers to sleep once more. It was not the wind or the noise of the darkest night imaginable that might otherwise have most concerned them. To the contrary, it might well have been the falling snow which could well have concerned them most. Blanketing the whole of the land, it fell upon the earth, covering all the flora, all the trees in its beauty. Such was the coldness of its touch that most living creatures in the land of Norvech shivered, or shrank from it.
This, however, was not the condition of those who had journeyed north in the hopes of finding succour from the likes of the Death-Riders. In marked contrast to the rest of the world, they did not shiver nor did they shudder due to the cold. They were quite warm as the fire they had crowded about roared and growled at the world all around it, with a fiery heat that surpassed the comprehension of all men. Kept alive by Vegarðr, who kept also a watchful eye upon the distant horizon, this he did even as he fed log after log into the fire. Regaining his feet only to go thither to cut down several trees, with which he might make more logs for the vast inferno he had encouraged.
It was when the last of those logs was fed that at last Guðleifr, who had begun to sweat horribly, roused and awakened where he slept with his daughter in his arms. Shaking himself awake to complain of the heat and maybe tear off the fur cloak he had pulled up to his chin hours prior, he was to find himself staring in bewilderment at the nearby fire. Unable to believe how much it had grown, he at first did little. It was not until Vegarðr stepped past him, to reclaim his seat by the river, that the second husband of Gertrud scrambled to his feet.
"What in the name of the Grey Wanderer have you done, Vegarðr?" He shouted absolutely scandalized by how large the fire had grown.
"I do believe I have kept the fire alive," Vegarðr replied mildly.
"You have grown it exponentially, what you have done is liable to bring down those Death-Riders upon us," Guðleifr yelled, hardly able to believe that the older man could make such a foolish mistake. "What if the enemy finds us, thanks to the smoke?"
"But they already know where we are, Guðleifr," the warrior replied with a shake of his shaggy head, "Therefore, I do not think it warrants such consternation or anger. The lot of you needed heat, and needed sleep; therefore, I sought to assist you in this matter."
"You ought to have aided us by awakening us that we might carry on with the journey," Guðleifr argued heatedly, his voice carrying so that he shook even those most deeply lost in the realm of dreams from their sleep.
"What has happened? Why is it so warm?" Sigrún asked as she awoke, her mind still bleary from sleep.
Blinking sleepily, the rest of them echoed her sentiments with only Völmung, not unlike a wolf, blinking his eyes only to lose what fatigue there was and to leap to his feet. Swift to gain the side of his horse, which he re-saddled in one fluid motion, he was to have it prepared before any others had so much as properly regained their feet.
Thormundr and Myrgjǫl were to blink their eyes at the warrior, hardly able to follow his movements, and there they remained confused and still half-asleep. That is, until Thorgils was to snap at them, having leapt up after Völmung had, in order to saddle his own horse and that of Thormundr. "Hurry the both of you, lest we abandon thee to the wolves and those Death-Riders, now hurry!"
Both elder and child scrambled to regain their feet and were to cease tarrying, at the command of Völmung, who was to aid Sigrún with the saddling of her own horse, wherefore he assisted her onto it. Though he still protested against the actions of Vegarðr, Guðleifr was to follow the examples of those around him, with visible irritation.
"By Tyr and all the other war-gods, I cannot believe how you took matters into thy own hands in such a manner, Vegarðr," Guðleifr complained fervently, as he assisted Myrgjǫl onto his own steed.
"Do calm yourself, Guðleifr, you fret too much and let those feelings push you, yourself too often to rash actions that you often later regret." Vegarðr said with a piercing stare that halted the other man's next words, "They will not be long, I can already hear them."
Stopping in the middle of moving to mount the horse, both Thormundr and Guðleifr turned as one to follow his gaze, to where the forest was to be found. Stunned to see sitting astride six horses, six shadowed figures of peerless might and foreboding menace near the entrance to the forest, they stared for several seconds.
Scrambling to regain their steeds, it was to be Thorgils who asked as the two men hurried with rather more haste than before, "How did they find us? I had thought that we had left them behind near the cliffs!"
"We did, yet they could follow our trail through forest and water, regardless of how much distance we put between us and them," Thormundr informed them tartly, though he was slightly winded.
"You seem to know a great deal about them," Völmung remarked, unable to hide the slight hint of suspicion in his voice.
Thormundr did not answer, nor did any of them prod much further beneath the surface, frightened as they were, not unlike hares that have been spotted by a fox or pack of wolves away from its warren. A single pull of the reins and verbal encouragement was more than enough for their horses to take fright and charge away, whither to where the only place of safety might temporarily found. No less vicious than wolves were to rabbits, the black warriors behind them set themselves loose upon the partly forested lands north of the woodlands they had stepped out from.
Once more, the chase from the day prior continued, with the shadowed morn giving way to darker shadows as the Death-Riders swarmed their way around the campfire their prey had abandoned. Circling about it, they were to once they had circled about the flames that had taken on a life of their own, spreading and devouring the land and trees all about them.
Seeing the flames take on a life of their own, transforming themselves into the purging fires that served as the only beacon of light for those riding away from them. The flames far away at their back, Sigrún contemplated them for several long minutes as she rode after her companions, who hardly dared to glance back themselves. Being no less frightened than she, they had fixed their gazes upon the north with nary any intention of shifting their gazes from that direction.
"Do not look that way, Sigrún," She was told by Guðleifr, who was to add with another glance in her direction. "Glancing back will accomplish naught save to drive you to madness."
"But-"
"Ride on, ride faster the both of you," Vegarðr yelled, from the rear of their group, his sword in hand.
"What do you intend to do?" Thorgils asked of him, noticing how he had begun to slow and turn his horse about.
"I will seek to slow their advance," Vegarðr said, utterly at ease with himself, in spite of the circumstances.
The steed turned, and he made to gallop back thither to face the enemy, having done what he considered to be his duty, escorting them some distance away from the fire. Certainly, he had not expected the enemy to appear so soon and might have preferred to avoid this confrontation; however, he knew his duty.
At the head of their troupe, Thormundr plunged on ahead with Guðleifr and Thorgils not far behind him. Both of them filled with respect for the warrior who had first saved their kinswomen, they were to urge the reluctant Sigrún forward as she hesitated at the thought of abandoning Vegarðr to the Death-Riders. It was not she, though, who was to halt if briefly so, to offer to remain behind with Vegarðr, but Völmung.
"If you so wish, I will join you," He was to offer, staring from the older man to the enemy riding towards them. "I am not afraid."
"No, Völmung, though I am aware that you are not afraid, but I have no need of you where our friends have a great need of your aid in surviving this day," Vegarðr warned him levelling him with a single eye for a single moment, before he turned away to continue his charge south against those who wished to do them harm.
Forced to swallow his pride and his desire to aid him, Völmung was to reluctantly do as bidden by his friend. Galloping after those who had continued to carry on with their journey north, to Dagfinnr, he rapidly might have overtaken them were he not determined to cover their retreat himself.
They flew across the land faster than they had ever ridden before, then resolved to put as much distance between them and their pursuers as always. The difference this time, though, was that where before they had never truly attempted to have one of their numbers fight with or slow down the Death-Riders by voluntarily attacking them openly, now one of them did just that.
Vegarðr, who had never demonstrated hitherto now his skill in war, was in spite of his own dark garments almost aglow with a white as snow supernatural air about him. It was as though he gleamed, with all the light and beauty of the heavens.
If he had proclaimed himself the Allfather, or the war-god Tyr, he might well have fooled more than a small number of his travelling companions. Most of whom glanced back every few seconds, if only out of concern for him, each of them impressed by how he threw himself upon the enemy with nary a thought for himself.
His sword, which he held high, was long and gleamed brighter than any fire possibly could, aglow with a scarlet light that was both within the blade and seemed to project outwards from it. If it amazed and frightened those it was utilized to defend, it had an even stronger effect upon those it was wielded against. Tearing themselves apart from one another, they were to once more do as they had done in the forest, and prefer to disperse in the face of the great rider charging against them.
Dispersing both to the left and right, with three going in one direction and the other three in the other, with those to the left making as though to give chase after his companions. This, while the other group, those to the right, preferred to string their bows and take aim at the warrior, all while their captain strung his own bow also.
Once more, the warrior was swifter than their missiles, with one of them hardly having the opportunity to so much as do more than notch his missile. It happened, though, that Vegarðr took notice of those whom he had decided to ignore had moved to circle about and continue after those he had left behind him.
Realizing where it was that those he had ignored had decided to fly to, he was to be made to select which group of warriors he was to give chase after. Worried for them, he was made to give up the battle against those who had veered away from him and sought to attack him with their arrows.
His back to them now, he was to throw himself against those who had sought to escape him, crying out a great war-cry that shook the earth to its very foundations. Once more, it seemed as though he was aglow with a great burst of light and seemed more ferocious than he had ever previously appeared. To the eyes of all those who had observed him over the course of their journey, he seemed as strangely ethereal and as unlike them as might the Elves or the gods themselves.
To their credit, the dark warriors who had initially sought to manoeuvre their way around him that they might give chase after his friends.
Seeing how he was distracted by their companions, the chieftain of the Death-Riders made to motion to his companions after the escaping companions of Vegarðr. The other two riders were to nod their heads and assent to his orders, whereupon they were to give chase after those who were in the midst of seeking to escape them.
To those further ahead of them, their attention was torn between the battle taking place far behind them and what lay ahead of them. And what lay ahead of them? A pair of mountains, ones that were unlike any of those that had come before them. Looming high above the land to the other side of the river, there were nigh on a dozen of them. Tall and black when in the midst of summer, they were at present white in colouration due to the winter snows that had long since covered them for several months prior.
The mountains loomed so large, and cast a long shadow over the land near the faintest edge of the Sinfjötlelv-River, acting as a beacon to the desperate travellers, drawing the heroes towards them. Such was the attraction, such the allure that they cast in that hour of despair and desperation that none questioned or hesitated over crossing the frozen body of water.
The hooves of their horses thundered across the frozen wastes, causing the river to creak and groan. A league wide, it would take a great many minutes to cross, and seemed on the cusp of cracking fully open, or so it seemed to the likes of Sigrún. She was to fret somewhere in the back of her mind endlessly, over every centimetre of their crossing and across every second of it, as she encouraged her horse, Vǫrðrstrið, to go even faster every few moments.
"Onwards! Forwards!" She hissed beneath her breath, as a trio of shadows seemed to loom all the taller and ever shorter distances behind her and her companions.
The sound of the ice splintering echoed in their ears, yet still they plunged forward, intent on the mountains. As they neared the edge of the ice, though, Thormundr came to a sudden halt, his great staff in hand and his beard quivering and his hair seeming to crackle with energy as he took the chance to make a stand.
"What are you doing, Thormundr?" Völmung demanded of him, almost coming to a stop himself as he stared backwards over his shoulder at the old man.
"One of us must make a stand! And I have had enough of being hunted like a frightened jack-rabbit," Thormundr thundered, staff held aloft and eyes going to the heavens as he spoke. The tongue he spoke in sounded foreign to the ears of all gathered, and was spoken so quickly none of them were quite able to catch it or separate it from one another.
If the words were foreign, and his voice loud and thunderous enough to penetrate their very skulls so that they could hardly understand much if anything, the result was ever more comprehensible than anything else could ever be.
His staff aglow with a preternatural light, a glow that transcended all other light or rays of the suns' that Sigrún had ever seen in all her life. So bright and vivid was it that it made the dark warriors chasing them pause, pulling their steeds to a sudden halt.
No less uncertain than Thormundr's companions, they seemed confused by his sudden change in tactic, and no less nervous about what he might have in mind. Quite what it was was soon made clear to all as bolts of lightning manifested from seemingly nowhere as he offered up a great prayer to Asa-Thor, speaking loudly with Sigrún now comprehending, if absently, what he uttered. "O, Thor, cast thy thunder forward and bless thy servant that he might smite thy enemies one final time."
The electricity that crackled and spread was to numb the mind of the young maiden, as it, in a great burst of light, struck the ground before the Death-Riders. Smashing down upon where they sat thereupon their black mares, the thunder of his staff was to do so more than a dozen times. Amazed by this, all stared having long since drawn themselves to a halt, to observe his heroics as he struck out at each of the Death-Riders.
Missing each of them with every strike he made, it was with a start that Sigrún realized what it was that he was about; he was deliberately missing each of them with every three-fold bolt that he struck out with. Thormundr did not strike out at them precisely because he had no wish to do so.
If he expected them to remain idle for very long, the old man was to be sadly mistaken, as the captain of the dark riders was to seek to take matters into his own hands. Acting swiftly, he was to once he realized with a downwards glance what it was that Thormundr was about; notching a new arrow, he took aim, swifter than any mortal man could have.
No less supernatural it seemed, it was Völmung who startled everyone by taking action to rescue the very man he had suspected so, before they had flown across the land in a state of desperate panic. Seizing his spear from where it hung, tied to the side of his saddle, he was to heft it and throw it with greater rapidity than any of them could have foreseen. Never before had they seen a man throw a javelin with such strength, or with such passion as he did then. It truly was akin to one of ancient Zeus's lightning bolts, as it flew through the air, landing with a great thud that echoed in their ears, as it smashed through the ice.
If the bolts of light had begun the process of breaking through the ice, the javelin of Völmung saw to the finishing of the old man's great work of breaking through the frozen wastes. Thormundr, for his part, froze just as the Death-Riders had with each of them staring in surprise at the warrior's impulsive act. The arrow that had been notched with killing intent went wide and awry as the ice broke beneath its wielder's horse and as the waters claimed their first victim.
Panicking as the ice split and cracked at last completely, giving way to the deeps below and the watery death that lay down below the waves, Thormundr tore at the reins of his horse. Whipping at its rear with his horse whip, he was to attempt to make for the coast once more, this time blindly so.
Beneath him, the ice cracked, splintered, and at last gave way, having already been over-strained even before he had shattered a great deal of it apart with his magic, and Völmung's daring spear-throw. "We must do something to rescue him!" Sigrún cried out as she began to ride down towards him, but she was, however, stopped by Thorgils.
"No, sister. Stop.You can do nothing more for him!" He cried out as he caught her by the arm, having been expecting her to do something similar to this for some time now.
If she was hardly able to rush to the aid of Thormundr, there was another who was not quite held back as she was. Völmung, already near at hand, to help the eldest member of their party, was to ride down closer to the river, already by the shore, it was he who was to, to the amazement of his friends, move to seize hold of old Thormundr by the arm. Thormundr's horse was already, by this time, half below the waves as it slipped and otherwise failed to escape the ice, before it cracked and broke beneath it.
Plucking him from his horse as it was dragged down below the waves, Völmung was to, with one arm, pull him over and carry him away all without slowing his own steed, which he had turned about and whipped about thither to the shore.
Abandoning the panicked Death-Riders who struggled to throw themselves towards the shore, in a desperate attempt to save themselves, Völmung was to press his own horse, leaving them behind. As the ice broke and he had to urge his steed forward ever more hurriedly, he was to resort to throwing Thormundr if only to rescue the old sorcerer, in what was an act of utter desperation.
Hitting the ground hard, he was to pull himself shakily to his feet, wherefore he broke into a run, all while his horse's death screams resounded throughout the land. Riding hard, Völmung evaded his own end with a great bound forward that nearly brought him atop the old sorcerer.
Refusing to waste a single second, the heroes were to at last cease tarrying and make their way down to Thormundr's side that Guðleifr might pull him up onto his own steed. Hurrying, they were to turn their backs to the shore and race along a short distance up the slope away from the coast in the hopes of putting some measure of distance between themselves and the sight of their enemies' defeat.
"I must say that it is a relief we shall never see those men ever again," Thormundr gasped as they drew themselves for a temporary pause a short distance from the river. The relief in his voice, and the strain of his magic and of the panic that had briefly overwhelmed him, was such that his voice was hardly louder than a whisper.
No less breathless, both from the shock of how all had taken place so rapidly, all shook their heads or nodded to him. None of them was quite able to summon up the words to reply to him, as they for quite some time stared either at him or the river they had left behind them.
Before they could begin to fret about what they should do next, a shadow once more overtook the land as the shadows that had been cast down below the icy wastes drew themselves thereupon the shore of the river. Pulling themselves up from the waters, they were to the stunned horror of their prey draw themselves out horses and all, from below and onto the shore, shaking off the water that weighed down their cloaks as a dog might river water.
Once they had stopped shaking off the wetness that clung to their raiment of steel, the trio of warriors was to once more begin the hunt. Her horse turned about by Thorgils, Sigrún was to be saved by his efforts and those of her stepfather, as the latter, once her horse was turned about, was to strike her steed's rear with his horse-whip. Shrieking, her horse was to once more begin galloping towards yon mountains.
*****
The mountains require a little more description, for while they have been broadly described, there was one of them that was not in fact a proper mountain as one really might think it. Rising from the snowy ground halfway up the size of the largest of the many mounts before them, the nearest to where they were, was, upon closer inspection, revealed not to be a natural thing. In the vast fields to the north-east of the river, it was at a distance hardly remarkable and could easily be mistaken for another of the mountains. It was only upon closer inspection that the discerning eye might take notice of how the great mound that rose halfway up the tallest peak was, in fact, made of stone. Each stone was pale white or silver in colour with a great deal of snow upon them, with the mound rising some fifty meters high above the ground, and was about thirty in width and girth. A pyramid shape of sorts, if a step one, it was glorious and great, with it being wider at the base and narrowing as it rose up into the air. Connected to the mountain itself by way of a large silver bridge that rose high above the ground proper, it led to the largest gates that any of them had ever seen in all their lives.
The gates that began near the foot of the mountain and were supported by gargantuan spiked towers that were connected by a sloping arch, one that had engraved into it a great many runes. They were large and seemed as alive as the world all around them, with the great stone gates beneath the runic arch no less impressive and seemingly alive. There was, however, an ancientness to these gates, as though they belonged to another time, another world that was completely apart from the current one.
In all, under other circumstances, Sigrún might well have loved to examine them closer and ask all about them. But she had neither the time nor thought all that much about them, beyond thinking that though she could not understand Dwarf-runes (they were quite a bit different from Nordic futharks after all), they had at last reached Fránnstein. They had at last arrived before the Kingdom of old Dagfinnr.
At the top of the great mound, there was, though none of them knew it yet, a circular steel engraving that bespoke of this very fact. Doing so both with Norse and Dwarvish runes, which were engraved into the very steel that had been fused with the stones atop the said mound, and that bore the emblem of old Dagfinnr's line. This could not be seen from the bottom, though, and would necessitate one to stand atop the step-monument.
What was most important to the band of travellers, though, once they recognised the mound for being the pathway to the bridge to Dagfinnr's realm, was that they had at long last arrived. They were near, and they were growing nearer, so that a great cheer erupted from their throats. One that was to be transformed into a great whimper or hoarse cry of fear as they took note of how near the Death-Riders now were.
"We are almost there! A little more, only a little more friends!" Thormundr shouted eagerly as he glanced backwards once more, a strained tone to his voice as he urged them on. "Safety lies ahead!"
Far behind them, the dark warriors their bows lost were to resort to their javelins. Hardly able to comprehend how they could have kept hold of their javelins, the heroes pressed on towards the step-mound. It being their last hope, they were to, with many a glance behind them, hurry as best they could, even as the captain of their pursuers held up the great spear he had wielded days prior in the woods to the south.
The spear-throw the day prior had been an utter failure, on the part of the chief rider, so that a part of Sigrún had completely and utterly disregarded his spear. Certainly, its size and length and the heaviness of the weapon had been recalled, yet she had forgotten in all the excitement, so that when she next saw it tear through the air, it was with a great deal of shock.
Thorgils it was who was in for a greater sense of shock as the spear tore through the left side of his mount, and out the right side at the same speed it had shown the day prior. Amazed, there was a moment where all simply stared, even Thorgils seemed at a loss, just before he was thrown forward.
Tossed into the snow near the foot of the great steps up the high mountain of Fránnstein, Thorgils lay still for several minutes, hardly moving.
"Thorgils!" His father shrieked, stopping his horse that he might turn it about, to come to the rescue of his son.
"Wait!" Thormundr called, yet he was interrupted by Guðleifr, who thrust Myrgjǫl into his arms to the shock and anger of the young girl.
"Father, what are you doing?" She demanded no less incredulously than the man who was forced to hold fast to her.
"He is my son, I shan't abandon him!" Guðleifr shouted furiously; in his fury, he was unable to discern who it was that had addressed him.
"Calm yourself, Guðleifr!" Thormundr cried out, but it was too late as Guðleifr had already galloped away to the rescue of his son.
Cloak flapping all about behind him, the hooves of his steed rising and falling not unlike a great stone from a high mountain ere it crushes all beneath it, Guðleifr made for all he had left of his first marriage. Though he had long assumed that Sigrún might not have cared, he was to be as surprised, if far more briefly, so that those others around him stared as she tore a path after the fallen warrior.
Crying out his name as she hurried along thither to his side, she was to do the one thing that had Thormundr cry out for her to stop: unsheathe her sword. "Sigrún, stop! Do not engage in battle with them!"
But Sigrún, consumed by the same fire that had devoured her stepfather, did not pay heed to his words and threw herself forward. Filled to the brim of her being, with the need to rescue her stepbrother, she was to seek to cleave the captain of the Death-Riders with the short-sword she had girded to her belt some weeks ago, when she first left Heiðrrán.
She would not pay heed, though, to the counsel of those around her, and for this she was soon thrown from her horse. Her sword shattered and broken as it met with that of the Death-Rider to the left of the captain of their order. He had drawn his own longer weapon, and sought to slash at her, with her blade meeting his in a fury, steely tangle that saw hers as said broken and destroyed, and his triumphant.
Thrown from her steed and onto the ground, she drew herself away as best she could, just as Thorgils had before her. Where he had regained his feet, and had his sword in hand with Guðleifr at his side, Sigrún was a short distance from them.
Staring up in wonder and terror at the looming shadow, she could do little more than gape at him. Terrified, she was to draw away with her menfolk attempting to draw nearer to her to come to her rescue. They were halted by the other two warriors who attacked with a fury that saw both men forced back, their own swords broken apart and left shattered upon the ground.
Daunted, they were rescued by the arrival of Völmung at their side, his own sword held high as he slashed down upon the wrist of the wicked rider who had come near to stabbing Sigrún to death. Grateful she was to throw herself back, with the warrior still astride his horse holding himself high above her, as the dark-rider hissed even as he drew back, his wrist untouched by the sharpness of his foe's blade.
It was just as it looked as though they might soon meet their end, when Thormundr once more struck out with bursts of electrical light. Blasted from his horse this time, the electrical light was darker than it was before, so that it hardly inspired joy in those who observed it, quite to the contrary, there was a sense of despair that naturally surged in them at its sight. It was with a start that the remaining two riders halted their advance, their gazes drawn to their wounded companion, who struggled back to his feet with some difficulty. Visibly shaken by the blast that had torn him from his horse, he was to however become distracted by the returning Vegarðr.
Arriving in a flash of steel and dark chestnut light (courtesy of his great steed), he was to take a great swipe with his large flaming sword at the half-risen Death-Rider. The foe in question, though, was to throw himself to one side, narrowly avoiding decapitation as he did so.
His sword still tightly gripped, he was to take a swipe at the great rider himself, with the other two Death-Riders glancing back towards the heroes.
Their captain was to slash once more at the two men, who, throwing themselves to the ground to avoid his horse's hooves and slashing blade, the two of them were to pose no further challenge to him. Hardly aware of what he had in mind, they were to do hardly more than retreat before him and seek to put distance between themselves and the dark-rider to his right. Völmung sought to intercede against the captain, and was to narrowly avoid being skewered even as the captain, to his surprise, did something that neither Thormundr nor he could have foreseen he might do.
Tearing his cloak from his shoulders to reveal deeper shadows and dark raiment, the captain threw the cloak in the direction of Sigrún.
Startled and not yet having regained her feet, she had, however, been distracted by the sound of the gates of the Dwarf kingdom thundering open. Roaring open as might the gates of Valhalla, they were louder than the mightiest of thunder or cracking ice. She could be excused for her momentary distraction, which cost her dearly as she returned her gaze to the menace that threatened her then.
Overcome by the cloak, she hardly had time to scream before the whole world around her became darkened, and she succumbed with complete and utter finality to the darkness within the tenebrous cloak of the dark captain.