Sigurd dismounted in the clearing, and saw in the same instant a figure crouched at the foot of a beech tree some distance from the trail. It was a young girl with pale yellow hair tangled over her dark green cloak; he did not know why his heart should miss a beat at sight of her. He made his way toward her over the crust of snow.

  She looked up startled at his footsteps. It was a maiden whom he did not recognize. Her face was plump and fair, with a round chin and heavy-lidded eyes, but her eyes were bleared with weeping and red blotches of color stood in her cheeks. She wore a bridal gown of pale green velvet, with a yellow silken shift beneath and a cloak of dark green silk thrown over it; but the hem of the long gown was torn and bedraggled, and her low red leather shoes were soaked with mud. She looked up at him with parted lips and terror in her face.

  “You do not need to fear me,” he said, making an effort to gentle his voice, roughened by years of shouting against the wind. “I will not harm you. Are you lost? Will you tell me your trouble?”

  She replied in a low voice, thick with tears, “I am not lost; at least, I do not

  care if I am. I have run away from my brothers. They want me to marry Lord Sverre, and this is our wedding day.”

  “That should be no occasion for grief,” he said, perplexed.

  “But you do not know Lord Sverre,” she said. “I had not seen him, at least, not really seen him by daylight, until today when he rode up to the house all dressed in his wedding finery. He is old and hunchbacked, with rheumy eyes and yellow teeth, and he stared at me in such a quick, leering way. I could not bear it—I ran away. But Bragi and Dag will follow me and bring me back, and then I will die, for I cannot bear to be wed to him. I had rather wed an old black crow. But now I am lost, I suppose, and I am afraid I will meet the outlaws, for Bragi says they live in the woods and would think nothing of cutting my throat.”

  Sigmund’s mouth twitched in a smile at this speech, delivered all in an artless rush, but he answered gravely, “You need not fear the outlaws; we will protect you from them. But surely, if you go back to your brothers and tell them that you do not wish to marry Sverre, they will not hold you to it.”

  She bowed her head, and he saw tears fall on the hands that clutched her cloak. “They do not care what happens to me. Lord Sverre has given them gold, and that is all they care for. It will be with me as it is with our cousin Lyngi’s lady; she was a young maiden also, only without brothers or father to protect her, and they say her life is wretched.”

  Sigmund frowned, for some of the names she mentioned had a familiar ring. “Tell me, what is your name, and what is your family?”

  She twisted her hands together in her lap. “You will not force me to go back, will you? I could not bear it.” Her breath caught in a sob, and she looked up into his face with beseeching eyes.

  “No,” he said. “I will not force you to go back. I—had a sister once,” he said. “For her sake, I will give you what help I can.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a tremulous smile. “My name is Ragnfrid Bjorn’s daughter, and we are kin to Lord Sverre of the Hreidgoths. And I fear that Sverre’s men will be searching for me too. They cannot be far behind, though I came through the woods and they would go around by the road.”

  He scarcely heard her last words; he stared down at her with flaring nostrils, his breath coming faster. Kin of the murderers, the men who had burned his father’s house, slain his mother and sister, stolen his father’s lands. But he drew a slow breath, calming himself. He was not a coward, as they had been, to avenge himself on an innocent maiden. Ragnfrid looked up at him with hopeful eyes, her lashes dark with tears. “You had better come with us,” he said, holding out his hand. “We will take you to a safe place until we can find some kin of yours where you will be able to live.”

  “Sigmund!” shouted Halvdan. “Riders!” He glanced back at the road and saw his men hurriedly remounting. Down the trail, jingling under the low branches, came horsemen, riding fast.

  Ragnfrid sprang to her feet, pressing her hands to her mouth. The red blotches stood out against her white cheeks, and her eyes were round and staring with fear. “They have found me!”

  Sigmund took her arm and pushed her behind the beech tree. “Stay there,” he said. “Keep away from the road.”

  He ran to his horse, seized the bridle Halvdan handed him, and swung into the saddle. He had scarcely time to turn the terrified mount before the horsemen were upon them.

  “Hand over our sister!” shouted the foremost, a hawk-nosed, dark-browed man with a scar across one cheek. The riders’ blades were out and flashing before Sigmund could speak.

  “Wait!” he shouted. “Stop! She is unharmed.” But his words were lost in the tumult of screaming horses and clashing weapons. He drew his own sword to ward off blows, trying to steer his horse through the confusion to the leader. Beside him he saw Hromund, bleeding from a great gash in his neck, fall beneath trampling hooves.

  At that, black rage seized him. He swung his blade and felt it bite deep, drew it back red. “To me, Volsungs!” he shouted, and heard the battlecry go up around him.

  He saw another of his men fall, his horse rolling over with him, but their assailants were outnumbered; there had only been eight or nine of them to begin with. He slew the last man himself, ducking the blow of a battle-ax, then reined in his trembling horse and sat gazing around him. The snow on the trail was trampled and spattered with blood.

  “Perhaps they were irritated over something?” murmured Halvdan, riding up beside him. Sigmund glanced over his shoulder toward the girl, and saw her picking her way over fallen branches to the road. With an exclamation he dismounted and hurried toward her.

  “Ragnfrid,” he said as he reached her, but she did not even look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the bodies of the fallen men in the road. He caught her wrist and said, “Come, more may follow.” She pulled away from him; her face was blanched of color and a low moaning sound came from her lips. He tried to catch hold of her again but she jerked away and ran among the horses, to fall on her knees beside the hawk-faced man where he lay sprawled in death. Beside him lay a man with tumbled red hair; she looked from one to the other, her hands outthrust and shaking. “Bragi, Dag!” she cried. With a shriek she flung herself on their bodies.

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

  Sigmund followed and put a hand on her shoulder, but she took no notice. “Come,” he said gently. “Ragnfrid, you cannot stay here.” But she only wept wildly, shaken with sobs, crying her brothers’ names over and over.

  Halvdan reined up beside him. “Sigmund!” he said urgently. “Listen. More riders.”

  Sigmund glanced up the trail, hearing the drum of approaching hooves, then bent and hauled Ragnfrid bodily to her feet. She screamed and fought him, but he picked her up in his arms and bore her toward his horse. “Stop it,” he said between clenched teeth. “If they catch you now they will kill you.”

  She was past reasoning with. His horse backed uneasily from his struggling burden. He set her down and held her with one hand while he seized the saddlebow with the other. Halvdan bent to help him. She struck Sigmund in the throat with her fist and as he bent coughing twisted from his grip, eluded Halvdan’s grasp and ran back toward her brothers.

  The thunder of hooves grew louder; there were many more this time. Sigmund ran toward the girl, but paused to shout at his men, “Go on, ride!” with a wave of his hand.

  He reached Ragnfrid and pulled her up by the wrist as riders burst in force from under the boughs. He seized her arms but she twisted away. He saw the brief gleam as a thrown spear struck her in the side. She shuddered and collapsed against him. He stared at her in horror, at her white face and glazing eyes. Suddenly he was aware of grim men galloping toward him, spears and swords outthrust. Letting her fall he snatched his sword from its sheath and jumped aside barely in time to avoid a whistling blow.

  He felt no need now to hold his hand. These were men of the Hreidgoths, they owed him blood vengeance for his own slain kindred. In red fury he fought, pulling men from their horses in reckless rage. He was aware of his own men fighting around him; Halvdan was tugging Grayfell by the bridle, trying to lead him to Sigmund through the melee. He caught sight of Halvdan’s strained face in the throng; then he was gone, cut down by a spear thrust. Grayfell reared screaming and fled, bloody hooves trampling the fallen.

  Sigmund fought on, scarcely aware of his own wounds. His men fell around him until only a handful remained. The enemy closed in; four of them faced him with spears. With a reckless smile he lifted his sword. Before he could charge onto the spears a blow cracked across his skull, and he fell unconscious.

  When he woke night had fallen. He opened his eyes with difficulty, for blood matted his lashes together, and saw the moon floating in a haze above the dark treetops. He blinked and the moon swam out of the haze. It was his vision that was blurred.

  Turning his head, he saw moonlight silvering the snow, casting into sharp relief the dark huddled shapes of the dead. His mouth tasted of blood; he spat, and with the effort pain stabbed through his temples. His right arm had no feeling, but every breath he drew sent a sickening spasm through his chest; more than one rib must be broken, he thought dully. With his left arm he pulled himself to his side and levered himself to his elbow. There he had to pause, gasping for breath, struggling against sinking into unconsciousness again.

  His right leg was bleeding. He could see the blood, black in the moonlight, welling through the torn cloth, and a dark spreading pool lay in the snow beneath his knee. The cold had numbed it, but he knew he might bleed to death. He wondered in slow bewilderment why he had not already done so. He pushed himself with his one good hand until he sat upright, clenching his teeth against the fiery agony that shot up his leg. Some sensation was returning to his right hand; he could bend his fingers, though he could not use them. Fumbling with his left hand, he tugged and ripped at his shirt until he had torn a strip from it, then bound it around the gash in his leg. He did not look to see how deep it was; within moments the cloth was dark with a spreading stain.

  He pushed himself to hands and knees, gritting his teeth. Slowly he began to work his way across the trampled trail toward the shelter of the trees. Flickers of thought went through his mind; he followed some blind instinct not to die in the open. He had to drag his right leg; it left a spoor of blood behind him to stain the snow.

  As he crawled, he set his hand on a dead man’s face, and flinched away with a sharp hiss. Reaching out once more he felt an eye patch and a short upthrust beard matted with snow, and knew it was Sivord, a lean man whose dry humor and skill as a storyteller had beguiled more than one long winter’s night.

  He knelt in the trampled snow and wept, hard dry weeping without a sound. He felt as if grief and death were the sole outcome of all his journeys, all his days, and he was glad that they must be almost at an end. After a time he choked back his tears; it hurt his chest to sob. Raising his head, he strained to see across the trail. None of the crumpled figures moved; all lay cold and still.

  He crawled on across the trail, dragging his injured leg, until his shoulder scraped the trunk of a fir. He looked up blindly, having forgotten why he was crouched at the foot of a tree; then a pang from his broken ribs recalled him to reality. Seizing a low branch with his good hand, he worked his way to his feet, pausing after every effort to lean against the trunk and catch his breath. At last he

  stood, balanced on his left leg, and leaned against the tree in exhaustion.

  He knew that he would lose consciousness if he did not keep moving. He was not sure why he made the attempt. It would have been much easier to lie down in the snow and fall asleep. But Wulf had never given up, even though he had lost everything, and his son was a Volsung as well, the last of the Volsungs, though their name had become nothing more than a curse and a mockery among their enemies. He clenched his teeth and took a step with his left foot, leaning on his injured leg and bracing himself against the tree.

  He did not fall, though fire lanced through his leg and sweat broke out on his forehead. Slowly, one step at a time, he dragged himself through the wood, moving from one tree to the next. At each one he paused to clutch the branches and wipe away tears of anguish. His breath was labored, his throat dry. He was consumed by thirst. He scraped snow from a branch to melt in his mouth, but it did not satisfy him. He did not dare bend down to scoop it from the ground; he knew he would not be able to rise again. He limped on, trying to keep his mind clear of the red-rimmed fog that threatened to engulf him.

  Shadows leaped at him. He flinched away and saw that there was nothing there, nothing but black trees and moonlit snow. He walked on, and from the corner of his eye he saw clouds of smoke rising, flames flickering from a burning house. He could no longer trust his eyes. He shut them and blundered on, hands outstretched and groping. He had to open them now and again or he would lose his balance and fall. The winter chill penetrated his clothes, soaking wet from lying in the snow, and he began a violent shivering that he could not stop.

  His strength was almost gone. He could scarcely drag one foot after the other. He strained to see into the night. Before him lay nothing but more trees, casting shadows on the snow and seeming to stretch forever. There was no point in casting shadows on the snow and seeming to stretch forever. There was no point in going on, it was a futile journey into darkness and pain. He found himself leaning against an oak, his knees like water, ready to buckle. The snow lay in a smooth curved crest beneath the tree; it looked soft. It would be a relief to sink into it, to lie still and forget all his strivings and failure.

  He glanced up one last time. Ahead of him, through the dark bars of the trees, he saw lamplight shining in a window.