Vidar Tormundson stood at the edge of the smoldering remains of what had once been a village. The scent of burning wood and thatch stung his nostrils as he surveyed the ruins. A gentle wind ruffled the fur of his wolf-hide cloak. By his side stood Torbjorn, his cousin and hunting companion.
Gone were the sounds of laughter and singing which Vidar had expected to hear upon his return from the hunt.
“Come,” said Torbjorn, gently placing his calloused left hand on the Goth’s shoulder. “There may yet be some left alive.”
Without a word, Vidar led his speckled horse, Blitz, through the charred huts, Torbjorn following behind.
“Astrith!” he called, hoping beyond hope that he would hear his wife’s reply. “Gostaff! Dagny! Come out! Your father has returned!”
But no reply came. There was only the croak of ravens come to peck at corpses of his slaughtered kinsmen. Hoofprints and discarded arrows pockmarked the earth. Vidar spied a bow lying on the ground, its curious curved shape belying its Hunnish make. Vidar gripped the bow, squeezing it as though it was the neck of a serpent.
Then he came to the ruin that once was his home. One last time he called for his wife and children. But again there was silence. He began sifting through the charred wood and ash until he found a scrap of burnt leather, about which was a bronze belt buckle; the one he had given his son Gostaff upon his first successful kill.
Vidar roared with the fury of a lioness robbed of her cubs. Torbjorn wrapped his arm around his cousin’s broad shoulders, sobbing uncontrollably.
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