Torbjorn knelt by the river bank, scouring the dishes from breakfast when Vidar awoke. Gathering the waters in his cupped hands, he splashed the cold waters over his face and through his long red hair. He repeated this action a few more times.
“I’m not so certain of our companions, my lord,” said Torbjorn. “They haven’t said one word since we left the witch’s hut. Why did they come with us? How are they going to help us?”
“I know not, Torbjorn,” replied Vidar. “All I know is that the witch sent them with us for a reason.”
“What if that reason is to slay us in our sleep?” asked Torbjorn.
“Do not be so quick to suspect, Torbjorn,” said Vidar.
“Do not be so quick to trust, Lord Vidar,” said Torbjorn.
Vidar gave a slight chuckle. Once he had finished washing his face, he returned to camp and began packing up the gear.
“Where go we now, Lord Vidar?” asked Agnar.
“We go south,” replied Vidar, mounting his horse. “Surely we shall pick up the trail of the Huns that way.”
Agnar nodded. He was a man of a mysterious aspect. A thick, fair beard flowed down to his chest. His hair fell in waves around his shoulders. Scars from various battles marred his face, but he was not unhandsome. His eyes, curiously, had a yellowish tint, as did Gunhild’s. He wore a long blue tunic beneath his black cloak, a simple pair of breeks and leather buskins. An ornate dagger dangled from his leather belt; it had a curious, foreign design. The handle looked as though it was made of the tooth of some enormous animal.
Agnar wore a long gray gown, which frayed at the ends, and simple leather sandals. Her fair hair was beautifully braided. Indeed, she was a rather attractive woman - had Vidar been unwed, he surely would have tried to win her affections.
The four strangers rode again toward the south, passing through forest and field in search of those villainous raiders. About the third day, a youth came stumbling out of the forest, and fell to earth not far from Vidar’s horse. The Gothic lord turned his horse aside. Leaping from the saddle, he knelt down by the lad’s side. He bled from a number of wounds. His youthful strength was failing.
“What is your name?” asked Vidar.
“Svain,” choked the youth.
Taking the skin from his saddle, Vidar poured some water onto his chapped lips.
“I am Hroder’s son,” said the lad. “I hail from the village over yonder hill. The Huns ransacked it and I alone am left. And I am afraid I shall not be for much longer.”
The fierce anger which had driven Vidar to consult the witch burned hotter once again.
“Where have they gone?” asked Vidar.
“They are returning east with their spoils,” replied Svain.
Vidar nodded.
They did the best that they could to treat Svain’s wounds, but he had lost much blood. He was dead by nightfall. After a short funeral for the youth at daybreak, the four set off eastward, following the trail of destruction in the wake of the Huns.
After another day of hard riding, they finally came upon the Hunnish camp. It was nightfall; the moon lifted her nearly full face over the countryside, illuminating an otherwise black night.
Torbjorn stayed behind to mind the horses, while Vidar, Agnar and Gunhild crept near the camp to observe their numbers.
There they sat about a roaring fire, singing and laughing in their harsh, brutish tongue. Short, broad folk the Huns were, with swarthy skin, narrow eyes and thin beards. They sang their odious songs, playing crude instruments as they danced with the Gothic women they had captured, if one might call it dancing.
Out of the turmoil came a familiar shape; Vidar would know her anywhere, though her face and body were marred with stripes and bruises from the ill-treatment she had received. It was Astrith. Her clothing hung in rags about her lithe body. The Huns jerked her about in their hideous dance, but still she strove against them. At least they had not broken her spirit.
Vidar’s heart burned with rage. He started to draw his short sword from the scabbard, but he felt a hand on his shoulder. He peered at Agnar who stood next to him, shaking his head. Turning around, they returned to the camp, where Torbjorn had prepared a small meal.
“What was that?” snapped Vidar.
“Now is the time,” replied Agnar. “You will have your revenge when the moon is full, and not before.”
Vidar glared at Agnar; his blue eyes were as cold as the north wind, but he relented. Vidar knew little of witchcraft, other than a few charms to protect his home and family from black enchantment. Agnar surely knew better and it would be foolish to challenge so many Huns with only three men. The full moon would follow the next night, and the enchantment, whatever it was, would be at its full power.
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