The hunting was sparse the first day, but in the late afternoon they started two young bucks from hiding and ran them down with much shouting and barking from the hounds. Just at dusk they came across an old wild boar, and Sigmund sat soothing his shivering pony while Njall stalked and feinted at the wiry, furious beast. At last the boar charged, and Njall knelt and spitted it on the boarspear. But it still charged on with a horrible grunting, and Sigmund saw why they needed the crosspiece. There was a moment when he had to look away. He thought he was going to be sick, but to his relief he was not.

  They hauled the carcasses to their campsite, where they swiftly skinned and hung them up in the deepening dusk. Then they built up a roaring fire and Sigmund sat next to his father, gnawing on a slice of roast venison that tasted better than it ever had at home. A chill wind blew out of the forest at his back, but his knees and toes were too hot for comfort, so that he had to keep squirming around to keep from being roasted. He fell asleep at last in the circle of firelight under the frosty stars, with a heavy bearskin thrown over him, the rough music of men’s voices in his ears, and the smells of woodsmoke and musty fur in his nostrils.

  The next day was better than the first. Sigmund woke stiff and cold, but cast off the bearskin and sprang up with eager anticipation. He rode after the men that day with abandon, forgetting all his mother’s nervous admonitions, intoxicated with freedom. By nightfall they had shot three bucks and a black bear; if their luck held out they would have meat enough to last half the winter.

  When he rode into camp that night behind Wulf, he was weary and aching from his long day in the saddle, but it was a good weariness that soaked through all his bones. He sank down half asleep beside the fire, leaning dreamily against a stump at his back.

  “You bring us luck, boy,” said Wulf, slapping his knee. “You had better come on all our hunts after this.”

  Sigmund said nothing, but his heart was replete with contentment. A little later he said drowsily, “I wish we could live like this always.”

  Wulf grunted. “It would be hard work enough, after awhile. And there’s something to be said for the womenfolk.”

  “Something to be said for their absence, too,” said Galarr, a married man, and provoked a brief spate of amused comment.

  Sigmund yawned. A warm soft tide of sleep was beginning to steal over him. But the fire was dying to embers, and the men sitting around it talking in low tones seemed disinclined to move. He roused himself and stood up to fetch more wood from the heap of logs that earlier he had helped stack against the trees. He picked up an armload, but as he reached for the last stick his hand faltered and he nearly dropped the load. He was seized by a sudden rush of terror. His heart stumbled and began to race, and cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He stiffened, gazing wide-eyed into the dark snow-laden woods, but there was nothing in sight to have caused such fear, no reason for it that he could see.

  The terror passed; his heart slowed to its normal beat. He straightened slowly, feeling sick and shaken as he had felt only once or twice before on waking from a nightmare. He felt empty inside; all his joy had drained away as if it had never been,

  When he had laid a log on the fire and sat down numbly in his place again, Wulf cast a sharp glance at him. “What is it, lad? You are white as a ghost.”

  “I am all right,” said Sigmund miserably, pulling his knees up and hugging them.

  “Are you ailing?”

  “No,” said Sigmund hesitantly. “I feel—as if something has happened. Something terrible.”

  Wulf gazed at him in silence, a frown creasing his forehead.

  Sigmund licked dry lips. “Are we going home soon?”

  “I cannot say,” said Wulf. “It depends on how the hunting goes.” He looked at Sigmund with eyes narrowed for a time, then said, “Here, lie down and go to sleep. Maybe the excitement has been too much for you. Your mother thought it might be.”

  “Maybe,” said Sigmund, too weary to care. He lay down as Wulf had told him and pulled the bearskin up to his chin. But it was a long time before he fell asleep. He was abnormally aware of every snap and sputter of the fire, every creak from the dark woods behind him, as if his moment of fear had roused all his senses to fever-pitch. The men sat talking in low voices with the firelight shining on their faces, and their talk and laughter were reassuring; but now and again in their conversation he caught, like the glimmer of moonlight on a river sliding between dark banks, a glint of uneasiness. He tossed under the skin, missing the comforting warmth of Siglinda nearby, feeling suddenly as if part of him were missing. He lay miserable and heartsore until at last he drowsed off into fitful dreams.

  When Sigmund and her father had ridden off, Siglinda ran back into the house. It was warmer inside, but the hall seemed dark and gloom-ridden after the broad white snow-covered fields shining under the pale morning sky. She heaved a sigh. She would much rather have ridden off at her brother’s side than stayed behind in the house to do women’s work. Already she felt an emptiness in the house without him; she missed his quick step, the gleam of his bright hair bent over some harness he was mending, the simple comfort of his presence.

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  Gisl came in more slowly. “What are you doing?” she said sharply. She spoke more harshly than her wont, but Siglinda took no notice. Her mother was always worried when Sigmund was out of her sight. “You and Astrid can help Drifa with the baking today; and when that is done, we need fresh bedstraw in the loft. With the men out from underfoot maybe we can whip this house into some order.”

  “All right, mother,” said Siglinda, and went away with a skip to find Astrid. Drifa always let her and Astrid make a small cake for themselves on baking day.

  So busy was that day and the next that she scarcely thought about her brother except at bedtime. On the second evening, when she crept under the sheepskins in the sleeping loft she shared with him and her parents, she lay in the darkness listening to the wind whistling around the eaves, thinking of Sigmund far off in the cold forest, asleep beside a campfire. She wondered how he liked riding with the men, and whether he had shot a deer himself yet. She missed the sound of his quiet breathing from the pallet opposite. Sometimes when she had nightmares, or early in the winter mornings when the fires were not yet lit and it was too cold to get up, she would creep across to his bed and curl up beside him. They would whisper and giggle together until she fell asleep once more, safe and comforted in his presence. But now he was gone, and it took her a long while in the lonely dark to fall asleep.

  A scream awakened her. She sat up with a terrified gasp to the sound of shouts and the thud of running feet. A red glow flickered through the cracks in the loft walls.

  Clad only in her nightgown she climbed down the ladder to the hall, to find housecarls and stablehands in a turmoil. Her mother stood in the center of the confusion, her hand pressed to her heart, her face white. The shutters were closed and barred, but through chinks Siglinda could see milling dark shapes and whirling fiery torches.

  She crept to her mother’s side. Gisl noticed her with a start, as if she had forgotten about her, and catching her up in her arms hugged and caressed her with tears streaming down her face. “Why did he have to leave us alone?” she murmured over and over. “Why did he go off and leave us?” She carried Siglinda to the corner of the hearth, out of the way of everyone, and bade her sit there quietly and not stir.

  Siglinda did as she was told. She watched the house catch fire, beginning in the roof above the loft and spreading down the southern wall. The smoke made her cough, and she covered her face with her sleeve. She grew terrified and would have gone to her mother, but she could not see her, and she was afraid to venture into the smoky dusk shot with flying sparks where frantic figures collided.

  The roof beams overhead were ablaze when Astrid the serving girl ran by, her braids flying, looking wild and disheveled with a great streak of soot on one cheek. She paused and stared at Siglinda, then caught her by the hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, child, you will burn up!”

  Siglinda pulled back, afraid of the wild cries and the darkness, but Astrid pulled her along ruthlessly. They passed through the kitchen, where the keg of ale lay with its staves broken, flooding the floor, and reached the outer door. On the threshold Siglinda stumbled and fell. She lay without trying to rise, though Astrid tugged at her hand. She was more frightened of the dark spear-shaking figures outside than the smoke and flame within. Suddenly Astrid lost her grip; Siglinda heard a shriek as she vanished into the spark-laden darkness.

  Then a hard-muscled arm lifted her, and she stared into a black-bearded face. The eyes lit by the flames were small and dark, the cheeks were like blemished red apples, and the lips were full and red, stretched in a grin showing discolored teeth. She opened her mouth to scream, but she was so frightened that no sound came out, only a breathless whistling sound. Fingers gripped her chin and forced it up; the grin broadened, and he shouted over his shoulder, “Look what I’ve caught! A more tender chicken than yours, Ivar.”

  He threw her over his shoulder and bore her away to a horse tethered to a fence post. Binding her wrists to the saddlebow he strode away, shouting orders into the torchblown darkness. From the horse’s back, dazed and uncomprehending, she watched shivering as the flames soared high, licking at the black night, casting a lurid glare across the farmyard; until at last the timber frame, charred black against the glow, collapsed with a crash that sent up a hissing fountain of sparks. With the fall of that darkness she felt as if her world had fallen in, and sense and feeling fled as she bowed over the horse’s neck.

  Sigmund woke in the morning and stared up into a pale blue cloudless sky that promised to be as fair as the day before. But at the edge of his mind still gnawed a nagging dread. He rose slowly and went with dragging steps to saddle his pony.

  As he rode after the men that morning, gradually the feeling of emptiness faded. His high spirits of the day before did not return, but he was able to derive some pleasure from the crisp wind buffeting his face and the rhythm of the pony’s motion. Once or twice he caught his father’s eye on him and made an effort to look cheerful; as Wulf said no word to him he thought he must have succeeded.

  Some time after noon they struck a deerpath winding up a steep slope. Below them gradually unfolded the vast reach of the forested valley and the hills encircling it. At intervals between the trunks of oak and alder they caught glimpses of the valley floor. Njall called back to him over his shoulder, “We should be able to see our stead when we reach the open.”

  They mounted a broad spur of the ridge; below it the trees fell away to give a wide splendid view of the valley. Sigmund was encouraging his pony, negotiating the last rocky stretch of the trail, when he heard one of the men in the lead cry out “Wulf!” in a breathless voice. His father rode quickly ahead. When Sigmund caught up with them, they were gathered in a silent knot on the spur, looking down at the valley. He followed their gaze, bewildered, and at first could see nothing but trees: vast reaches of snowclad forest marching down the slopes. The westering sun cast blue shadows across the silent distances.

  The valley was filled with a great stillness, like a blue well of air. Now and again a branch dropped its weight of snow with a soft thump. His gaze traveled across the white stillness, and abruptly he saw it: a haze of smoke, a great smudge of gray above the white and dark green of the pines. It drifted lazily over the farmstead: his father’s home, his home. It was not the smoke from the smoke vents; that would rise white and straight into the air. This was the smoke from a great burning. Still and ominous it lay in the valley, and he felt again the terror rising in him; but this time at least he knew its source.