Gro shook her head. “No. That would only enrage her friends and her father. You can ill afford the trouble he could make for you. Let the Finn-woman go back to him.” She spat it out. In truth, though, Signy’s blood was Norse.

Svipdag barked a laugh. “Already you begin earning the morrow I will give you.”

She stared straight into his eyes. “You shall have no more from me, but only ill will and whatever harm I can do, unless I get one thing above all others.”

“I think I know what that is,” Svipdag growled.

She nodded. “You must recall my son, Gudorm, swear peace with him, and give him a high standing. For this I came here when you asked, and I will take no less.”

“Well, I will try,” Svipdag said, “but what if he will not?”

“We shall see how that goes,” Gro answered. “Bring my son to me and let me speak with him.”

The upshot was that Signy sold what she had to buy a ship and hire a crew. In spring, when weather allowed, she sailed off to Finland. Meanwhile men of Svipdag’s crossed the Sound and rode through Scania to Yvangar.

Braki and his wife gave them a grudging welcome. His was no kingly dwelling. A well-built house and its outbuildings stood around a stone-paved yard. Kine grazed widely about, fields awaited the plow, and leaf buds laid green mist over a woodlot. Many other steadings were in sight. Beyond lay the wilds, where men logged, hunted, fished, and trapped. The uplands that were forbidden them lifted hazy blue in the north.

All these farms had bred sturdy young men and looked to Braki for leadership. Svipdag’s riders spoke softly as they asked for Gudorm and told what they had for him. Braki said that he was not here and it would take days to reach him. The chieftain would go, but with only a few close-mouthed followers. The Norsemen could cool their heels in his home.

So he came back to Vagnhöfdi’s house. The giant took him in with gruff good cheer and they all sat about the fire, in a rank gloom, while wind hooted outside and from afar sounded the howling of wolves.

Braki gave Gudorm the word given him. “You may return to Denmark for peace and power, if you will swear yourself to King Svipdag.”

“But this is wonderful!” cried the youth.

“Your father fell at his hands,” Braki said.

Gudorm flushed, looked away, and mumbled, “Here I can’t even see to the well-being of my mother. And how could I ever hope for vengeance? Instead of skulking in the woods till I die like an outlaw, why can’t I—win back honor—if I take a weregild worthy of my father, and, and keep his blood alive?”

“Bide your time,” rumbled Vagnhöfdi. “Who knows what may happen? Bide your time.”