No wolf’s heart beat in Frodi’s breast. To his wife, children, and household he was kindly, at such times as they saw him. Among his warriors he was mirthful whenever they were, steadfast when thing went ill for them, unstinting of gifts, fearless in battle, then afterward ready to help bind up wounds or sit by a dying man and tell him he had done well. They would have followed him to Jotunheim if he bade them.

But year by year his warfaring drained his wealth.

When he came back from Finland after Tosti’s fall, Hadding rode to his home and told him, “Now we must talk.”

“Alone?” asked Frodi.

“Yes.” Hackling spoke too softly for others to hear. “You know what it will be about, but neither of us knows what may fly out of his lips.”

Frodi scowled. “I’ll not gladly sit while you try to upbraid me,” he muttered.

His eyes widened a little when the king did not stiffen at his frowardness but said merely, “We can be doing something else as well. I’ve often found that helpful.”

“Hm. I’ve been meaning to hunt waterfowl sometime soon. It can be the two of us.”

In the morning they walked forth, carrying bows and nets. Not far from the hall a stretch of woodland wedged into fields and meadows. The men passed beneath leaves whose green had begun to fade with the year. The weather was cool and quiet. Frodi took a deer trail he knew.

After a while Hadding said at his back, “You go rather noisily, my son.”

“What have we to fear?” Frodi rapped.

“Naught. I was thinking of skill. To go soundlessly through brush is like sailing as close to the wind as your ship is able.”

“What has either to do with warfare?”

“There’s more than that to being a man, and to being a king.”

Frodi made no answer.

The ground went boggy, the air damp. Mist stole through the shadows. When at length the twain reached the fen they sought, fog eddied dank around them. There was no more sun, no more sky. Sight of reeds and dark water was lost after a few yards. The one sound was a dripping off willow boughs into the mere.

“Death and dungheaps!” snarled Frodi. “We’ve come all this way for nothing.”

“Maybe not,” said his father. “It’s the kind of place for the kind of thing I have in mind. I wonder what made it thus.”

Frodi shivered. “Best not name land-wights or elves or other uncanny beings here. Not even gods.”

“No. You are not used to them.”

“And you—Let’s go back.”

Hadding laid a hand on Frodi’s arm. “Abide. Talk with me. Unless you’re afraid.”

The younger man gripped his bow so that his knuckles stood white. “Speak, then.”