Braki’s son gave him and Hardgreip horses, on which they rode away southward. Farmsteads yonder often lay far apart, with stretches of marsh or wildwood between. That night the wanderers must camp in the open. It was welcome. While Hardgreip was passing herself off as a youth, they could not bed together. “Foolishness,” she grumbled after their first bout, as they rested under the moon. “Why should anyone care what we do with ourselves?”

“Braki taught me that such is the law of the Aesir,” Hadding answered. “Men must heed it lest those gods forsake them.”

Her fist smote the earth. “Their law is not mine!”

But he saw by the wan, shadowful light how she grew troubled. She shivered as if the chill of the dew that gleamed around them had seeped into her. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“There have been too many warnings and forebodings,” she mumbled. She turned to him and caught him tightly against her. “Make me forget it for this night.”

Next day brought clouds, a wrack like smoke flying low. Rain-showers slashed. They made mud of a road that had become a mere track. It wound among fields gone back to weeds. Wind skirled through scattered hursts, tossing their leaves like beggars’ rags. Twice the wayfarers spied burnt-out farmsteads in the offing. War, a feud, or robbers from the hinterland had passed through here. Hadding and Hardgreip clutched their spears and spurred their horses onward.

They were glad when, late in the day, they came on an untouched dwelling. It was poor: a small house and barn huddled under their turf roofs with no other home in sight. Plowland still lay bare. Meadow slanted rank down to the reeds along a mere. Behind that water gloomed more wild-wood. Lifetime by lifetime, men had been gnawing farms out of such wastes, felling and draining, but it was hard, slow work and they lived in fear of revengeful land-wights.

Two hounds bounded forth, barking and growling. Hadding swung his spearshaft to drive them off. He gave Hardgreip the bow and quiver. “String this and nock an arrow, then stay mounted at my back,” he bade her. Braki had taught him that strangers were not always to be trusted. They rode to the door. He got down and knocked.

A half-grown boy opened it. The ax in his hand would not help him much. Hadding smiled. “Greeting,” he said. “We are passersby who’d be happy if we got shelter for the night.” He leaned his spear against the wall to show he meant nothing worse.

Oftenest folk at a garth made guests welcome. In return for food, drink, a place to sleep, maybe the loan of a woman if the householder felt so minded, they saw new faces, heard new voices, and got word of happenings elsewhere. Besides, it was a luck-bringing thing to do.