The witch must pay the weregild for wickedness she did.

She raised me from my rest, she robbed me of my peace,

She dared make mock of death. To dust she shall go down.

Again the eyes laid hold of Hardgreip.

You drew me from the dead. Now doom shall fall on you

Who haled me out of hell. Ill hap and woe be yours.

The body fell back and was still, glaring into the night below the roof. Wind howled, rain dashed.

Hardgreip stared elsewhere. After a long time she whispered, “I think we had better go.”

Hardihood roused in Hadding. “No,” he said. “We will spend the night here and tomorrow do what I plighted: bury this man we wronged and leave him what grave goods we may.” To the back of the house he called, “Gerd, come out. It is done. You’ve nothing more to feat”

Nevertheless nobody slept.

VIII

The day was well along before Hadding and Hardgreip were done and could leave. Hardly a word had been spoken throughout. Gerd gave no thanks for the coffin Hadding made, the spadework they both did, what they left in the grave, or even the gold coil he set on her arm, much though she could buy with it. He awaited nothing else and was only glad to get away.

He and the thurs woman likewise kept still as they rode. The weather had cleared, but held scant warmth. Brush hemmed in the muddy path, too narrow to fare on abreast, overhung by leaves from which water dripped cold. Those branches hid the sky, dusked the ground, filled the deeper reaches among the boles with blindness. Mist sneaked low, in wan streamers. The only sounds were plop and squelch of hoofs, creak and rattle of harness, clinking of drops where they struck. As the gloom thickened toward evening, an owl began to hoot.

“We’d better stop soon and make ready for the dark,” Hadding said at last. His voice was flat with weariness. “The first open spot we find, so these orc-loving trees can’t piss on us.”

“Hereabouts that will likeliest be a fen,” she answered as grayly.

They learned otherwise. The path swung around a clump of willows, and there lay a meadow. True, its grass was wet, but someone had made a brushwood shelter. That could not have been long ago, for it stood tightly woven yet. Indeed, it was big enough to be called a hut. The juniper boughs that floored it were dry on top, thick and springy for sleeping on.

“Why, our luck has turned,” Hadding said. “With the time this will save us, we can coddle ourselves.”

“Praise not the night until dawn,” Hardgreip mumbled. The spark of heartiness died in him.