A man stood at the middle of the lea, armed with a spear. A broad hat shaded his face. His beard fell iron gray down the front of his cloak. Behind him waited a stallion of the same hue, tall enough for his great height.

Words rolled slow: “We meet again, as I foretold.”

Hadding was too numb for amazement. He hardly felt pain any longer, hunger or thirst, will or woe. Blood loss and weariness had gutted him. Were it not for this sudden sight he would have dropped here, slobbered the foul water, and toppled into sleep. Barely could he stand, swaying, and mumble, “What now will come of it?”

“I said you would have learned something,” the old one answered, “and a man must know not only how to overcome foes, but defeat itself. Tonight you shall have what is better.“

“Well met, then, Gangleri, if you are more than a dream.”

“Come.” The Wanderer beckoned. Hadding lurched toward him, stubbed a foot on a root, and fell. Gangleri caught him. Held against the cloak, half swooning, the Skjoldung felt himself lifted in one arm. Gangleri bore him easily over to the stallion. It seemed to him that that steed had too many legs, but he could not tell through the querning in his head. Gangleri set foot in stirrup and swung up to the saddle. Hadding lay at his breast. Gangleri spread the cloak over him and whistled. The horse burst into gallop.

They should at once have crashed through brush. Instead, Hadding felt as if they sped uphill a while before they found an uneasy road. Down that they went so fast that the air was a gale around them. He nestled unwonderingly into the muffling darkness.

After a time that had no meaning for his stunned soul, the ride ended in a thunder of hoofs on stone. With a racketing neigh the stallion reared and halted. Gangleri dismounted, Hadding in his clasp as if the warrior were a bairn. The young man heard iron ring, a door clashed shut behind; Gangleri carried him onward.

At last the old one lowered him to a bench. He sat slumped, striving weakly to stay awake.

“Here,” said the deep voice. “Drink.”

Hadding opened heavy eyes. Gangleri loomed over him, holding a horn of gold. It was so long and broad that Hadding needed both hands to take it and bring it to his mouth. What was within smelled like honey and summer meadows and the hot pitch that caulks ships. When, he tasted, it was a kiss on his tongue and a fire throughout his flesh.

“Drink well,” Gangleri bade him. “This has mended worse hurts than yours.”