When he ordered the killing of packhorses, nobody spoke against it, though it meant leaving loot behind. By then, bellies were growling too loudly. Worse was the loss of strength. With shouts the Danes squatted at their cookfires and drank the smell of roasting meat before they sank their teeth into it.

Yet they had not many horses with them. They could not do without those that bore spears, arrows, and other weaponry. Thus they got only a few bites each day. Some won a little more. Their noisy passage frightened game off, and they could not well stop to fish the streams they crossed. However, a man might climb a tree if he saw a bird’s nest and crunch the fledglings in his mouth. He might grub worms from a rotten log. Better, he might shoot down a forsaken dog. Still, this was a meager meal at best.

One man grew too weak to walk. His friends made a litter and carried him. After a day he died. That was likeliest from illness, for hunger had not brought down anyone else. They buried him when they Camped that evening. Afterward a whisper went around that during the night others dug him up and ate of his flesh before putting him under again. Nobody said who they might have been, and Hadding scoffed at the tale, but it was an ugly one and sickened everybody.

Back at last in the lowlands, they stopped at a lakeside. The one sign of man was a farm about a mile off, empty, its fields and buildings charred. The dwellers had even cast their turnips and suchlike pig-truck into the fire before they fled.

The lake itself shone golden with sunset. Reeds rustled on its banks. Frogs leaped. Warriors splashed around for a while, trying to catch them, but little came of that. Nor could they take the waterfowl that flocked and cried yonder, nor hope for the fish they saw glimmer and jump. They were not outfitted for it. Bats were coming forth, darting after the mosquitoes that whined in hordes and nipped blood that men could ill spare. The last light glowed through their wings. Trees beyond stood darkling against an eastern sky where a red star had kindled. Warmth drained from the world.

Without packhorses to carry tents, the warriors must spread whatever they had to sleep in on the grass and dandelions. They did not trouble about fires, but gnawed what scraps of stinking meat were handed out. Hadding, as haggard as any of them, said to Eyjolf, “I’ve a feeling that here we’re at the end of our road.”

“It’s a ways yet to the sea,” answered the viking’s son, “and I mean to plow it again.” He grinned beneath eyes gone hollow. “As well as quite a few more women.”