He reckoned they had reached Helsingland, toward which he had steered them as best he was able to on their twisting way. Dwellers along the eastern shores of the Kattegat across from Denmark, the Helsings were friendly to the Danes. Mostly fishers, neither many nor rich, they paid him a small yearly scot of smoked and brined herring, while his might kept the Geats and Norse off their necks. Moreover, in raiding season he posted ships in the strait to north, which warded off any vikings who might be aprowl in the Skagerrak.

He led his band south. Before dark they found a hamlet. Terrified, the few dwellers snatched what weapons they had. The king bade his men halt and went ahead alone, palms spread, to meet them. They could ill believe his tale. They had heard nothing. It seemed likelier that the newcomers had suffered shipwreck, as gaunt and worn as they were. Yet there had been no storms of late. And the wayfarers did at least seem peaceful. Somewhat warily, the households took them in. Stockfish, flatbread, cheese, and curds were a feast, because there was a fullness of them.

“You shall have gifts of me after I get home,” said the king in the morning. “But first will you bring us to someplace where they can more easily guest us?”

The fishers muttered among themselves whether to take these men in a boat. On the one hand, if this really was King Hadding, he ought to remember it when he chose what gifts to send. On the other hand, if he lied, that boat would have lost two or three days’ catches for nothing. At last the spokesman they picked told him it would be wrong to crowd such fine warriors into a wretched little hull stinking of fish. Besides, the spokesman didn’t like the look of the weather. Wisest would be to walk. His grandson would guide them. He would not affront King Hadding by uttering what any fool could see, that so deep-minded a lord understood the Helsings had nothing but his welfare at heart.

“More miles afoot!” groaned Eyjolf. “Has some black warlock turned us into inchworms?”

“Stop grumbling,” said old Egil. “You didn’t mind tramping across Svithjod.”

“No, but it was full of abodes to sack.”

“And maybe there are many such along hell-road, but I’m in no hurry to find out.”

In a way that stretch was indeed the most wearisome. Having the end in sight made men wholly aware of every ache and lameness, how long they had been gone and how they yearned for home. They trudged Wordless, lost in themselves. Hadding alone grew eager.

Yet when they reached the steading he sought, he told them they would stay a while.