Doors and shutters rattled. Sand and spray flung from the strand hissed around walls.

Of a sudden, a hinge gave way. The door banged wildly, tore loose, and whirled off through the night. The storm burst in. Rafters broke asunder. Half the roof fell down.

Folk had sprung awake. The wind tore cries from lips before ears could catch them. Lightless, men groped at the wreckage. It had buried two of Hadding’s warriors, with three of Kari’s children, his old father, and his kine.

This was not reckoned up till morning, when folk crept from the unharmed houses in which they had found lee but slept no further. The weather had raged itself out. Though seas still ran high, sunlight speared past clouds onto a land lying wet and death-quiet.

“I think we had best begone,” said Hadding flatly. “Give us some food to take along, and in a while you’ll hear from me again.”

Kari looked elsewhere. “I know not if we want to,” he mumbled. “This stay of yours was less lucky for us than you foretold.”

However, the dwellers did hand something over from their stores. They could have killed these worn-out wanderers, and maybe they would have if they had heard the full tale. But it was easier to get rid of them.

Hadding led his handful off. They had learned that here was the northwestern end of Zealand. If he kept the water on his left he would come to the Sound and thus to the island where Haven was and his hall nearby. But they were in no shape to go fast. Nor could they withstand any foe. It was well that he had scoured robbers from the land—not that he now bore much worth robbing.

The day warmed. Where a streamlet trickled through a heath, they lay down and slumbered.

Afterward they plodded onward. Toward evening they came into cropland and found a hamlet. A yeoman there knew King Hadding by sight. Folk shouted when they heard that he lived. They made the best meal they could. Meanwhile they offered ale, a bathhouse, fresh clothes, weapons, horses, housing.

That night fire broke loose. Nobody afterward knew how. One seldom did. A lamp knocked over, an ember unwittingly kicked, even a stray spark could touch it off. Great homes had cookhouses standing apart from them to lessen the likelihood. Few smallholders could afford that. This blaze took hold of a thatch roof. A stiff breeze had arisen to fan and spread it. Everybody got out alive, but the hamlet burned to the ground.

“It seems we bring bad luck wherever we go,” said Egil as the flames crackled. Shadows deepened the furrows in his face.

“No,” answered Hadding. “I do. But follow me yet a while.”

They walked on. Thenceforward they begged their bread along the way, without naming themselves, and spent their nights in the open.