The final day’s march was interminable, silent and strained and grim. They made Lain walk ahead, stumbling too fast over roots, with Magni riding the stallion on his heels. Þrúðr came behind on her mare, Móði’s arms held loose about her waist.
As they rode, they did not see the wolf, nor the girl, nor hear the cries of bird or flight of beasts.
Valdís, Lain had called the beast, and Þrúðr had seen the anguish in his eyes. Saw now the broken slump of his shoulders, even as he was forced to run on all fours to keep up with their pace.
Magni called cruel words as they ran, taunting Lain as he drove his horse to catch the edge of feathers beneath its hooves.
Þrúðr was starting to believe she did not know her brothers.
