Hildibrands is relieved by one of the approaching men - another Saxon who appears to be more scop than warrior. He casts aside his bag of scrolls; the man is certainly lettered. And his fingernails are black and calloused; his weapon is the quill, not the sword. Good Thunor! You will replace my Lord Hildibrands with a scribe? But the gentleman does well against his own race, familiar with their own unique style of attack. One of the barbarians knows the scholar by name: "Aelfwine! Welcome to your slaughter!" His axe comes down, only to cut free the scholar's hacele.

This Aelfwine amazes me, and my concentration is only half dedicated to the brawl. I let my fists do the thinking. When our barbarians have had enough, I step over their fallen bodies and pat one of the coveted casks. "Well done, stranger. I invite you to take a share of the winnings!" But the scholar backs up, allowing his companion to show himself. This one is no Saxon. He steps out of the shadows and I am face-to-face with the ghost of Thidrek! Or perhaps I never really killed him. I was too busy escorting his father to Hel's gate to pay much attention. An oversight I will not repeat. My face is not capable of displaying the feral loathing that I am consumed with; I leave that wrath to Mistilteinn, which jumps into my hand, singing and burning with the bloodlust.

"So, Amleth, we meet again," my cousin finally speaks in his thundering whisper, his blade in the Gothic ready position.

Two of the barbarians look up at us curiously and slowly limp their way over to Aelfwine. "What feud is between these two angry dogs?" asks one. "Aye, what's it all about, Aelfy?" asks the other.