Word Count: 54,218
Summary of Events:
Aðalbjörn readied himself and set out for Gammelhjem, even though he felt nervous about going now that he knew the journey was going to be longer than he'd expected. Friðljót woke and had breakfast with the men before being given a mount on one of their pack horses and taken with them north to their home, learning along the way that they were seven brothers who travelled about Svärtaland offering their services as warriors wherever needed. Aðalbjörn was attacked by a sudden torrential downpour in the foothills of the mountains he had to cross, and so sent his hound, Tryggarr to seek shelter ahead . . .
Excerpt of the Day:
Guiding his stallion carefully down the hill, Aðalbjörn found Tryggarr was standing at the head of a narrow trail at the base of the little valley. He turned Sigvarr and immediately Tryggarr took off, barking regularly to call his master onwards.
The trees waving overhead caused fear to writhe in Aðalbjörn’s stomach, but he followed the narrow trail until a rather small open meadow appeared, as well as a large door carved into the hillside and framed with stones.
Riding close to it, Aðalbjörn dismounted and knocked on it as hard as he could. No answer came, so he pounded again. There had to be someone inside or Tryggarr surely wouldn’t have led him to it.
Again there was no response, so Aðalbjörn tried to open the door, but found it was locked, so he threw himself against it several times in an effort to break it down, but all he got was a sore side before he heard something inside and the door drew open to reveal a weathered, hardened man whom Aðalbjörn could tell immediately was a cattle herder.
“Come inside,” the man urged.
He took Sigvarr’s reins from Aðalbjörn’s freezing hands and Aðalbjörn followed him inside, with Tryggarr close at his heels.
The floor just inside was dirt, but hewn stone was overhead and Aðalbjörn raised his hand to order Fróðvin off his shoulder before he peeled off his sodden cloak and removed his helmet.
Tryggarr shook himself off and trotted off down a hall without further ado, while Aðalbjörn saw Fróðvin, too, was making himself at home and preening up on a rocky ledge close to the ceiling.
Following the tracks of his dripping horse, Aðalbjörn found a stable area back of the open hall in which several other horses and a couple cattle and other animals were all sheltered and dry.
The man had stripped Sigvarr of his saddle and was wiping him down with a piece of cloth. He looked up at Aðalbjörn.
“I hope you weren’t meaning to keep on lad,” the man said. “A downpour in the mountains is just as impassable as a snowstorm.”
“I’d hoped to find shelter sooner,” Aðalbjörn replied.
“Well, at least you found shelter,” the man said.
He turned from Sigvarr to a stack of straw, armloads of which he pitched into the stall the stallion was standing wearily in. He then disappeared behind the stack and returned with two pails, one with water in it, and one with a good measure of grain in it.
After placing both within the stall and shutting the door he looked Aðalbjörn over.
“I’m not surprised,” he said simply. “Come lad.”
Shivering, Aðalbjörn followed the man and was led to a room where he was told to strip out of his wet clothes and change into dry ones, boots and all.
The boots were — to Aðalbjörn’s surprise — slightly large, and thus a bit of a challenge to keep on his feet, but the dry clothes were welcome.
Pronunciations:
Tryggarr: treegahr
Sigvarr: sihgvahr
Fróðvin: frohwthvihn
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