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mind, crept and listened, and so heard enough to make him afraid for Sigurd. But as he was so listening, his foot moved unluckily and a branch cracked beneath him. Then hands were hard on his shoulders.
    “It is the nithling!” Veliant grinned evilly at him. “How now, brothers, shall it not be as is fitting—a liege dog to lie in the King’s son’s grave?
    Since he needs must go without horse or real hound to bear him company, this shall be both! Knock him on the head!”
    Those were the last words Sig heard, for a great burst of pain was in his skull and then only darkness, a darkness in which not even dreams moved.
    Then came pain again and Sig tried to call for help, to move, only to discover that he could not.
    Afterward there was water on his face and he could see a little, though that hurt also. It was not until the pain grew less that he knew he was resting on a bed of charcoal bags, the grit of them against his cheek. He saw a fire, and by it was Sigurd. He tried to call, but his voice came only as a thin whisper of sound. But Sigurd turned quickly and came to him. He brought a drinking horn and in it a liquid of herbs which he gave to Sig sip by sip.
    Thus Sig learned that they were well into the forest, and that Sigurd had been half a day on his journey before he discovered his companion, bloody-headed and trussed into the bale of empty bags loaded on the back of one of the pack donkeys. Sig warned him of the danger to come, for he was certain that Veliant thought they went to their deaths.
    “Be assured we shall return,” Sigurd answered. “Then there shall be an accounting between Veliant and me concerning this deed done to you.
    What danger can lie ahead for us when this is a journey which has been made for Mimir’s forge many times?”
    “But always before, master,” Sig said, “it has been Mimir himself who went, never one of his men. And there are evil tales of this wood and what dwells in it.”
    Sigurd smiled and put his hand among the tangle of bags. From them he pulled a bundle wrapped in greased hide. With his meat knife he sawed through the lashings and stripped away the coverings to show Balmung.
    “I go to no strange place without steel to my hand, forge-comrade. And with Balmung I think we have little to fear.”
    Sig, looking upon the sword, felt his spirits rise. For it was like a torch in the dark. He was willing to face what lay ahead, telling himself that it could hardly be worse than certain dreary days behind him.
    Though the way through the forest was narrow and dark, and there was always the feeling that strange and terrifying beings watched from shadows and trailed behind them, yet they saw nothing truly to afright them. At length they came to the center of the wood to find the charcoal burners. In the open clearing they saw the dwellings of the forest men.
    And these men, as dark of skin from ashes and the sap of new-hewn trees as creatures of the night, snatched up weapons and stood ready to cut the travelers down. Though Sigurd wore Balmung now openly he did not draw the blade but rather called out, “Peace between us, forest men. I am of Mimir’s household and I have come to buy from you under the agreement made by your master and mine.”
    But the leader of that wild company grinned as might a great wolf, showing teeth almost like a beast’s fangs, as he answered, “You speak lies, stranger. When Mimir would deal with us he comes himself. We have our own place and no one comes into it save when we bid him. Otherwise he goes to lie beneath the All Father’s tree and stares up at its branches with sightless eyes.”
    The men moved in a little, as do a pack of wolves when their quarry stands at bay. But before the first spear could be thrown, the first sword thrust, there came another voice: “Be not so quick for bloodshed, my dark ones. This bold man I would see.”
    The voice came from the large hall at the very core of the cluster of dwellings. The charcoal burners