It seemed to Delgar that he staggered through the woods for weeks, seeking some solace or purpose. He felt empty and dead, Lera's pale and lifeless face staring at him every time he closed his eyes. But he could no longer cry; he had no tears left.
    At first he tried to keep count of the days he wandered, but after three days passed he no longer bothered. He began his trek heading towards the western seas, but then he turned to the north, and then he turned to the east, and then back to the south.
    He wished he could be certain of what he sought. Perhaps there was a man he needed to see. For a while he thought he should join the reavers, but the idea fled as his trek became longer. The heat of the days plastered his garments to him, sweat mingling with dried blood. Lera's blood.
    For a moment he stopped, listening to the forest around him, trying to find some semblance of feeling in his inner self, but there was nothing. Then he began to walk again, the noon sun beating down on his brow.
    As the afternoon turned into evening, Delgar came upon the burnt remains of a village. Blackened frames were all that remained of thatched cottages, and the fecid stench of death made him gag. Undaunted, he began to walk towards what would have once been the village square.
    His eyes widened as he saw the remains of the great pyre in the center of the village. Around the charred pile of wood and ashes lay several coats of mail and weapons. He had seen that sort of pyre once before, when Thorgar sent one of his war-band to the Eternal's realm. The smoke had risen straight up that day, and that was always a good sign; it meant the warrior's soul had sped to its destination quickly and without obstruction.
    For a moment Delgar blinked at the memory, Thorgar's face clear in his mind, but then it faded, and try as he might, he could not remember the visage of the warrior. He tried to remember his father's face, but he couldn't. His mother's face was also a blank. For a horrible moment, he thought he would forget Lera's face, but then he closed his eyes, and her dead gaze stared at him once more.
    He opened his eyes and looked at the ring of weapons and armor around the pyre once more. Thorgar and his warriors must have been here, he realized. Had they killed the goblins, or retreated? How many men did they lose? Or did they simply burn the dead that they found? The questions circled in Delgar's mind, but he could find no answers. The remains of the pyre merely stared at him, an enigma to his mind.
    I could take one of the weapons, Delgar thought. Nobody would ever know. He reached out to one of the swords, but then stopped short. If he took a blade, then what? By tradition, the soul of the warrior whose blade it was would come to destroy him for not taking it in combat, returning from the Eternal One’s realm to send him to the Damned One’s Kingdom under the earth. So it was with all weapons of war: they had to be earned in war or given freely.
    He stepped away from the pyre and glanced around. Not even a crow called to break the silence. The only inhabitants of the village were the souls of those dead who had not made their way to either realm, and waited for the night to fall. Delgar swallowed. It would be better for nighttime to find him in the forest, where the ghosts would not seek him out.
    Delgar walked calmly out of the village and into the forest, watching the sun as it began to set. He plucked some fruit from the branches of a nearby tree, sating some of his hunger. Then he sat against the trunk of a tree at the edge of a small clearing, and watched as the sunset slowly cloaked him in darkness. Finally, he drifted into a blissfully dreamless sleep.
    He woke to the twittering of birds and the morning sun on his brow. The soft light illuminated the clearing before him, the large trees offering a natural temple to the Eternal One. Delgar leaned back, lazily delighting in the beauty before him.
    For a moment, he thought he could make sense of the gentle calls of the birds.
    “There sits Magus Draconum,” one sang.
    “He does not know the greatness of his wyrd,” another called out.
    “He will,” a third sang. “Soon his destiny will be upon him.”
    Delgar blinked at the strangeness of it all, and leaned forward to listen closer. The words faded away to meaningless song, and he shook his head. He had to get out of the woods; he was becoming mad, like an old hermit in one of the sagas.
    He stood up and lumbered out of the clearing, trying to clear the drowsiness from his mind. Finally, he began to stride purposely forward. If he headed east, perhaps he could find an inland village untouched by the raiders. For the first time, his head was clear: he had a purpose.
    The woods began to thin around him, and he noticed some mountains rising before him on the distant horizon. As he walked, the shadows shortened and lengthened, until he was at last forced to stop again and forage for food, hoping to find some before it was too dark to see.
    As he settled down against a tree, a strange fruit in his hand, the sun began to set before him. He wondered idly where he was, for he had never seen the mountains before. He thought of how Lera would love to see all this, and then felt a hollow pain in the soul he had believed so dead.
    And then night fell, and he drifted into sleep. He dreamed of a land of ice and a sky filled with Dragons, and as he looked up to the draconic sky, he felt joy.
    And then the morning sun shone down on him, and he startled awake. He looked around the clearing, listening as small animals rustled in the woodlands around him.As he stood, he prayed that madness wouldn't take him before he found what he was looking for. Then he began heading eastwards.
    He walked until he could go no farther, and then he sat and rested under the afternoon sun. The heat beat down on him, and for a moment he wondered what month it was. Had the summer began already? He plucked a green apple from a tree, wincing at the raw taste as he bit into it. If the summer had begun, then some of the summer fairs might have started, and he would be able to get some supplies.
    He got up and walked again, trying to put his hunger out of his mind. For a moment he wished he could just return home, where there was always enough to eat and he could be with Lera and...
    But home no longer existed. The harsh reality of the situation pounded on his mind, forcing him forward. He staggered onwards, the hunger beginning to consume him. Soon he would have to rest, and then he would continue to walk, until he either perished or came to a village.
    “You there!” came a voice. “Stop where you are!”
    Delgar halted and turned. A tall woodsman stood before him, his axe in one hand and a bow in the other. His dark hair was streaked with grey, and he wore beaten old leathers. “Who are you?” the man asked.
    Delgar swallowed, suddenly at a loss for words. “I am Delgar, son of Daegar,” he finally replied. “My village was destroyed by goblins, and I am the only survivor.”
    The woodsman’s eyes narrowed. “Where was you village, boy?”
    “It was by the western pass,” Delgar replied.
    The man blinked. “How long have you been wandering?”
    Delgar shrugged. “A long time.”
    The woodsman laughed, a hearty sound that nearly made Delgar bolt in fear. “I would say that! It would take me two weeks to ride there, much less walk. But the goblins have managed to make their way near us anyway. Do you have any idea of where you are?”
    Delgar shook his head.
    “You're almost at the North Sea. Come! My village is only a day away from here.”
    Delgar nodded and began to follow the man. They walked to the south until the sun began to set, and then they set camp. Delgar watched as the woodsman deftly gathered kindling to make a fire. Finally, as the sun set, the two were illuminated by the flickering flames.
    “You haven’t asked me my name yet, boy,” the woodsman said.
    Delgar shrugged. “I’ve been out here a while.”
    “I’m Frithgar, son of Daegwulf. What did your father do?”
    “He was a farmer,” Delgar replied. “But I think Thorgar tried to make a warrior out of him in the end. All for my sake.”
    “I have heard of Thorgar,” Frithgar said, scratching his beard. “That man is well sung of by the skalds.”
    “Is he still alive?” Delgar asked. “He’ll know me.”
    Frithgar shook his head. “I have no idea, boy. The goblin raids have cut us off from the rest of the world. Worst raiding I've ever seen. It's almost as if something is driving them out of their homes in the far north.”
    “What could cause that?”
    “More goblin tribes, famine, could be anything. This sort of thing has happened before, just never this severe.”
    The woodsman held out some dried meat. “Eat this, boy. You look like you haven’t been properly fed in weeks.”
    Delgar grabbed the morsel and wolfed it down, ignoring Frithgar's chuckles. For a moment the horrible hunger subsided a bit, and a thought began to form.
    “I want vengeance,” Delgar muttered.
    Frithgar shook his head sadly. “They all look alike to me, and even if you could find the tribe that killed your father, I doubt the leader now is the same as the leader then. Rather cut-throat lot, boy. Best you can do is try to live with it.”
    “Can I get a message to Thorgar once I get into your village?” Delgar asked.
    Frithgar scratched his beard, pulling a grey hair out and glancing at it. “We’ll see, boy. The village elders will have to decide what to do with you. You’ll probably have to work to earn your keep. What can you do?”
    “I can farm,” Delgar replied. “I can also read and write.”
    “Reading and writing is impressive,” Frithgar said. “Perhaps we could send you to the royal court as a scribe.”
    “I don’t think I want to be a scribe,” Delgar said. “I’m not sure what I want to be.” For a moment a shadowly memory surfaced of the burning power that surged through his veins as he tried to save Lera, but the it faded the moment he tried to put his finger on it.
    “Wyrd probably hasn’t left you much choice,” Frithgar pointed out. “In the end the elders will decide, boy. You have something about you, though. No matter now. Get to sleep, boy. We have a long walk tomorrow, and I want you rested.”
    Delgar lay down on the ground near the fire and closed his eyes. That night, he didn’t dream.
    He woke at sunrise, watching the fiery orb rise majestically over the great mountains, bathing the world in a gentle orange light. Beside him, Frithgar yawned and stretched. The old ranger turned to Delgar and grinned.
    “Today you see the village elders,” he said. “Get up, boy. We have a long walk ahead of us.”
    That day, they walked until the sun was directly above them, and then they came to the village. The little collection of thatched cottages reminded Delgar painfully of home, but Frithgar motioned to him to follow, cutting off any reminiscences.
    “Frithgar!” a loud voice called. “What do you have here?”
    Frithgar turned and embraced the large, burly man who approached him. “Brother! It is so good to see you! I have a boy here who wandered from the western pass. I've brought him to see the elders.”
    “You’re back just in time,” Frithgar’s brother said. “The goblins were spotted approaching from the west. We'll have a fight on our hands soon enough, that’s for sure.” He turned to Delgar. “Who are you, boy?”
    “Delgar, son of Daegar,” Delgar replied.
    “You’ll have to help fight, Delgar Daegar’s son,” the man said.
    “He’ll first need some proper clothes,” Frithgar said. “You don’t expect him to meet the elders in those rags, do you?” He turned to Delgar. “Come with me, boy.”
    At that moment, the horrifying familiar war cry sounded all around the village, and Delgar cringed.
    “Goblins!” came a cry, and the villagers rushed to their weapons. The goblins broke out of the tree-line, murder in their eyes. Delgar backed up, watching as Frithgar and his brother pulled out their weapons to face the raiders. A goblin leapt on Frithgar, and the woodsman cut the creature down with his axe, but then four more attacked him, and Delgar saw the man go down under the horde.