Before the Scylfig mead hall, two of the huge ice shards stood as sentinels, as if claiming the town to be Núrzum’s trophy. The door was not guarded; all the town’s remaining soldiers were still in the village below assisting the residents. The door was also not barred, and I entered solemnly not knowing what to expect.
All within were either women, children, or the elderly. Most were weeping, but a few were attempting to comfort the mourners or turning to mundane tasks, seeking to resist grief with some sense of normalcy. No one seemed to be in command.
A mother and two children stood at the rear of the hall. From their dress I could tell they were among the privileged here, and as I approached the woman drew herself up as if to assume some authority. I bowed to that, easing her distress enough to explain that the only remaining member of Scylfig's ruling family, Cyneberg, had departed to find the body of her betrothed and bring it to Forlaw for a burial. After declaring to follow and assist the young woman, I hastened to leave the village and rejoin Rhiwnag. I found him not far from the gate, concealed and awaiting my return.
“Do you hear that?”, he asked, shaking his head in discomfort as we began to follow Cyneberg’s trail.
We stopped. I concentrated as I listened and, with effort, could faintly hear a dissonant high-pitched ringing. Turning toward what seemed its source, my attention was drawn to the giant shards of ice lining the main path up to, and standing as sentries before, the mead hall.
“The hand of wizardry?”, my companion asked.
I shrugged but could think of no natural reason.
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