The summer shadows had lengthened into dusk and claimed the forest path. The lone rider halted his horse and listened: the gentle hum of insects on the wing greeted him, along with muted bird song and, in the distance, the shuffling of some hungry night-forager abroad early. His roan shook her head in annoyance as flies sought the shade of her ears.

'Wood smoke will keep them away, lady,' he said, 'let's find a bed for the night.'

Breca the Champion had been riding steadily north for three days on his mission for the earl and was enjoying the solitude of the road. He had never liked the cramped, smoky confines of the earl's hall or the constant companionship of the other right-hand men. True, he would die for any of  them, and they for him, but after thirty years and countless battles it felt good to be free of it. Free of the constant threat from young warriors of the earl's guard seeking glory and position at his expense, free from the
killing. Sadly, he remembered the last boy that had challenged him. He had fought well for the ten heartbeats the duel had lasted, but had not seen the fatal thrust that had killed him. Luckily, they never did.

'Only outlaws and memories to fear on this road,' he said to his horse, dismounting in a small sun-flushed clearing in the trees five paces from the track. At its centre was a large flat rock. It shone silver and green in the setting sun, all scaly like a serpent lazily uncoiling in the afternoon heat. Despite its odd appearance, the rock was ideal for a fire, and dead wood was in easy reach, piled at the roots of the thin-trunked birches that skirted the open space.

'Almost too perfect,' said the champion.

With a grunt, Breca unloaded the oiled hide bag containing his wargear. After removing saddle and harness, he set about collecting wood for a fire and soon had it lit.

As the dusk shadows coalesced into night, Breca -- a silk and gold patterned leaf-green cloak draped over his shoulders -- stared into the orange-red flames. Closing his eyes, he leaned into the birch at his back and stretched his legs; his knees cracked. At that moment, the weight of his forty-five summers sat heavy on his broad shoulders. Life, he reflected had battered him from the first moment the midwife had nicked his scalp as she had cut him from the birthing sac. The old women said that those born sheathed in that sac were destined for a life blessed by the Powers. Breca gave a resigned sigh: they were wrong. He reached up to the close-cropped silver-blackness of his hair and rubbed at his scalp. The scar from his birthing stood hard and proud on the side of his head; the first of many that now lividly crisscrossed his body, those marks cruel testament to a lifetime of war. But he bore invisible scars too; scars on his soul, hard bitter lines formed of guilt and regret. The high whiny of his horse pulled him back from memory's dark halls. His eyes opened on the grey glare of a misty moonlit night, the fire before him burned down to embers. His hand instinctively grasped the sword hilt at his side.

'Ho the camp!' A man's steady voice rang out in the tree-screened gloom. Breca felt sure no one was watching him - in this mist it would be impossible - but he smoothly moved to put the tree between himself and the voice.

'Approach if you must.'

'I am alone--' came the voice again, this time closer '--I'm just a lonely traveler, seeking company for the night.'

He could make out an approaching shape in the trees. A man of medium height stepped into the mist shrouded clearing, He wore a dark cloak, pinned at the right hip and Breca saw that a long sword hung from his left side, but his hands were clear of it.

'I'm Gisli, some call me Summer-bird.'

'Breca,' said the champion, evenly, as he stepped from behind the tree. The stranger had a well-made face; keen dark eyes stared out from beneath thick eyebrows, appraising the old warrior.

'You're a careful man, Breca,' said Gisli, as he sat down by the fire and began to add more wood. 'Isn't that the name of Earl Styrkar's Champion?'

'The name's common enough where I come from,' replied the champion.

'Is that so? Still, I expect that Breca is taller and younger.'

'No doubt he his.' The champion ambled towards the fire and sat down. 'Welcome to my fire, Gisli. Do you travel far?'

'Here and there. Tonight I mean to put up at a farm just a short ride further along the track, but the smell of wood smoke drew me here.'

'You are a curious man then, Summer-bird?'

'Yes might say that. I believe this farm is very close. It seems a pity to spend a night on a blanket in the forest when straw-filled mattresses, beer and meat are near.'

'Very kind of you to think of my welfare,' replied Breca, wishing that he had made camp further from the road.

Gisli smiled. I always try to observe the Laws of Hospitality, friend. Shall we leave?'

The dampness was making Breca's joints ache. Gisli seemed honest. Breca stood up slowly, still facing the man.

'I will come with you. Wait for me on the track while I break camp and saddle the horse.'

'Want a hand?'

'No.'

'See you on the track, then, Breca.' With that, Gisli got up from the fire and returned through the trees.

'Ho the farm!' shouted Gisli through the mist as the two men rode into the yard. The main building was low, long and rambling. Its small windows were heavily barred and no light showed.

'Fine place,' said the champion. The comment went unanswered.

The door swung slowly open, preceded by the guttering yellow glow of a candle. Its flickering light illuminated the face of the farm's owner. A thick black beard and unruly mane of hair masked his blunt features, small eyes staring out at them.

'It's late, what do you want?'

Gisli smiled. 'No greeting for the stranger, man? Remember Blaydar's counsel, remember the Allfather's words:

'Fire is needed by the newcomer
Whose knees are frozen numb;
Meat and clean linen a man needs
Who has fared across the fells.'

'It will cost you,' replied the farmer.

'We have coin.'

The man grunted and gestured to a small outbuilding. 'You can put your horses in there.'

'Have you any other guests?' Breca asked the back of the man's head.

'Few come twice,' was the reply as the owner disappeared into the shadows of  the farm.

Breca turned to Gisli.

'Whoever told you about this place doesn't like you.'

Gisli raised a dark eyebrow. 'You may be right. Shall we see to the horses?'

The two men made their horses at home and made there way into the main building. Their host had lit a candle, placed on the rough table in front of them. The men sat on the bench along side it, Gisli stretching his long legs. A door in the back wall of the room squeaked open, and the farm's owner walked in, bringing food and drink.

'Who exactly are you?' the champion asked evenly.

'Your host,' he replied, in a tone that seemed to challenge them to ask further questions. As the man placed the platter of cold beef and rye bread before them, he asked the same question of the two travelers.

'Breca.'

'Gisli,' was the others curt reply, 'What is it to you?'

'Strangers are few here--' grunted the man '--outlaws many.'

With that, he banged a jug of beer down on the table - his eyes dropping before Breca's cold stare. He turned then and left the way he had come. The two men ate in silence.

'I'm for bed,' said the champion abruptly, bringing his unfinished meal to a close, 'I need to be on my way at first light.'

'Me too,' added Gisli. 'Where do we sleep?'

The dark shadow of their host's stocky, broad body wavered on the walls of the corridor along which they followed, thrown from the small candle he held in front. They halted before a door at the end of the corridor and the man indicated that they were to sleep in the room beyond. The party entered. The host lit a candle on the wall with the one he carried and then lurched back the way he had come. The two men glanced at each other.

'So much for straw mattresses,' commented Breca as he surveyed the small room. There was no furniture, only rushes scattered on the floor.

"The meat and beer weren't up to much, either,' said Gisli, dumping his gear in the corner.

Breca gave a nod, a sour taste still in his mouth. 'Let's see if we can find something to lock the door with. I don't like the look of our host, he has neither family or servants by the looks of things.'

'There are racks on the door and jamb for a bar,' replied Gisli, 'but no bar.'

'Not even any furniture to break up to use instead.'

'By the Allfather's eye, you are a careful man!'

'I would rather not be murdered in my sleep, boy,' answered the old warrior gruffly.

Gisli laughed heartily. 'If you're that worried, Breca, I better find somewhere else to sleep.'

'I assume every man is honest until he shows me otherwise, including you; but I'm a light sleeper and my sword is never far from hand.'

"I did wonder how a man like you would bear to sleep in the same room as a stranger. If it makes you any happier, let's go and look for a bar in another room.' With that, Gisli took the candle from the wall and stepped into the corridor. Breca followed. Utter silence reigned and the twinkle of the small candle did little to lift the thick darkness.

'I saw a room at the other end of the corridor, when we first entered here,' said Breca in a low voice. The men turned to their right and walked the ten paces to the opposite end of the corridor. A heavy bolt fastened the door in front of them. With some difficulty, Gisli drew it back and they looked in. A small room, the length of a tall man, appeared in the candle's yellow glow. In each wall, to their left and right, was set a door, the one to their left held shut by two bars.

'I wonder what's in there?' whispered Gisli, stepping into the room, putting the candle into a niche in the far wall. He removed the heavy bars and pulled open the door. A grim sight greeted them.

'A skeleton,' hissed Breca, 'and look, one leg is shackled to the floor!'

'He must have been locked in here and died,' said Gisli, entering the tiny room.

'I do not think so. Look at the cut on the skull. That's the work of an axe, probably wielded by our host.'

'I think you may be right, replied Gisli without interest; he was engaged in idly working the great iron ring from the skeleton's leg. Failing in this, he advised Breca to stand back, and drew his sword. With an exhibition of great strength and skill, he cut the chain in a shower of blue sparks.

'Skillfully done, Gisli. Why?'

'Why should he shackle a skeleton to the floor? It's a waste of good chain.'

'That's not what I meant.'

"I've freed him, now he can go where he likes!'

'No good will come of mocking the dead, or me,' said Breca as he turned and strode towards the outer door, anxious to face their host with the charge of his guilt.

'The dead should defend themselves,' said Gisli, laughing. 'Somehow, I will kill the man that takes my life, even if my corpse has to climb from the depths of the great Widowmaker to do it.'

The champion had just reached the door, when the touch of cold steel on the back of his neck stopped him dead.

'Don't move.' The voice was low and smooth.

Breca, raging inwardly, raised his hands into the air as Gisli slipped his sword and dagger from their scabbards.

'Fine weapons, Breca, worthy of a champion. Now you can turn round, slowly.'

Breca stared grimly at the traitor.

'You show yourself to be a dishonest man,' he said, a deep timbre of slow fury sounding in his voice.

'Like enough, Breca the Champion. I had thought to kill you in your sleep, but this opportunity presented itself and I took it. I'll not stab a man in the back, though.'

'How comforting. Why do this?'

'Your armour, weapons and horse, what else. I--what was that sound?'

'Rats exploring the skeleton, the rattle of bones' replied Breca, watching and waiting for the sword at his throat to waver. Suddenly, the door to the champion's right crashed open. Gisli's face froze in indecision. This cost him his life: with unexpected speed, their host burst through the open door and in an instant of explosive violence drove the head of a large wood-axe down and through Gisli's skull, spilling his brains.

'Get back!' roared the raging axe-killer.

Breca retreated slowly backwards, into the corridor, away from the menacing weapon and the insanity in the black eyes. His flesh crawled. He knew that it would take more than bare hands and courage to kill such a maniac.

Mirthless laughter boomed out from the man as he swayed back and forth in the narrow doorway.

'Pah! Gisli the Butcher. He will hunt the forest no more. He wished wealth and found death. Now your gear shall be mine, and more than that -- vengeance!'

'I'm not your enemy,' replied Breca calmly, 'I mean you no harm.'

'All men are my enemies, I make war here on all- what was that?'

The champion thought that he saw a flash of fear in the man's twisted face.

'My sorcerer is rattling his bones!' whispered the axeman and then he laughed again. 'Dying, he swore his bones would be the death of me. That's why I shackled him. Now, in the night, I hear him trying to get free, free to kill me in my bed. You were in his prison, you and this fool! Did he talk to you?'

Breca shuddered, in spite of himself; he too had heard the rattle of bones. He made to answer. The sight of the madman being pulled violently back into the shadow of the darkness of the room behind stopped him. Before he could react, a blast of icy air hit Breca, slamming the door shut in the champion's face. He stood very still in the utter darkness. Where did the wind come from? There are no windows - the muffled screams coming from behind the door interrupted his thoughts. The rasp of dry bones came then followed by another blast of coldness carrying a dry, sibilant, cry:
'Revenge!'

Silence followed.

'Allfather protect me,' muttered Breca as his mind raced with dark imaginings. Steeling himself, he opened the door but not before pulling free the eye-inscribed amulet around his neck and holding it before him. All was black. Breca groped along the wall for the candle and found it. Despite his shaking fingers, it lit easily from the spark he struck using the steel and flint he carried at his side. As he suspected, his grim host lay dead on the log floor of the room, his face a frozen mask of terror, the fingers of the sorcerer's skeleton sunk deep in his broken neck. He had not imagined that! A delicate creeping coldness danced along the old warrior's spine as a terrible realisation came to him. Two vows had been kept: Gisli had sworn that even in death he would avenge his slaying and it was he who had set the skeleton free, and the bones had killed the madman, just as the sorcerer had sworn they would...

Grabbing his sword and dagger from Gisli's corpse, Breca fled the grisly farmhouse in a wild dash. Reaching the safety of the farmyard, he slammed the front door behind him and gulped in great ragged breaths of the misty air. His racing heart slowed. Without looking back, he took the horses and rode on in to the cloudy blackness, very glad indeed to spend a damp night on a blanket in the forest.