The Fates: Urth, Skuld and Verthandi. Like ravens clustering around a dying animal they clamour for the old man’s spirit.
He owes them it, and more – seven times more. He owes them it because they have pledged him a gift. It is the gift of his Lady, pure and whole once again and there could be no gift more precious.
But he is bound to give in return. And in return they have demanded a wergild – a man-price – seven times over.
The old man’s life is to be the second part of that wergild.
And lo! He spies him – the old soldier, victor of a thousand battles. He who once led whole armies is alone now, slumped in his chair by the lake.
“He is sleeping,” Verthandi cries exultantly.
He cringes from the words and the noise. She will surely wake him
“By God, you have the luck of the Devil,” Verthandi continues, “He might be an old dog now, but he could still teach a young puppy like you a trick or two if he were to wake.”
“He certainly taught your wife a trick or two,” Urth quips, and they both cackle with delight. “And she was a willing scholar.”
The cackles become mocking peals of laughter, peels that grow louder and louder and louder.
“Pay no heed to them. Kill him now.” Skuld cuts across them and their laughter ceases. He is grateful. She at least understands how deeply their words tear into him.
“Kill him,” she repeats. “I do not care who he is.”
Quo Fata Vocant.
Stepping forward, he pulls a strip of stout silk from his pocket.