. . .

From there it is easier.

Vaenwode has found himself in a realm of gentle, rolling hills and growing things and among the houses of the svart-alfar. He walks their roads. He tastes their grapes. He marvels at their wonders and the triumphs. He plucks a great gourd from a gourding-stone and he smashes it and he drinks its juice. He finds grass with which to treat and seal his wounds. He steals across the way, sneaks late at night and in, and makes his way to Hans’ pantry and further down.

The wolf-gold staggers him.

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