Fjalfar searched the crowd desperately for this outburst. As the whispers and mumbles around her grow bolder, they worked to obfuscate her voice; but he saw her, and he smiled. Amidst his sharp and manly features the warmth of his smiling cheeks could strike some off balance.

“’Who,’ indeed,” he murmured, quietly enough that he may have said it only to himself. “Yet no matter who we send, we may find salvation or doom. Only the gods can know. I am blind to the ways of fate, and so I must throw my lot, and make my gamble. I will pray; I will make my sacrifices to Óðinn; and then I will send them forth.”

He knew she was right, even if she wasn’t; that wary old mother, who cared far too much for the welfare of her child (as all mothers ought). But so was he. It was a risk, but so was sending the raiders, or sending no one whatever. When night set upon this story, only the valkyries could judge his soul’s worth; only the [i]nornir[/i] could say whether his choice was wise.

Abruptly, through the tumultuous resistance of the mead-hall’s naysayers, his hand lashed viper-like from his bosom. “Rise up, heroes! I want to see who among you seek the glories of other lands.”