It was the first time that they were the ones going on the offensive; Rágn stayed to defend the village, while Yrnhold and about half of the men went down to the town, called Híubard, to meet with its guard. Both Brige and Sif accompanied him. They timed their march so that they would arrive in the dead of night, and carried no torches, dark cloaks over their armors.

As they left, Rágn's cousin came up to them, bidding to join. Sif turned up his nose.

" You're too young," he said. " Go back to your mother."

" I am not," he argued. " It's my fifteenth year-"

" You have not a single hair on your chin," Sif snapped. " Go back on your own, or I will lock you in your room myself."

The youth dejectedly slunk away, crying, even as Rágn patted Sif on the back to commend him.

The battle thereafter was almost pitiful; sprung upon in their beds by people they thought would not rebel against them, the men were chased off by the light of dawn, their leader furious and bloodied.

Sif watched after them with his spear leaned against his body, glowing in victory and sunrise.

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