[Anguirel]

The great horse reared up, again and again, into the chill air, and threw its foaming frame down again, its hooves slicing through grass and mud, leaving the land pitted and wound in its wake. The resounding smashing of its front legs was echoed by the vehement spurrings of its rider.

"On," the gruff voice intoned, "on, on, to Sorn and the girl."

Responding to the tones it recognised came a long whine from the exhausted hound who struggled valiantly to keep pace with the horse it shadowed. Its sides were lean and taut, and it bled from the effort of running. But Helm, once called Gurth, Gurth, once called Helm, spared it no glance and no slackening of speed. The horn's long cry still rang about his head.

They saw familiar sights now; the rotting fences and ill-kept fields of Sorn's tenantry; but Gurth still did not slow or deviate in his road. "On, on, on..."

A plume of smoke in the dawn sky, beyond a sparse copse, showed him what he sought. "Sorn," he murmured. "Sorn house...and...girl."

A yard back, Grendel collapsed, too winded to move further. Gurth jumped from his mount, picked the wolf-mastiff up and held it beneath one brawny arm, and dragged his horse's bridle with his other hand. He was not long content with walking, and soon, mounted or not, the three great beasts were proceeding as fast as ever.

The Fool of the Hall was coming back. And he had a large axe.

"Scyld," Gurth spat with disdain. "Sorn," he muttered thoughtfully. And, decisively, "the girl."

But there were others here, unfamiliar scents and sights. He would find out what had happened in his absence, and he would act upon it.

It was then that the horn truly sounded; and the premonition of the dog was confirmed by the hand of man.