The clouds hung low and dark over Rastarkalv, as if the very heavens mourned for Egil, Tosti, and the others. A chill wind swept up the gentle rise from the sea, carrying with it a light drizzle and the smell of salt, neither of which did much to mask the stench of death still hanging over the grisly remains of the battle.
It had been seven days since that fight, and still the birds fought over the feculence that littered the field. Hakon"s surviving warriors had burned their own dead on pyres several days before, the remains of which still smoked on the beach to the south. The enemy dead had also been burned, though with far less ceremony and only after they had been stripped of their wealth and weapons.
Hakon had erected a mighty pyre for Egil, upon which he had placed the warrior, his
