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The shepherd leaned on his staff, watching his flocks slowly meander along the trackway.

Mud clung to their wool, ranging from little flecks on their flanks to great clods,

hanging off their legs and bellies.

The dog barked and dunged their whithers, trying to move the sheep along, but the animals

were in no particular hurry.

Neither was the shepherd come to think of it.

Spring had just begun and the summer pastures higher up in the hills weren't yet ready

for grazing.

He took a swig of watery wine from his skin and sat down on a rock overlooking the trackway.

His ears full of the dogs, yips and growls and the incestant bawling of the sheep and

the swishing of grass and tree branches and the occasional gusts of wind.

He slowly became aware of a different Norse or rather a set of noises that were becoming

louder and more distinct.

It wasn't the wine he thought nor his imagination.

Something was coming.

Mostly it sounded like metal, little clangs and bangs audible over the animal noises, but

he could also make out what sounded like creaking wheels and neighing horses and trudging

feet.

Something was coming and the shepherd didn't want to meet whatever came around the bend

in the trackway and came across his flock.

...