Everyone else was flying through the forest like a herd of crazed oxen. Styrbjörn heard arrows whistling through the air on all sides as the enemy archers started to panic. Styrbjörn understood them. Hitting a moving target with trees all around was hard, after all. He was not about to feel pity for them, however - they had been the ones to choose weapons, and if they were too slow to change, well... The aging berzerker did not spend much time thinking about it.

He'd have preferred to walk, but he knew he had to keep pace with the other warriors if he were to be of any use. So he ran. He flew past sticks and stones, not bothering to be careful or stealthy - there was little risk of anyone actually aiming in this confusion. As he charged through some bushes, came upon one of the savages, a raven-haired young 'un, bowstring drawn and arrow notched. The savage raised his bow, and Styrbjörn raised his maul. Styrbjörn charged with his weapon poised like a lance, and the weapons connected. The bow offered no resistance, but snapped like a dry twig. The maul caught the savage in the throat.

Normally, it would not have been a lethal blow. The savage might have had time to retaliate. As luck would have it, however, one of Freyr's birches was rooted firm behind the savage's back. If the bow had snapped like a twig, dryly and without resistance, the human neck went like a falling tree. Before Styrbjörn's shrinking pupils, the metal of the maul seemed at first to sink into the pale skin - rugged, and yet so soft by comparison. A ripple went through the skin of the throat and then came the thud, the fraction of a second during which the spine would put up a last desperate, futile resistance. A wet, muffled crackle, and the bones gave in, killing off the savage's dying gurgle as life forever escaped his bulging, green eyes. The head fell forward, its chin hitting the maul, and a small trickle of blood appeared from behind the berzerker's maul.

With a wordless howl, Styrbjörn tore his weapon from the lifeless savage, violently shaking his head to clear the red fog that was dawning on his vision. Forcing himself to look away from the corpse, he resumed his sprint through the forest. The battlerage was still a great temptation, even after thirty years.