Riding Jokul’s mountain-racer
Thorstein came out from the darkness
Weighted down with gold and glory,
Blood-bought honour from the forest.
As he rode along the sunpath
Glinting spearheads far below him,
Thorstein saw, and helmed men riding,
Upward from the valley winding.
‘Twas the men of Romsdal riding,
And his father far before them,
Who, beholding Mjoll’s son living,
Cried for joy and thus spoke to him:
‘When you left, I rued my taunting –
What I spoke to you reproaching.’
‘Little knew you when or whether
I’d return,’ said Thorstein, bitter.
As the fire left untended,
Thorstein’s anger soon subsided,
And he sent to call a Thing then
For the thanes beneath the mountains.
At the Thing, the son of Ketil
Spoke: ‘No more fear bloody raiders
Lurking in the deep-carved valleys,
Lonely woods or snow-boned mountains.
See this plunder spread before you.
Take what’s yours – mine’s the remainder.’
Shouts of praise beside the water
Sounded for the heir of Romsdal,
As at even they lit the torches
Many years ago in Norway,
Where the fjord in grey cliff’s shadow
Deep and cold goes to the ocean.