Fay laughed bitterly, "The Barrow one can find by rolling downhill, compared to finding the Glow and using it."
Tyr grunted. It was hard, being a god.
Sometimes he wished he were like other men, for then he would have no people to protect, no Old Ones to battle for a race that looked to him for guidance. Often he had thought that the Old Ones might be gods, but he knew that none of them could do what he could do.
His godship prodded him into saying, "Let us find the Barrow, and Harl."
"Harl is old, very old," replied the girl. "He is so old that he must be a doddering gaffer now."
"But his brain would be young," Tyr argued. "And it is the brain that is trained in war from which I seek aid."
The girl sat on a rock and undid a sandal and shook sand from it. She shrugged petulantly and fastened her sandal. "Must we go now? It is almost night."
Tyr looked at the sun low on the horizon. Tyr did not like to travel by night. He preferred the hot day, when the sunrays beat with insistent heat about his tanned chest and shoulders. But there was need for hurry. The Old Ones did not stop for darkness, and neither would he.
"Come," he said shortly.
The way was easy, at first. In the red light of the dying sun, they saw the sand before them, each rise and dip moulded into graceful curves by the winds that whipped the barrens night and day. They went lightly, swiftly.