The river flow would wash the silver into the silt, scatter it and everything else for miles down the river. For years people would pick riches out of those waters; some might even brave the fetch of the place and dig for it in those times when the drought came and the lake was emptied. Perhaps, one day, someone might find a rune-serpented sword, or even two and, perhaps, marvel at how they seemed unmarked by time or weather.
But not us. Odin had given the Oathsworn his last gift of silver, I told them.
They were silent after that and eventually Gizur nodded, straightened and scrubbed his hands over his face, as if scouring away sleep and the last of a bad dream.
'Row, fuck your mothers,' he growled. 'It is a long way home.'