Small is the council that gathers about the hearth of Sweartmereseld this day: Amaleoda the shieldmaiden, acclaimed by all as head of the House; Arbogast, a bruise around his eye slowly fading as the siege draws on; Irmele Three-tooth, eldest surviving member of the House; and Idunn, foremost healer of Black Tarn Hall since the passing yesterwinter of the crone Farahilda.  It is dim within the hall, the fire kept low so as to conserve wood and passing little light venturing through the constant mist to shine though the smoke holes atop the gable.  Grim is the mood, for though only one meal each day has filled the bowls of the folk, stil the oat crocks are nearly empty. 

"In my youth, the crops failed utterly," says Irmele, her eyes cloudy with pained rememberings. After some moments filled only with the crackling of the fire, she returns to the matter at hand.  "The first to perish will be the little children, and the sick.  Thereafter, the young men."   

She does not say what need not be said: that after a week with little food, many are ill. 

Amaleoda does not sigh hopelessly, but clearly wishes she could.  "And what of our defences?" 

"Small warbands of goblins test them almost every night," Arbogast answers, though all present know this.  "Sometimes openly, sometimes trying to sneak across where they fancy a warrior has fallen asleep." 

He does not say what need not be said: that after each exhausting night, the will of the warriors to waken through the hours of darkness ebbs further. 

"Can we hold out?" 

"For now.  The palisade and gate hold strong.  An it meet with your agreement, I will post a smaller guard overnight, that more warriors might be kept in the hall, to rest until their shields are needed." 

"Will that not simply surrender all outside the palisade to the goblins, to say nothing of the lives of the sentries?" asks Idunn. 

The Fire-watcher spreads his hands, unable to give voice to that which he has come to suspect.  When the Enemy came, he did not crush us at first, though he surely could have, had he desired to so spend his force.  The night-time attacks come, when they do, piecemeal and without cohesion.  Either that which commands them is unable to order a larger attack, or unable to prevent the attacks, despite its orders.   Either way, they will not grow in size as long as each band is beaten back, whether or not they pass the palisade first.
 And in the meantime, we will wait, and suffer, and grow weaker.  The Enemy will not attack until we are near powerless to stop him. 

It is what I would do.

Instead, he says "We must put the hounds to death." 

Irmele nods almost imperceptibly as Amaleoda looks pained and Idunn horrified.  "What??" the healer exclaims.  "What madness are you speaking?" 

"The stored meat is long gone." Arbogast rebuts, his voice not rising.  "Naught have they eaten in two days but a handful of rats.  I know," he says, meeting Idunn's eyes "how much they are boon companions.  Aye, and a well-bred hound is a great helper in battle!  But how long will a starved hound heed its master's call?  The day will come, and soon, when they will cease to be allies and become threats, especially to the children." 

"But Sindjafr..."

"I know," he says, letting the words drop like weights into a well.  "And Puff-tail, and Coneybane, and all the rest.  I know them as I know my kinfolk.  It does not matter." 

There is a long silence, broken ultimately by Amaleoda.  "I cannot..." she begins. 

"I know," he says, eyes downcast.  "Bring them to me."