It was stunning to think that even peasants in this city could afford to live in such magnificent houses, with the only defect of the city being the dirtiness of some of the houses near to the gates. Along with the stench that appeared to haunt every corner of the city of Hraukrheier, disgusted Indulf could not imagine a more repulsive scent.

  Speaking of those peasants the vast majority of the local population was blonde haired and bearded in the case of the men-folk, with most dressed in the Arnish custom.

  They were dressed in bright coloured tunics made of rough wool, with trousers of the same colour while the women-folk were dressed in long Norse dresses. Most were tall, big-boned and muscled figures, with a great chunk of the population non-human. These non-humans were similarly tall and muscular physically, with the majority being the bear-like Ursidons, the canine Wolframs, Tigruns and though diminutive in stature, fearsome Dwarves.

  All of them were busy with their day to day affairs, and all appeared blonder or lighter haired and features, and bluer eyed or greener eyed than most people in even Caledonia often were. Proof positive of the more northerly ancestry of the local people, who in some cases paused what they were up to, to stare at the new arrivals.

  When he awoke, Wiglaf was to comment upon this and the fact that the city had been founded millennia ago only to be sacked, burnt and rebuilt once more by people from Roma who had intermingled with the original inhabitants. He claimed though that the city had never truly been conquered, same with the island by the Romalians, who had only launched two expeditions onto the island and had failed to make serious gains.

  “It is the swamps and bogs near the center of the island, accompanied by the fact that the island is as we just discovered, covered in eternal fogs that prevent most people from reaching it.” Wiglaf stated with a shrug of his broad shoulders, looking both pensive and chagrined by the fact that he had been caught and tied.

  Though he had not expected to see them, Herleifr along with his four wives, vast brood of adult and infant children, and a portion of his favourites amongst the nobility, clergy and mercantile classes stepped out to greet them.

  What shocked the trio the most, to such an extent that even the Cymran sorcerer was visibly baffled, was the fact that where the people continued to dress in Arnish fashion, the nobility did not. They had exchanged their Norse-styled garb and hair-braiding customs, in favour of silk, loose untamed hair and velvet clothes. Their clothes loose-fitting, shoulder-less and where women were concerned for a great deal of jewellery on their persons. In all, they appeared to be aping some other peoples and customs that none of the new arrivals were at all familiar with. It almost appeared ridiculous, if it were not so wasteful.

  Not the most well-connected of men, in regards to Bretwealda affairs he had however heard tell of the tales of both Colwyn and Wiglaf. With the Jarl immensely fond of hearing those stories in spite of the fact that there were those among his kith and kin who cared little for such tales.

  Welcoming them into his home, he had them ushered into two rooms with Indulf likely to have been placed elsewhere were it not for Wiglaf’s intervention on his behalf. The sorcerer claimed him to be a personal servant, a statement that annoyed him though he did not argue against it as he was feeling rather daunted by what he had seen of the city.

  A sentiment shared by his companions, and hardly discouraged by their host or his kinsmen and favourites, all who appeared to either glower at them, or gaze upon them with false politeness. The false smiles were such a blatant deception that it filled their stomachs with a sense of nausea that on that first day, they could only pick at their food, rather than devour it as their hosts did.

  *****

  The pleas began on the second day they were there, and lasted all through to the fourth day, much to the irritation of the sorcerer and prince. The laird of Gwyneira was given separate chambers across the hall on the fourth floor, ones twice the size of those of the sorcerer. The vain laird pleased by this development, though it hardly served to mollify him, for he knew all too well how changeable men such as Herleifr could prove themselves to be.

  Left alone in Wiglaf’s chambers most days that he was in the palace, and forbidden from wandering as he pleased or from visiting the local city, Indulf began to at once feel morose.

  By the fourth day of his stay there, he had become downright hostile, towards these people thinking them not at all like those his grandmother Mairi had described to him in his early childhood. Those she had described had yes appeared at times violent and even harsh, but they were majestic and kingly in nature. Whereas these men were soft, mean-natured and rather reminded him of snakes and of Badrách the local laird, so that Indulf had little doubt that they returned his disdain.

  Occasionally invited to join Wiglaf and Colwyn, when they went to the grand hall to entreat with Herleifr, he had occasion to see the vast red carpet of the hall.

  One made from Lyonessian silk, with the vast tapestries of old hunts coarsely sewn together, none of them depicting the old gods of the Arns, or even the new gods of the faith of Quirinas. Disappointed by this, Indulf had however still some sense of awe towards the great hall which was nigh on one hundred twenty-five meters long and wide, with this grand hall more than one hundred fifteen meters high, and adorned with swords and axes upon the walls.

  Along with the personal coat of arms of Herleifr; a black-horned helm set against a dark red background. The banners hung from all four of the walls of the grand hall, with four per wall. All of the standards guilty of being roughly sewn using silk, much to his disgust as he felt utterly certain that he could have sewn better tapestries and banners than whomever, knitted those together.

  The Silver-Throne of Herleifr was placed upon an elevation that was accessible only by a column of eight large stairs that might have required even one as tall as say Corin or Bardulf to strain themselves, it was thus, an ostentatious thing. The stone stairs were made of pure-marble just as the silver-decorated bear-fur covered throne was. Herleifr had added silk pillows underneath him and along the back of his throne just beneath, the fur, so that it would be far more comfortable for him to seat himself upon it.

  In all the display of wealth offended the humble Indulf, who was of a view that such displays were disgusting acts that were hardly befitting any man. Only the gods should perform such displays of wealth, as it to his mind tended to mar the minds of men, so that they may begin to think more of themselves than they truly were.

  Forced to crane his neck to look up at the diminutive Jarl, who was seated upon said throne at the back of the hall, with his feet propped up, on a silk-pillowed footstool. Three of his cats either nestled to the side of the throne and in the case of his favourite white one, upon his lap, Herleifr was the definition of wastefulness.

  To the left hand side of the arm of his metallic chair, was another stool though this one had grapes, nuts and apples in it, of the finest quality. From which the Jarl tended to snack liberally, without offering any to his guests.

  “We have need of you to release us that we may carry on with our quest, and try to find our beloved friends.” Wiglaf attempted to plead without success.

  “Bah, what do your friends matter to me? All I would ask of you, is what would you offer up to me as Jarl of Hraukrheier in return for your freedom? Do you not realize that it is common-practice in these lands to offer up a gift to a laird or Jarl when you enter into his lands?” Herleifr asked of them, in the most pompous of tones that might have better suited some distant Dorian potentate rather than the always pragmatic almost earthily and sea obsessed Arns.

  All about his hall traipsed his kinsmen, stood various clergymen and kin along with those courtiers, who most agreed with the stout Jarl. Many gave nods of approval, at his words while others such as the man’s eldest son, and chief wife stood to the left of the stairs leading up to the throne with scowls on their faces.

  Only a little taller than his father, the ‘lad’ as he was called by his father, was more than a decade older than Indulf was. Nearer to his father’s age, he had the same dark hair of the Jarl, on his chin and head, with his head covered with a thicket of long untamed locks bound together only with a single golden circlet.

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  His beard was neatly trimmed, and his silk tunic was dark red, with his trousers a far deeper crimson that matched his almost bloodshot hate-filled gaze. His cloak though was a wolf-one pinned together near his left-shoulder with a brooch in the shape of the dark-horned helmet that the family loved ever so much.

  Where his father was stout, this young man was tall- much more so than even Wiglaf was, with his feet shod in dark boots and a long-sword girded to his belt, he was one of the most daunting figures Indulf had ever beheld. His mother in turn was blonde yet dark-eyed, just as her husband and four sons were; she was likewise tall, almost six feet as her son was. Where they preferred darker colours, she preferred a vivid blue dress made of silk and velvet with a coyote-fur cloak pinned together just below her chin with a brooch in the shape of a dark coyote-head.

  The disdain in the woman’s eyes, were matched by those which the other wives levelled in the direction of the newcomers. It was likewise shared by those of the line of Herleifr, with both sons and daughters filled with disgust at the sight of them.

  Most of them were stout, with the chief wife’s brood distinctive from them in their superior height. The majority had dark hair, with only three of the children having lighter hair. The wives and children of three eldest of Herleifr’s children noteworthy for how young they were, and for their shock of dark hair, save for one of them who was as blonde as his tiny mother.

  The pressure of their dark gazes and the weight of their disdain hardly served to unnerve the silver-tongued Colwyn, or wise old Wiglaf.

  During the previous supplications, events had largely followed this same routine. So that by this time Indulf felt the monotony of the moment, feeling as though every minute and hour were stretched thinner than centuries, might have been. His dislike for them, only growing as did his lack of fear as he asked himself, why they had to endure this humiliation.

  “Wiglaf, why do we continue to humour this farce?” Indulf inquired in a whisper, unable to understand why his traveling companion had not already sought to escape, mayhap through the use of his magical arts.

  “Quiet you fool! What other choice do we have?” Wiglaf hissed back, tearing his gaze from the seated Jarl for but a brief moment.

  Standing just a little behind him, to his left just as Wiglaf himself stood a little ways behind where Colwyn himself stood at the base of the steps leading to the throne. Indulf failed to be dissuaded by the sorcerer’s ill-temper, whispering back with uncharacteristic heat. “We have many others, why do you not transport us elsewhere, or why do you not try to fly us out the window to safety?”

  “I can no more fly, than you could mind your tongue,” the old Cymran snapped at him with another hard stare in his direction.

  Indulf grumbled a little beneath his breath, certain that were it Cormac or Daegan, than the elder would have been more than happy to endure their questions and complaints. Irritated, he swallowed his unhappiness.

  Herleifr was not at all so reasonable as to release them, he mused tartly of a mind that they had to escape from this place by their own wits, rather than with the man’s good graces.

  A suspicion that was confirmed when the old Jarl declared with nary any politeness, “I will look into the matter of this quest of yours, and this gemstone as I informed you yesterday.”

  His words intended to be oily, yet there was steel beneath it that was the death knell of any hopes to reason and diplomacize their way, out of their current predicament.

  *****

  Returned to the chambers he shared with the old sorcerer, Indulf was to eat with Wiglaf some still hot bread, dipped in mead that was made from fermented honey that he rather enjoyed, along with some boar meat. The two had preferred to eat by themselves in silence, with the two having thus far taken turns in sleeping on the bed.

  Typically though, it was Indulf who slept on the ground, out of respect for his friend’s age. That night was no different, so that he had no difficulty in feigning sleep from the moment he pulled one of the fur-drapes Wiglaf passed over to him, up to his chin. Once he heard the elderly sorcerer’s breath become even, the youth with a scornful snort beneath his breath threw over the drapes climbed up to his feet.

  Hurrying out the door, only after he had glanced both ways once he had slipped the door open. The guards he discovered just outside of his door, there to guard his door along with that of the room that had been lent to the prince of Gwyneira. The guards were asleep, with the one to the right even snoring ever so slightly.

  Hopeful, Indulf was to slip past them without any difficulty.

  Debating with himself whether he should cross the hallway, to discuss the matter with Colwyn, or to descend the stairs to investigate the doors out of the palace.

  Preferring the latter choice out of certainty that the prince would only reject his pleas, and continue to blindly have faith in their ability to negotiate with Herleifr, he headed for the stairs. Once there, he descended them two at a time, keen to leave the fourth floor with her long hallways and imposing private chambers behind him.

  His exploration of the lower floors though took him near to the gates, which he was troubled to find when he glanced down, halfway down the stairs a duo of guards standing at attention. Pausing there, he was to turn back to explore the second and third floors, which he was pleased to discover were almost free of all guards.

  With Indulf walking on the tips of his toes, filled with considerable trepidation he prayed continuously to the gods in the hopes that he would not be caught. Doing so, he listened out for anyone who may hurry forth from either behind or in front, or from one behind one of the doors.

  It was as he explored the third floor as he turned a corner that he heard a strange hissing noise. Reminded of the terrible wraiths that had menaced his friends and him near the Great Mound of Griogair, and realizing that he was unarmed, the youth could have cursed his own stupidity.

  Glancing about the hallway throughout the third floor that he found himself upon, only to realize he would have to hurry if he wished to avoid them. Returning the way he had come, he hurried up the stairs ere he advanced up another two floors above, where he and his friends had been placed.

  It was on that floor now as he crossed the seemingly empty hallway, that he heard the same hissing noise, and stunned and frightened he froze once more near the end of the hallway. Some of his previous anger from his last encounter with them on the Lairdly-Isle fresh in his mind boiled together, only for him to remember his friends.

  Distracted as he was, he could not have foreseen what was to come. Veering nearer to the left-hand side of the hallway passing nigh on a dozen black doors that he imagined led to chambers not dissimilar to those occupied by his friends. What he did not consider was one of the doors opening with the rapidity of lightning.

  It was thrown open so suddenly that, Indulf felt if in passing a sense of frustration towards himself for having dared, to leave the room he shared with Wiglaf, in the middle of the night. Especially, when he hardly knew this place, it was a wonder that it was so deserted in the first place, and that he had made it this far in the first place.

  What was all the worst, he decided was that he had done so with nary a thought, to how to get back. Cormac would have likely explored only insofar as the first few floors, ere he slipped back to his room. He had always been the clever one, and the one of them who knew best how to slip about undetected, after a lifetime of slipping away from Kenna’s watchful, sharp gaze.

  The impact of the other body tackling into him, with the other person’s legs intertwining with his own, in a flurry of motion that he could not have predicted sent him sprawling face first onto the hardened marble beneath his feet.

  A cry of pain escaped his lips, along with those of the one who had crashed into him, so that the two of them lay there for a brief moment, with a feminine squeak of pain having escaped the other person. Clenching his teeth to keep his second louder cry from escaping him, when he felt a pair of knees strike him in the chest, knocking the air temporarily from his lungs, while he crushed the smaller person below him with his weight.

  Hitting his face and right arm against the floor, he had a moment of shock and then panic at the thought of his cheekbone and arm having broken. Desperation filled him as the thought, disappeared relatively swiftly, to be replaced by a sense of urgency when he remembered how important it was that he find himself, a place to hide.

  The person he had run into was quick to hiss something he did not understand though he did grasp the idea behind the word uttered.

  All but pulled into the other room, he was to throw the door closed behind him as swiftly as possibly, wincing a little at the creaking noise that echoed just behind him.

  He could feel some of his earlier tension begin to recede, to be replaced by a sense of relief. He might have stayed there, were it not for the other person whom he was only now realizing that despite the darkly lit room was considerably smaller than he himself was. Urged past the bed he was almost pushed over, whereupon he was told something he did not quite understand though he did grasp one thing.

  He had accidentally stumbled upon one of the Jarl’s daughters which sent a wave of fear straight to his gut.

  Anxious to escape all the more now, he was ill-prepared and indecisive over what to do next. Normally a man prone to throwing himself into action, as decisively as Daegan might, in recent days, due in no small part to his desperation to avenge the wife of his heart. Indulf was unprepared for this situation, and remained thereafter with his face and body almost pressed against the marble stone.

  Behind him, the dark room’s door flicked open once more, with the same hissing from earlier heard, though it sounded different now that he thought about it, from that of the wraiths. This one sounded as though it was not coming from some deep fiery pit but was some sort of serpent.

  The language that they spoke was a mystery to him, yet spoke they did.

  They exchanged long words, with the lass he had run into, in the hallway answering shortly, with an air of impatience mixed with her every word.

  It was some time ere she came to fetch him, and when she did she pulled him to his feet and pointed him towards the door.

  “Wait, how do I know that there are not any guards that way?” He asked of her, only to have the distinct impression that she stared at him in the darkness, as puzzled by his words as he was by hers.

  It was only when she repeated her words a little more slowly that he caught a few, and managed to squeeze out some sort of understanding of them from his distracted mind. “Vas-y… plus là!” these were the only words that he could quite grasp, at that moment as all the others were beyond his ken.

  Pushed out of the room, Indulf swore a little beneath his breath, hurried back to his chambers and did not leave them until dawn.

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