“Faster Trygve! You must ride Alfwine faster than that, if you indeed wish to escape from Uhtric! Fly faster my friend!” Cried faithful Oswine, from the horse to the right of his own as they galloped through the fields away from the castle, their hearts in their throats and stomachs long abandoned behind them. Such was the speed with which they rode through the night; they might well have been mistaken for wraiths, themselves.

  Fear was the only other companion the four of them had. Yes, four. You read correctly, for they carried with them the sons of Oswine, Harold and Oswiu. The former was three years of age, where the latter was little older than a single year of age.

  Behind them, the cries of Alwin, chief huscarl of the house of Rheged along with those of the twelve others he had taken with him resonated. Each was a-horse and full of the rage of men who believed truly in the cause for which they fought for.

  But just as righteousness was with them, so too was it with Trygve and Oswine.

  The chief-most difference that separated their respective sense of righteousness from one another was that that which had possessed the duo and the children was tinged with desperation.

  Their apprehension was so terrible that it had infected their chargers, which grunted and growled as they threw themselves forward with far greater resolution than those behind them. It helped that these were the finest, the fastest of all the horses in Rheged. The prized possessions of Uhtric’s house, they had been reared by his heir Swiehun with great care.

  Trygve panted and whipped the reins of his horse, Alfwine. It was likely little more than a few minutes, yet to his pounding head and heart it felt akin to hours and hours ago.

  *****

  What felt then to him all the longer behind him in time, was what had followed after the Queenwraith had become aware of his presence before the door to Uhtric’s chambers. He had moved then faster than he ever had, in all his life. Fleeing for the stairs Trygve had slipped down them four at a time, as stealthily as possible. He had arrived at their base, heart pounding with even more force than the crashing sea against the promontory. Hardly able to summon the wits for which he was so renowned, by those of Glasvhail, he searched about for a hiding place.

  Behind him, the Queenwraith’s screech could be heard, sounding once again akin to a wind-tunnel.

  Spurred forth, he threw himself against the doors to the mead-hall. He found strangest of all to his eyes, the mead-hall empty of all people. What he did not know, was that they had all decided to sleep in the barracks, the main-hall and along the stairs on the other side of the dungeon.

  Having nowhere to hide, but under the nearest table.

  Crawling beneath it, he was to lay near to the head-table hardly daring to move, to breath. Covering his mouth as the doors clacked all the more open by the Queenwraith. Never before had any moved faster than she, at that moment. Such was the rapidity with which she did move through the hall then that, she might well have been believed to float through the hall. Her wispy black dress fluttered along the marble-floor, visible only in that just as the armour of the other wraiths in that it appeared to devour what light there was without giving anything save for unlight.

  Darkness clouded about her, her hisses cut through the hall as a blade might have sliced through the flesh of a defenceless maiden.

  It was only with the greatest of effort that Trygve kept from moaning, and from rocking back and forth under the table. His terror was such at that moment, he could not see for he began to weep then under the table, if quietly so.

  The Queenwraith did not make a single sound beyond her hissing. She searched about the hall with her gaze as she walked past him, ere she turned about to search at the opposite side of the hall. Ducking down the she-phantom searched beneath the table, of the guards.

  Unable to properly see her due to the chairs between her and his line of sight, and the tears that clouded his vision, Trygve could see that she was searching for him.

  Thus, he stayed in place.

  The Queenwraith moved away from that table to the other.

  It was at this moment that the inevitable struck Trygve. Swallowing his fear both the unnatural and natural, he at last regained control of his legs.

  Once she had completed her search of the second table, the wraith moved to search the last.

  It was highly likely as she moved from one side of the table to the other to search it from both sides as thoroughly as possible that, she would have in time discovered Trygve.

  What neither she, nor the Caled had counted upon, was the timely arrival of Uhtric.

  “Well? Who was it? Did you find him?” The Ealdorman demanded of the phantom that pulled herself up to stand wholly upright. His tone was unlike any he had been heard to use, in the presence of the youth from Caledonia. It was harsh, impatient, and possibly apprehensive. There was little mercy or wisdom to be found there.

  “I know not,” The she-phantom hissed at him, a note of irritation in her voice.

  “He must have slipped elsewhere, if such is the case,” Now the lord of Rheged sounded utterly wearied, as he threw himself into the chair nearest her.

  He could not have known, but that chair was but inches away from Trygve.

  The youngest of the great sons of Freygils could feel his heart beat itself against his chest all the more fiercely. Terrified, he began to tremble, prayers almost mumbled from between his slack lips. That he did not do this, was in itself a miracle of a sorts.

  “What shall we do? Do you suppose it was a spy?” Uhtric asked of her anxiously, wiping at his sweaty brow with his sleeve.

  The wraith did not answer at once, but when she did her voice was harsh. It reminded of both men of steel grinding against the sheer face of a rock. There was also much coldness, such that it could have passed for a snow-storm of the very worst sort. “You must send men away, whither to Lufianc. You must end what was begun at Suthelm.”

  Uhtric hesitated.

  Seeing this, the wraith spoke rather more sweetly, as might a mother to her frightened child, “Come now, Uhtric you have grandchildren to think of. Consider the fate of the son of Swiehun, and your daughter, Leofgye.”

  “Y-you are right as always, forgive me my friend,” Uhtric replied reluctantly, sounding old and tired at that moment. “Forgive an old man his follies.”

  “Nonsense,” the phantom purred. “What are friends for, but to join together and aid one another?”

  *****

  She left to go find a guard, wherefore Uhtric followed after shortly thereafter. Trygve for his part had waited for them to leave, pulling himself from behind the large throne of the ancient kings of Rheged from before Brittia’s unification. Having hidden himself there, he had been terribly exposed to those to the left and right of the chair, but from the front he was well-hidden. Relieved, he almost fell over with a hysterical chuckle.

  But there was no time to waste, he reminded himself hurrying to the door to the hallway that connected the keep to the kitchens. Certain that were he to escape through there, he might find safety if only for a little while longer, he was however sorely disappointed in that regard.

  “I’faith!” Oswine cried out alarmed by the sudden arrival of the Caled before him.

  Trygve sought to escape around his friend, he was however caught and held, frustrated he attempted once more to shove him aside, “Out of the way Oswine!”

  “Wait Trygve,” Oswine snapped at once, irritated by his continuous attempt to slip free from his grasp. “How long have you been in this hall?”

  Fearful that he was about to be handed over, he was however to his own shock soon to be thrown onto a swiftly saddled charger and told. “I shall meet with you outside of the city, to the north but do not wait for me. I must be away, to get my sons.”

  “What- why- what are you doing?” Trygve stammered confused by the intentions and actions of his friend.

  A small smile on his lips, as he saddled another war-horse, Oswine informed him, “I do believe this is the first time you have stumbled for words, my witty friend. I must revel in this fact while I can. Now go!”

  The rear of his horse was slapped, it panicked and jostled Trygve had to cling to it all the tighter his previous fear of horses’ re-awakened. He was to gain the attention of a great many of those searching for the ‘spy’ that Uhtric claimed had listened in upon his conversation with the wraith. From there they followed him, until he was to reach the edge of town.

  Once there, he pulled the charger to a hidden alleyway, seeing that the guards were waiting for him. Thinking rapidly and relying upon the dark-colouration of his steed he left for the west of the city. Trygve took great care to escape that way, ere he circled about thither to the north, wherefore he was reunited with Oswine, who had brought his two sons with him.

  “I could not very well leave them behind,” He had confessed urgently as they threw themselves forward upon the north-road.

  “What of their mother?”

  “She- she has not-” It was then that Trygve learnt that Oswine struggled with the truth at times also, informing him in the first act of honesty about himself, since the dawn of their friendship. “My Mildred is no longer with us. She passed near a year ago.”

  *****

  It was not long thereafter that they were spotted making their retreat, with the sons of the guardsman fussing as they raced through the night. The terror of the dusk and of the guards pursuing them made both lads cry out, and complain far more, than Trygve might otherwise have done himself.

  Far behind them, the guards grew ever further and all the more impatient, and angered. Irritated by the distance that slowly grew between their prey and themselves, they were to in the end give up. This being done only after many spears was thrown and uncouth curses were uttered. Some of which Trygve could understand and burnt his ears, so that he might have in other circumstances turned to confront them, to defend his honour.

  The monastery which they sought was just outside the city, being but a day and a half away by horse so that they reached it by noontide.

  The walls of that community were built of wood three feet thick, and forty-four meters high. There were no parapets or towers, for the monks were quite unwary of outsiders. The palisade dating back as Trygve was soon to learn back to the age of the conquests by the Arns of the north of Brittia. As to the buildings themselves, there were four of them with the main tower and hall all one building with a pair of bells at the summit of the aforementioned tower.

  Square-shaped this building was one hundred and eighty meters wide and long, and built of local stone. Dusty-coloured, with auburn roofs they were meant to look like dusty old books as the monks of Saga had an uncanny passion for books. The other buildings were not towers but interconnected by small hallways, save for two of the right-most buildings which were for food-storage. They shared the auburn-roof and dusty coloured paint of the main buildings.

  In possession of a great deal of acreage the monks, had thus thousands of farmers always at work for them, tilling the fields and harvesting the crops. Experienced managers, they stored the reserve food given to them by the people in their storage buildings. Storing it for the winter, whereupon they doled it back out to the farmers, so that the tithes they imposed was always returned.

  Most of their crops were of onions, grain and corn, so they often redistributed their stored reserves as bread and such, after having it ground down and baked by their own bakers. The fair-minded monks had also taken to managing the trade of sheep-wool as there was a great many shepherds in their service. The sheep-wool was sold to be able to buy leather from the Continent, wherefore they used that to bound, their many tomes.

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  Most of their time was thus spent, writing and chronicling the events and tragedies of the day. For Saga was the goddess of history, and as such the principal manner in which to worship her, was by the writing of history.

  *****

  The monks, who numbered in the three hundreds, were immensely surprised by the arrival of the two men along with the shaken lads. Sweet-natured they were swift though to recover and to offer scolding words for their ‘ill-care’ of the children. They soon re-supplied the horses after they had tended to them, wherefore they fed the two travelers and were far in a way more helpful than Trygve originally expected them to be.

  “We are men of the cloth, and men of Rheged yes, but Wulfnoth is an old friend,” their abbot informed the two of them, a speaking in fluent Caled from where he sat across from them, in the dining-hall. As he spoke the lads to either side of him, ate their fill, under the watchful eye of their father, who was familiar with the bald, thick-bearded elderly Dwarf who served as the temple’s abbot. “Wulfnoth was seized after he had left for the south-west. This being after he had perused our libraries for some time.”

  “Why did he sift through them so closely and where did he go?” Trygve asked of the monk.

  “He searched through the Edda-abbey’s records of his attempts to purify the Unliving in the Wars of Darkness,” The Dwarf replied gravely, with his brow furrowing. “When he had finished his research, he departed south, when he was captured by Uhtric’s men and sent south to Suthelm.”

  “Did you overhear them say they were going to take him there?” Trygve interrupted inherently suspicious of most of the Brittians he had met thus far.

  “Nay, but as he was ambushed by some of Uhtric’s men just outside our gates, and as all of the Ealdorman’s foes have in recent years been sent there, we assumed that was where he was bound.” The abbot answered patiently, visibly distressed for his friend.

  They did not stay for much longer, keen as they were to hurry whither to the rescue of pious old Wulfnoth. The huscarl accompanying Trygve was distressed at the revelation that Suthelm was where the druid had been sent.

  Though the farewells were tearful ones, with Oswine seeking to get his sons to be brave, scolding them as he did so, for which they promised to do this. Trygve was for his part not blind to the sorrow and love that shined in the eyes of both the lads, and their father.

  *****

  They journeyed for hours, neither of them risking so much as a glance behind them. So fearful were they that, they did not exchange more than a half-dozen words. They made good time according to the huscarl before he suggested that they stop for the night.

  Surrounded by sycamore, oak and ash-trees in the middle of nowhere they were to choose to rest against the trunks of two large oak-trees that kept them entirely hidden from any upon the road. Their horses fastened to the nearby trees, were hardly any more visible given how deeply they had delved into the forest.

  Oswine knew the route south better than Wulfnoth might otherwise have, and knew it better than their pursuers. This he told him, shortly after they broke for camp by one of the many forests that separated the monastery from the nearest southern village. Forced to eat some of the cheese generously given by the monks, though neither was hungry, Trygve brought up the subject of their pursuers first and of their destination.

  “Suthelm-Keep is a border castle, once under the ownership of Jorvik,” Oswine replied morosely, utterly consumed by despair at the notion of heading for what was an over-large prison. “There are many rumours that surround the castle, not least of which that it is shared jointly with Sivrard. That he has visited it a number of times and that it is his guards who retain control of it. I hope this is not the case.”

  “I hope the same,” Trygve murmured genuinely horrified by such a notion. Certain that should this take place they may not survive this quest of theirs.

  He prayed that Wulfnoth was still alive, and that they would not meet with Sivrard of Jorvik.

  *****

  Suthelm was a week’s journey on horseback; it was as they journeyed through the land, past trees and hills that were younger in the case of the former and flatter in the case of the latter than those in Caledonia. There was a great deal more people in this country, than in the land of the Caleds he noticed. Amazed by the number of people who populated the landscape, all fair-skinned and hard at work in the case of humans, he gaped at all around him. There were beast-folks also, many of whom were likewise hard at work in the fields.

  Some of the forests had been cut down, in order for Brittia to feed their people. Though he felt sorrow for some of the forests deprived of their trees, he could not deny the necessity for food. They were often to be found speaking in their guttural, rough Brittian speech or in the case of others Arnish. Both languages more than capable of magnificent songs that Trygve could not entirely understand in spite of this he did like the musical sound of their dirges.

  The forests they did see were large, and were given a large berth, for the kings of these lands guarded many of the forests jealously. Some had done so out of memory of the holiness of these places, in the eyes of Fufluns and Brigantia. Others simply liked to keep alongside their nobles, the practice of the hunt to themselves.

  To those who looked up from the fields, the two medium-sized men galloping down the broken road of the ancient Romalians. Many thought them upon some great quest, for Ealdorman Uhtric. A man most thought a good man, one who had naught but their own concerns at heart, or they simply thought nothing of him. The desperation graven into the faces of the two men bent over their chargers worried many who looked upon them.

  They passed many a keeps, and temples and stopped but at a few of the latter. Never telling any of those monks and druids where Trygve had stemmed from, or who he was. Nor did Oswine confess to where he had come from, with the vast majority guessed aptly where due to his accent.

  Most of these keeps were stone-forts built upon mounds and had palisades and high-walls that shielded them from any outside armies.

  Most of the forts in question had been established in the case of those nearest to Castle-Rheged by the ancient Rheged kings who had ruled over these lands in the after-days of Roma’s withdrawal from Bretwealda. Others farther away, had been established by lords who had come to power after the Great Northern Invasion, of Helgi the Terrible.

  The keeps in question had become in recent days the property of either power lords, or the kings of Brittia.

  The nearer they came to the frontiers that separated Rheged from Jorvik, the more numerous were the number of scouts they saw out and about. They also noticed more merchants and men lounging in the fields. Those not utilised as farmland, so lazy were the non-farmers that Trygve was shocked by their indolence. What shocked him all the more was the sheer laziness on the part of the warriors in particular. None of them appeared keen to see sincerely to their duties, with Oswine himself uncertain if they were sworn to Sivrard or Uhtric.

  Seeing how the scouts gave them little thought, they slid past them towards Suthelm without ever being stopped or searched. The closest they came to getting caught by some of the scouts, was when they first drew near to the easternmost castles and towns of Rheged.

  This happened when they were crossing from the town of Valhelmr to Grenechester and were approached by scouts who were suspicious of them due to their leaping behind the trees whenever they saw guards approaching. The scouts were for their part mollified by a small bribe by Oswine who gave them a small amount of coin, to leave them alone.

  “Thankfully, I still have some coin for the remainder, of the journey,” Oswine explained with a small grin when he saw how Trygve fretted over this spending of their silver-coins. These silver-coins were minted with the image of the duo of lions of Brittia one above the other, so that the name of these coins was the ‘silver leopards’.

  Trygve forgot in his hurry to ask him, how he had so much coin, when he was but a lowly-guard.

  Focused as he was upon the road, and upon his disgust towards those they crossed who refused to properly set to their duties and work.

  Suthelm Keep for its part when it did loom upon the horizon did so with a certain menace that promised them little good-will.

  Built of stone it had been built up by Helgi’s nephew, Sigmun who had had the Ogre master-builder Vathurg help with the locating of quarry-stones and supervise the construction of the fort. Ringed by twelve meter high walls and equipped with four great towers that were twice that size, and a main dungeon that was as high as the towers. Suthelm was an interesting sort of castle, one with three principal dungeons in marked contrast to the regular single-dungeon.

  This peculiarity was explained by Oswine, as, “-being separate but equal dungeons that are directly attached to the principal one. The reason for this is that Valthurg much as his brother did elsewhere in Brittia and even in ériu and the Western Isles of Caledonia, wished to experiment with his castle-building.”

  “Why was he allowed such liberties?” Trygve queried fascinated by this decision, on the part of the Ogre, a part of him suddenly had the urge to race on ahead to run his hands along the sides of the castle. It was a sensation that was topped by another great desire; to go find a master-builder to ask him a plethora of questions about architecture and stone-masonry.

  In another life, he might well have liked to be a stone-carver or master-builder, Trygve mused to himself longingly, with a little regret that he was but a simple fisherman. He comforted himself with the thought that at least he had not starved upon the side of the road, in search for new work as many builders tended to do. Only Dwarvish and Ogrish ones never appeared to starve, oh and Gallian ones. As the kingdom of Gallia was the state which engaged in the most building projects in the world outside of Volkholant, Theodosionople in South-Agenor and Orithia in Ifriquya.

  “I think that it was entirely due to Helgi not much caring for the costs of his castles, and thinking that if they were each built differently as all Ogre keeps are built, then his foes would have to develop different stratagems to take each of them.” Oswine theorized squinting as though seeking to peer back in time, to the age of Helgi.

  It was as good a guess as any, Trygve mused to himself grateful for the older man’s wits and ability to think things over so thoroughly.

  “Is it still manned?” He asked of the other man.

  “Aye, jointly so by both Rheged and Jorvik, oh and with some of the King’s men, I think,” Said the guard with a hint of uncertainty on this last part.

  This remark was one that caught Trygve’s attention at once. For one very important reason; he had never heard any of the people of the north of Brittia, make reference to their monarch. In Caledonia, the presence of Mael-Bethad appeared to be felt everywhere so forceful was his personality, so valorous was he and so beloved was he. He was the mightiest figure in the realm since the days of Mael-Martin. This in spite of such men as Raghnall, Ronald the Younger and Thorsteinn Crow-Feeder, who were all titans in their own rights.

  Yet in Brittia there was hardly any murmur of the King.

  This made Trygve curious, so that he admitted something that was known to Daegan and Cormac, if only by virtue of Corin’s vast depths of knowledge about Brittia. Salmon possessed equal knowledge to him of the southron state, though Trygve had rarely if ever broached the topic to him. He knew that Amuner the Conqueror had conquered the kingdom some twenty-five years or so ago, slaying the legitimate heir Ealdmund and the king, and banishing the legitimate heirs. These heirs had departed for Norléans, where they had found refuge in the house of Médard II, the previous duc of Norléans. This was the extent at the time, of his knowledge of the men who ought to have inherited the throne of Brittia.

  “The king is a man by the name of árni,” Oswine replied with a trouble look on his face, “A madman I would prefer not to speak of.”

  “Why? Is he anything at all like Donnchad, our previous High-King?” Trygve asked keen to learn about this absentee monarch.

  Oswine grimaced, his face twisting with shame and embarrassment, “Not all of our kings herein Brittia have been men to be proud of. I fancy that it is all the wealth they have, yours is a hard land which pushes hard men to take the throne and make something of it. But in the soft-southron lands of Brittia, this is not always the case. árni is soft and mad where his father was tough and strong. He may have taken the throne by force, but he was a wise and conscientious ruler.”

  This speech was lengthy, with the tone of it stern in nature. It was also sad and moribund, so that for the first time Trygve felt some of his innate resentment of the south change. Originally he had little love, for Brittia but now he found himself pitying it. It’s greatest years, it seemed was behind it. Its kings more prone to madness and follies, than the betterment of their subjects lives as was the wont of Mael-Bethad. Though he had been a violent man, who might massacre great parts of his realm, there was nonetheless peace in the time of Mael-Martin II.

  This was not to say that the turmoil that always followed the succession of a new king to the Thistle-Throne exactly enthralled Trygve. It was just that it made him all the more aware, of the importance of hard-work and resourcefulness. As it should be these qualities, he mused to himself along with love that ought to motivate men, not greed or hatred.

  He prayed that they would be hospitable. Somehow, he doubted that they would be.

  Eyeing the distant high-gates and walls dubiously, the Caled examined each of the great towers of the prison-keep in the hopes to find some sort of weakness. They would search all about the surroundings and would journey about and around the castle, in search of a vulnerable point or opening in the walls.

  They found none, so that they settled back upon the road at a distance from the western gates. Both grateful that those within the walls, upon them, the towers and before the gates were attending but half-heartedly to their tasks, as this was the sole reason they were able to circle about the castle as they had.

  “How should we gain entry?” Trygve asked of his friend, anxious to avoid conflict with such a great number of men.

  Oswine for his part shrugged his shoulders helplessly, “I know not.” He added after some thought, “We could pretend that I have captured you?”

  “I do not much like that plan,” Trygve replied at once, “They may decide to have me executed at once, for it is rumoured that Sivrard does not much love we Caleds.”

  “That is true,” Oswine conceded reluctantly, in despair he cried out, “If only your fire-blood could burn down those great walls, and we could slip inside and escape from it with Wulfnoth.”

  This gave Trygve an idea, one that made him brighten at once. “But that could very well it be it! Why, Oswine you are a genius!”

  “What? I am?” The huscarl queried confused.

  “We need only start a small fire, not near the walls but behind them,” Trygve went on eagerly, “Surely such a large keep must have a large stable, we need only release the horses and start a fire there.”

  “But that still does not explain, how we shall enter the castle,” Oswine whined not entirely convinced that they could accomplish this undertaking.

  Trygve studied the distant castle, pondering at some length just this issue. It was as his gaze returned to meet that of his friend that his eyes fell upon the blade girded to his friend’s belt. This gave him a sly idea that made him both smile and grimace all at once.

  Swallowing his dislike for that weapon, he leapt from his charger to tie the horse to a tree some distance from the road saying as he did so. “I shall approach on foot, but first I must ask of you Oswine, when were you here last?”

  “Four years, with the Ealdorman who came here to see to the defences of the keep, against Sivrard,” Replied the guard at once, not seeing where he was going with his plans. “For the castle was not always jointly manned, by both our men this was but a proposal on the part of the King to improve relations.”

  This brought a mischievous smirk to the lips of the Caled, who replied, “Perfect! Lo! We shall slip in with you as my master and mentor, and I all but your…” He struggled for the word, a Gallian term translated into Brittian he had heard merchants and Corin utter several times. “Squire! Aye, as your squire!”

  “But we huscarls do not take on squires,” Oswine retorted with a raised brow, having never heard of one of his profession taking on a pupil and dubbing him a squire.

  “An apprentice then,” Trygve snapped irritably, finding his corrections ridiculous when the man well-knew what it was he referred to.

  “Fine,” Oswine grumbled doubtfully, “All I meant to say, was that you are a finer horseman than I, and that squires learn such arts as far as I understand from their masters.”

  What he did not say, and what Trygve knew he meant deep down, was that he had serious doubts regarding their chances of victory in this undertaking. If he was honest with even himself, the younger man shared those doubts.

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