They thus, approached the castle-gates with the guards standing at attention, seeing the two of them approach they called them to a halt. This they did, if nervously so. Neither of them was to immediately meet the gazes of the two startled guards.

  The two guards were dark-haired and very evidently brothers, dressed in hauberks and greaves they bore their duty with little joy. In the midst of a game of cards, ones which bore the emblems and faces of the twelve gods of Father Temple the two men glared at them.

  “Aye?” The one to the right asked, his voice was surly.

  Both of their hauberks Trygve saw were decorated with the emblem of a sword-tailed silver left-facing lion. An emblem that he had never before seen, and that he saw his friend stiffen at the sight of. It was the symbol of the house of Sivrard.

  One of the eldest of symbols in the history of Bretwealda, it dated back four hundred years, when King Sigvardr had first taken up the kingship. Proclaiming himself King of Bernicia, he had waged countless wars upon all of his neighbours in the wake of the downfall of the house of Artuir. Mighty, it was not long before the silver sword-tailed lion fluttered upon its black-banners from the Lamb-River in the north to the Wulf in the south.

  In the ages that followed it had become a rather more muted symbol, one that had been exiled from the north to the south where they had served with distinction the house of Gewisse. Upon the end of the ‘Age of the Arnlaw’ when the Arns had dominated the north of Brittia, Sigvardr’s last scion Eadward Steel-Arm had reclaimed the lost lands of his ancestors.

  Henceforth his line had dominated the post of Ealdorman of Jorvik, and many of her neighbouring lands. In marked contrast to many of their rivals in Brittia, each Ealdorman in the century and a half that followed proved themselves more remarkable than the last. Until at last, the greatest of their line now upheld the glory and supremacy of the kingdom in the lands that bordered Caledonia.

  “Erm, that is to say I have been tasked with a message for the commander of the fort by order of Lord Uhtric,” Oswine said in Brittian, sitting as upright as he could upon his steed. Noble as he was by nature, there was little grace or dignity to his figure despite his best efforts to appear so.

  If he had understood any of what was being spoken, it may have come about that Trygve would mock his friend. Fortunately he remained as said; ignorant.

  Because of his ignorance of the Brittian tongue, he remained nervous. Nervous of being caught and denounced as the liar he was. Exposure as a Caled could only mean the end for him, with the youth struggling at that moment to bring to the fore the Arnish his brothers had striven so hard to engrave in him. If he had to be exposed, he would prefer that it was as an Arn. Surely, given how the Arns had melded with Brittia they would be better regarded. Or so he prayed.

  The two guards, wholly unaware and disinterested in the duo, who had presented themselves before them grumbled. “And who are you?”

  “I am Oswine,” when they did not appear impressed by him, he drew himself up all the more. Infuriated by their disinterest and how they had returned their gazes to their cards, Oswine was to burst out with sharp words for the both of them. “I said that I am here to represent lord Uhtric, and the two of you hardly give me more than a brief glance? Have you no sense of your duties?”

  “He is not our lord,” Answered the man to the left indifferent, his brother though cast the still mounted warrior a nervous glance.

  This only further enraged Oswine, who red-faced growled at them, “Regardless, this is his keep and you are thus as sworn to heed his commands, as you are those of Sivrard!”

  By this time, the huscarl had worked himself into such a fury that the two guards stared in amazement and growing apprehension at him.

  Though they would have preferred not to let him pass, neither of them could quite conjure forth a reason not to allow him entry. Reluctantly they backed away from him, to either side of the open-gates neither of them quite looking at him.

  Entirely unaware of this fact that Trygve was as anxious, as they were. His own apprehension had its roots in his incomprehension towards Oswine’s words and the reason behind his fury. Looking from him, to the guards as they spoke out against one another with increasing rage Trygve could only wonder at what was being said.

  It was when they passed the guards by that he whispered to his friend in Arnish, “What was said? Did they see through us in any manner?”

  “I think not Trygve,” Oswine grunted annoyed still by the duo, wherefore he gritted out, “They are much too slothful for such actions.”

  Trygve was no longer as confused as before, guessing at some of what had been said and bellowed, he did ask his friend to elaborate. Rather he eyed the two equally irritated guards who returned to their game of cards, with muffled complaints about Uhtric and his men.

  *****

  Past the gates now, the two descended from their horses, and stared in either direction in search of the stables. Spotting them to the right, Trygve made to grab the bridle of his friend’s steed when he was rebuffed.

  “Nay Trygve, you should run along to locate Wulfnoth, and leave the horses to me.” Oswine commanded, continuing to speak still in Arnish.

  “But I do not know where to find Wulfnoth!” Trygve protested in frustration, unable to understand his friend’s adamant refusal to acknowledge this key problem in their plan.

  Oswine shrugged in response, undisturbed by his lack of familiarity with the Brittian ways and language. He glanced over his shoulder at the younger man, saying as he moved to head for the stables, “One of us must set the stables ablaze, which task would you prefer?”

  Those were the words that decided the matter for Trygve, who reluctantly resigned himself to having to discover Wulfnoth’s whereabouts.

  Feeling trapped and constrained for time by his friend, whom he suspected, was unlikely to take his time with setting the stables aflame. Trygve searched about the principal floor, from the kitchens, to the troop barracks and the mead-halls. There were three great halls two were as said for feasting, with the third one for court-hearings. It was there that Swiehun had presided over countless courts, dispensed justice in the name of his father for thousands of his people. Once it had been a hall of justice, yet now it lay empty. The grey stones of the hall with its stair case to the six high-chairs, near the back of the hall. The chairs were where Swiehun and his favourites, the five barons of eastern Rheged, had seen to all great political and judicial matters in the region.

  The wooden chairs now lay barren, shaped almost akin to flames out of respect to the war-god Ziu, had an air of emptiness to them.

  It filled Trygve with sorrow for this place and pity for the servants and warriors who wandered past, who bore sighs and downturned sorrowful looks.

  It was when he went to head to the eastern wing of the castle that he was to be chased away by one of the guards. Bearing the silver blade-tailed lion, upon his hauberk the barrel-chested warrior chased him away from that hallway, exclaiming in Arnish, “Away! Away with you, you filthy knave!”

  Alarmed and frightened by this guard, who had appeared from around a corner, Trygve went to flee. It was when he glanced over his shoulder as he passed by one kitchen-squire bearing several plates of food, ere he was allowed passage by the guard who eyed the plates wistfully.

  An idea sparked within his soul, the Caled scampered back to the kitchens whereupon he stole a collection of plates.

  Once past the guard, who hardly threw him another glance, when he drifted past him having by this time drifted off to another of the room, Trygve continued the search for the prison.

  Searching through the east-wing of the main dungeon of the castle, first he located if inadvertently so, another door to the exterior of the keep.

  Annoyed Trygve doubled back inside, wherefore he chose a different route to find not a door but rather a stairwell that led downwards.

  “Hurrah!” He cheered then quieted down, noticing as he did so the annoyed looks some of the servants and guards who crossed past him, threw in his direction.

  Most of the guards he noticed wore the same image as the earlier ones had prior to this moment. He briefly wondered if this was indeed a Rheged castle, or one of Jorvik.

  Almost hurling himself down the stairs he was to cross three guards by the entrance to the prison. The trio received him not with any considerable scorn or hostility as previous guards had, their expressions more curious than suspicious.

  Unsure as he had but three large plates brimming with fish and deer-meat, Trygve hesitated stupidly.

  “A new lad?” One of the men wondered to another, in Brittian.

  Understanding this question, the anxious youth sought to exhibit far more confidence than he in truth felt then. “There is plenty for you, with the third plate for the prisoners.”

  His Arnish was still rather broken, but it was enough to communicate his intent to them.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Sharing a shrug, two of them immediately lost interest in him, another assumed in Arnish, “Arn from Rheged it seems, must be new from Castle-Rheged or something.” He turned his attention back to the youth in question, “Interesting accent, where do you come from?”

  “N-north,” Trygve confessed without thinking, “North-Rheged near the border with Elbidrya.”

  Losing interest in him, the guards were to encourage him to deposit unto the nearby table where they had been playing a game of cards, just as those by the gates were. Giving over two of the three plates, he had to almost leap away as they made to grab at the third one. Moving swiftly, he slipped past them past the open gates that might under other circumstances have blocked them from the prison-cells.

  *****

  Trygve drifted past a full score of cells, none of which were guarded. Some gave a magnificent view of the exterior world, most notably the northern side of the courtyard. Most of the cells were filled with a great number of people, but none that he recognised at once.

  Searching each carefully, he almost gave several hunks of meat to the poor wretches when he reminded himself that Wulfnoth was likely to be in great need of food also.

  The druid was to the rear of the prison. The old man to his relief was not in chains, he was well and truly sealed behind iron bars.

  Naturally his cell was a dirty pit in the ground with but a little light from the courtyard. Kneeling in the filth that had served as his bed for several weeks, Wulfnoth with his hands upraised over his head in prayer to the gods.

  “Wulfnoth!” Trygve exclaimed excitedly, flushing scarlet at his own stupidity when he realized how loudly he had spoken, as the other prisoners looked up at him curiously.

  *****

  His back to the cell-bars and door, Wulfnoth had been in the midst of a heart-felt prayer to the gods as said. The prayer he had had to offer up to the gods was a fervent one for the safety of Swiehun and his half-sister, along with the children of the two sons of Uhtric. Humiliated and reduced to a pitiful condition in comparison to his previous plump physique he had become full of despair for his friends.

  It was in this state of desperation that he prayed for them. Praying to Scota that Uhtric and Eadburg might find reason once again and veer away from madness. Thus, he hardly heard Trygve, call out to them nor did he truly become aware of the youth until he had given a resounding blow to the iron-bars with his foot so that there was a slight echo throughout the back of the prison.

  Surprised he turned at the waist after he had finished his prayers, and made the symbol of the lily. The druid was initially convinced that the lad across the bars from him was a mirage. Pinching himself he was swiftly convinced that the youth indeed stood before him. Such a miracle, he told himself stunned.

  “Trygve, how did you come to stand there?” He demanded, hardly able to string together more than a few words together. “I had thought you still over in Castle-Rheged!”

  “I was, but then Oswine and I determined to come rescue you,” Trygve informed him searching about for a way to open the cell-door.

  “What are you looking about there for?” Wulfnoth demanded of him, exasperated he hit him over the head with the edge of his knuckles from between the bars. “There is no key to be found here, go back and get them.” When Trygve went to go, he called him back, “Wait, wait Trygve! Come back hither, and slide that plate below the bottom of the bars.”

  Fighting off a small grim smile, Trygve did as bidden. Though he was certainly annoyed by the old man he slid the food below the bars, and went to hurry off back down the passage he had come from.

  Trygve was stopped mid-step, by a voice that called to him from the cage across from that of Wulfnoth, “Wait, bring me some food also!”

  “I will see if I could,” the youngest of Freygils’ sons promised absently.

  “But I am starving lad,” The man complained.

  “As are all here,” Trygve slyly replied ere he came to a swift halt, when he realized that this second reply had been in Caled. The man had answered so swiftly that it was evident that he had a firm grasp of the language. “Wait did you just speak in Caled? How did you come to know my native tongue?”

  The man in question was dark of hair, his tresses long and curled, with sea-blue eyes. His tunic and trousers were dark, stained from all the time he had spent imprisoned. He had grown thinner where he might once have been muscular, so that he at once stirred pity within Trygve’s heart.

  “Trygve that man, he is Eadwald,” Wulfnoth whispered to him, gnawing at a deer-bone hungrily somehow with a certain dignity he ordinarily did not manifest at other times. Pushing the plate back under the bars, he instructed him, “We must help him therefore feed him the rest of my meal, lad.”

  “Eadwald? Is he someone important, Wulfnoth?” Trygve wondered raising an eyebrow, unsure if he should be annoyed or exasperated with his friend.

  “Have you rocks for brains? He is the son of Marmaduke, baron of F?land,” Wulfnoth informed him, seeing the still confused expression on the lad’s face he hissed from between clenched teeth. “Marmaduke is the closest of Wulfric’s friends, and thus one of the most important men in Brittia, you fool!”

  Trygve could have strangled him.

  Feeling foolish, he hurried back, then crossed the small hallway to Eadwald’s cell and proceeded to pass him the meal. For which the man who was a decade older than him all but dove forward at the plate, devouring every piece of meat. It was unsightly to see, yet somehow only strengthened the pity in Trygve’s heart for the other man.

  Returning down the path he had come, with the cries of the prisoners echoing behind him, as they called out, cursed and pleaded with him to return. There was not a cry, not a shriek for food for aid that could not have twisted and stung a man’s heart, so terrible was the sorrow and ache that they felt then. Despite the fact he was Indulf’s younger brother, Trygve was by no means as hard of heart as he or Daegan might well have proven themselves to be in his situation. Full of sympathy for them, he would have loved to hurry to and fro to their assistance, yet could not. Such actions were beyond him, thus he had to turn his back to them.

  *****

  “There you are, where is the other plate?” Asked one of the guards upon his return, hardly looking up from his game of chance.

  The game was not going well for the man, he noticed at once with a glance to the man’s hand. Searching through the bare hallway that stretched from the stairs, to the prison cells behind Trygve, who did not need to search for long for what he desired.

  The keys were between the guard he was nearest to and the one to his left, both seated at the round-table that they were gambling over.

  Greedy for those keys, Trygve was to make a show of searching for the plates, ere he requested them, while his mind worked swiftly to conjure hither a proper plan. He could not simply seize them, the youth informed them as his mind worked quickly, “Plates please. I would like to take them back, to the kitchens.”

  The guards did not cast him so much as another glance, wherefore they handed them to him. It was when they handed the plates to him that an idea came into his mind.

  He did not know if it would work, but as he had no other schemes that appeared within his mind’s eye, without any others present at hand or likely to be of any use, he threw himself into it. By doing so he threw himself forward quite literally.

  The table flipped over as he fell upon it, whereupon he was slapped back against the wall by the enraged guards. “Watch it you clumsy oaf!”

  “Filthy northerner!” Another bellowed in Arnish also.

  “You have ruined our game,” The third man said plaintively, far more upset than he was.

  “Apologies, apologies!” Trygve stammered a little daunted by the genuine anger his actions had sparked within them.

  “Here are the plates, you have them,” Growled the nearest man, thrusting the plates into his long arms, “Now go!”

  “Oh, yes, yes, as you please sirrahs,” Trygve replied at once, wherefore he took flight from their presence at once.

  “But where are you going, lad? The stairs are the other way!” The tallest of the trio called out after him, causing the youth to break out into a nervous-sweat.

  Apprehensive less they should search his person over again, Trygve swallowed and stammered out hoping he did not sound too anxious or feeble, lest they should suspect him. “I must collect the other plate!”

  “Bah, we will bring it back to the kitchens when our shift is over,” Replied the second man with a wave of his beefy palm, as though such arguments were a minor flea to be swatted.

  “But I must, lest Oswine will beat me,” Trygve insisted fervently, feeling some sweat come upon his brow and begin to slink down the length of his neck and brow.

  They harrumphed but to his relief did not continue to pester him on the matter, much to his relief. It was this feeling of gratitude and joy that gave him a slight buoyed sprint to his every step.

  Newly returned, he was to check the three keys with the first failing to open the cell-doors. It was the second key that was to spring it open, much to his joy.

  “There! You are free,” He rejoiced at once, as did Wulfnoth.

  “Well-done lad,” Said the old man, who was to regain his feet with visible joy.

  The cell-door swung open, the druid was to almost embrace him so pleased was he by his newly regained freedom. It was as he took his first steps out of the cell that a cry and a clamour were heard from the opposite end of the hallway. It was one of the guards.

  “I had thought you suspicious!” He cried in surprise.

  “Wulfnoth what do we do?” Trygve asked panicked.

  “Release me, release me Trygve, and I shall aid you!” Eadwald pleaded from his own cell, shaking the bars with all of his might.

  “Release him,” Wulfnoth ordered stricken by the same sentiment, whereupon he charged thither at the oncoming guard to stop him from seizing Trygve.

  The old man was brushed aside with little real difficult. Hardly discouraged by this, he was to pick himself up at once, and tackled the guard who had taken a few steps towards Trygve. Behind the two of them springing hither from the other hallway, the other two guards arrived in time to bear witness to the peculiar struggle between their beefy compatriot and the moustachioed druid.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” Eadwald urged from behind the cell doors.

  “A moment! Wait!” Trygve hissed back irritated.

  A sigh of relief was to escape, then a curse of pain when the door swung open, thrust out by the son of Marmaduke who was in such a hurry to prove his mettle that he paid little attention to the lad in his way.

  The heroism he showed and the prowess with which he fought off the guards was the stuff of legend. He might well have passed for a second Herakles, he wrestled them so well. Eadwald strove against one, ducked under the blows of another and pushed him away, whereupon he struck aside another with his fist.

  This manly demonstration might well have lasted forever, were it not for the first man delivering a great blow to his side.

  A bellow of rage ensued as Eadwald threw himself forward, just as Wulfnoth did much the same against the second guard who reached down to unsheathe his dagger from his belt.

  *****

  Seeing this show of chaos and anarchy that had overtaken the prison, Trygve was to upon reclaiming his reason from the burst of pain of metal meeting with his skull, froze for a moment. He stared and it was as he listened to the many despairing moans of the other prisoners that a new idea slipped into his mind.

  Throwing himself towards one of the other cells he set to work releasing the captives contained within it, then moved to the next one. It was as he finished freeing those within the fifth cell, that Wulfnoth and Eadwald came upon him just as the guards were herded into one of the cells by the former-captives. “Come lad! We must be away, give over the keys to those poor wretches.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Aye, it is time to go,” Eadwald urged desperately.

  More worried for the former captives Trygve followed the two men from down below the depths of the castle-prison. An immense pit that had sucked in the light of countless years, and drawn into its depths countless people, very few of whom had ever been let free. Thus it was from despair and out into the light of day and hope once again took root in the hearts of each man, who raced out from the bottom of those endless stairs.

  Sorrow vanished and joy triumphed, as they ushered themselves out from the castle into the northern courtyard within but minutes of their escape. It was there that they found, the smoke covered heavens gleaming down at them.

  Smoke covered? Trygve wondered ere he heard the shouts of the guards from all around them, as the prisoners of the keep raced about causing even more panic as the astounded guards struggled to re-capture them.

  Both of them stared at the large fires that had been caused within not just the stables but also one of the local castle-towers.

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