Wulfnoth was no less shocked by the vision of the two fires started by Oswine, than Eadwald Melmaducson. Both of them gaped for a few minutes, it was likely that they might have remained fixed in place there, staring up at the flames and smoke.

  Numb to the world, and waiting foolishly for the guards to take notice of them, wherefore they would have re-imprisoned the two of them. The smoke was hardly noticed by Trygve who had by this time though he had not known to expect a second fire, was hardly surprised. Oswine was the sort if one requested a single cow, he would bring three.

  “We must be away from this place!” Trygve urged them, tugging at their wrists.

  “A-aye,” Eadwald uttered at once, shaken by the dark-plumed smoke that reached up with grasping fingers at the stormy-coloured heavens.

  Sweeping towards them, Oswine led towards them a horse from atop his own, “Hurry!”

  He did not pause at the sight of a third man with them, for there was no time to be a-wasted not with the number of guards on his heels.

  Needing no prompting Eadwald leapt atop the saddle of the white steed, aided Wulfnoth to climb up behind him while the guard pulled Trygve up behind himself.

  “Stop!” The guards of the castle cried after them, all of them quite prepared to give chase after them.

  *****

  Away they flew to the north ere they followed the counsel of Eadwald to turn about south into the woods. In this manner they managed to evade the guards of Suthelm-Keep, and reclaimed Trygve’s horse. Wherefore they carried on a full day’s gallop whither to the inn of the Torched Boar, it was twice the size of the Scarlet-Wyrm, with an extra storey and a considerably larger pub.

  It was shortly after they had arrived that the suns began to arise that Eadwald, declared his intention to carry on southwards. “I must be away to assure my father, of my continued good-health.”

  This decision drew from Oswine as with Trygve a set of weary nods. Neither of them had paid the vast farmlands of wheat and corn, all that much attention, nor had they paid the vast forest behind them any notice. So weary had they become by then that they could barely muster more than this aforementioned nod.

  Wulfnoth in spite of having been awake for almost a full night and day, after having also been imprisoned for days though still had plenty of vigour to spare. Trembling with outrage at this proposal he grunted, “T’would, be the height of idiocy to do so, especially with Uhtric and Sivrard’s guards out and about. Were I them, I would post scouts and guards in every village and inn, from here to Hwicce.”

  Eadwald would not heed his counsel, and tugged at his reins wherefore he galloped off. When he did, he yelled out over his shoulder in a sincere voice, “I apologise Wulfnoth, but I shan’t stay for much longer. I must be away to my father’s side, though I swear to you I shall heed your words, and bring this news to my uncle Wulfric’s attention. He shall know the worth of your honour, my friends!”

  And he was away, the hooves of his horse thundering upon the broken remains of the ancient Romalian road, known as the Via Livionia.

  This led to the druid now on foot to such a state of fury as to race after him, cursing him in every language he knew, which amounted to six tongues. Waving his fist after the heir of Marmaduke the Bold, his screams and choked fury drew half the guests of the pub from within, thereupon the doorstep of the Boar they stared in bewilderment at the Paragon.

  Hardly able to do much more than mumble out, “A brigand made off with one of our horses,” with several of the guests grumbling about this.

  One of the guests, a plump satyr was to complain, “That has become rather more common in recent days.”

  Others were to complain about Wulfnoth himself, ere they returned inside the inn.

  “Come hither, we must get some rest Wulfnoth,” Oswine urged exhausted.

  “But that fool has made off with half of our rations, a horse and abandoned us to save himself!” The druid shouted arms up in the air jabbing into the wind, motioning down the road with such anger as to discourage any true arguments on their part.

  A man of boundless mettle and energy, he could not stomach weakness at such times. Not when duty called him whither he was most needed. In this, he was the marked opposite of the rather more slothful Trygve who preferred to leave such matters be. If the lordly nobleman wished to steal a horse and be away, let him. It may even work to distract a number of guards.

  Or so he thought at that time, keen for a bed and a warm-meal he would have sacrificed anything for those two simple things. He was not alone in this regard, for Oswine was keen for much the same, together they at last dissuaded Wulfnoth from chasing after the by then, gone Eadwald.

  For their efforts they were treated to an earful of complaints, and of countless complaints about the younger generation. This they took poorly, but could hardly summon up the will to counter or to do much more than sleepily nod.

  *****

  It was the following day, in the sparsely decorated single-bedded room on the third floor that they were to at last extract from the old druid, all that he had learnt. Sipping at his bottle of brandy, which he had ordered from the pub, with the tavern-owner a large Minotaur who eyed the cleric darkly, not having forgotten the scene he had made outside. There had been a number of folks who had preferred to go home to their farms, than to stay the night in the inn. Thus, Wulfnoth had cost him a small fortune.

  Seated upon one of the only chairs in the room, the other having been occupied by Trygve, while Oswine stood by the door, Wulfnoth explained his discoveries to them. “It so happened that I left for the abbey of Edda. It was there that I began attempting to research into the wraiths and the Dark Laird, combing through the three hundred books the monks possess I found little of value. It was after I had sought out the brothers, to ask them about what had become of Uhtric’s sons for I did not trust his word. Much as I loved him- and still do, as one who adores his brother, I knew there was something amiss the moment he refused to speak of them to me.”

  “Why did he refuse, do you suppose there was some malicious evil that has befallen them?” Trygve wondered interrupting the druid who looked rather annoyed by this, for which the youth turned red in embarrassment then laughed at himself. “Apologies do continue with your tale, brother Wulfnoth.”

  “I should hope I can,” The Paragon snapped with a roll of his eyes ere, he sipped his brandy bottle again, and carried on. “It happened that Eadburg had likewise refused to speak of them, this also in mind I wished to understand why it was that she would not. It was shortly after my arrival at the abbey that I discovered what had befallen my good friend’s children.”

  He fell silent now, an unusually dour mood having over-taken his ordinarily bright and cheery demeanour. Words failed the old man, as he tugged restlessly at his long moustache. Despite how he did not say aught else in regards to the matter, Trygve could see just as Oswine could how troubled the druid really was.

  They were to share a worried frown, neither one entirely certain of how best to proceed. In truth they desperately, wished to know what it was that he had discovered that weighed, so heavily upon his mind.

  Oswine coughed, signalling in this clumsy manner for his companion in arms, to encourage the elder to carry on with his tale. Trygve did not say it, but he desperately wished at that moment to strangle his friend for leaving the task to him.

  This Trygve did half-heartedly, “Erm, Wulfnoth how shall I say this? What is it that happened to your friends’ children?”

  Wulfnoth did not scold him for interrupting his thoughts, as he might once have done. In place of such a harsh response, he appeared to droop all the more with sadness. “I know not how it has come to be that Uhtric treats his children so but it has come about that he has imprisoned his legitimate children, Swiehun and Leofgye.”

  This admission was a shock to Trygve, who found himself gaping at the old man. How such a thing came to be was unimaginable to him. Not simply because, it was a father ordering the shutting up of his own children in a cell, or tower but because he had never heard of such a thing. It contravened the very nature of people.

  A cynical man by nature, Trygve though a romantic had never had any illusions about the nature of the nobility. In this regard, he was not at all like his eldest brother Solamh, but rather shared more in common with Indulf. Cormac and Daegan also had their ideal images of the upper-classes, he had noted over the years.

  In this regard, he had never understood his friends, and had never quite grasped how they could ignore the truth that lay bare before their very eyes: The nobility were rarely if ever, of a kindly nature. They were more likely to steal than peasants were, or to take from them, this was why the Dunàrna Charter had been ratified by Causantín II and the clergy. It was also why the Truce of Turan and Peace of Marianne clerical movements over in Gallia were to his mind, magnificent things. He by his very nature did not fully trust tales of the nobility of character of those of the noblest of births. Despite this low opinion, and because of his immediate fondness for Uhtric, he found this news not only distressing but disillusioning.

  “Why would he do this?” Trygve queried shaken.

  “That is what I seek to discover,” Wulfnoth told him earnestly, “It is why I sought the children of Uhtric but it is hardly the strangest and possibly most distressing part of the tale.”

  “And what is that?” Trygve asked of a mind there was nothing that could surprise him anymore.

  But it was Oswine who was responsible for the next revelation, having known for quite some time the truth behind the disappearance of Swiehun and Leofgye. “There are rumours that it was Swiehun who conspired to slay his half-brother Hallbj?rn.”

  “What? How do you know this?” Trygve asked even more surprised than before, feeling as though his head were spinning he was to press his hand upon the nearby table. This was in spite of the fact that he was still seated, with the youth grateful that he was not at this moment on his feet.

  “Because everyone in the castle had heard of this rumour- I do not believe it,” Oswine rushed out, looking away from his friend. “The brothers though born from different mothers were nonetheless at one time close as all brothers ought to be. They had in recent years drifted apart. Often communicating solely through their vivacious sister Leofgye, they were to maintain some peace between one another.”

  Trygve could only hold his head, which felt as though it might burst at all these revelations, “Oh dear, I shan’t believe it! No wonder that poor old Eadburg is so distraught!”

  “Aye,” Wulfnoth agreed immediately, he sighed, “What you may not have heard Oswine, is that the exact location of the death of Hallbj?rn was near Norhelm-Keep. He died shortly after he had agreed to an alliance with Swiehun at Leofgye’s insistence.”

  This indeed surprised Oswine who gaped at the elder, ere he asked of the wise old druid, “How did you come by these facts Brother Wulfnoth? I have heard little to nothing of the exact location of the murder. I knew it was east of Castle-Rheged, but it was never apparent to me that it was anywhere near Swiehun’s Keep.”

  Given the castle some dozen years ago, to guard the eastern-frontier of Rheged Swiehun had guarded it on three separate occasions from Sivrard. The southern frontier was commanded by Hallbj?rn, for fear of the clan of Morcar Eadgarsson, as Trygve soon learnt from his friends.

  They were keen to explain these military placements, with the two informing him that most of the local barons and manor-lords fully supportive of their lord. It was they who had voted Uhtric to his post decades prior, with the king at the time having ratified the decision.

  “Now that you know this, you should also know that the brothers had not met in four years, for they were occupied with their respective tasks.” Wulfnoth told him sorrowfully, looking distantly out the window of their room where they were seated.

  “Or out of mutual suspicion,” Trygve muttered darkly.

  Wulfnoth did not correct him but rather turned his gaze now to meet that of Oswine’s, “As you noted Oswine, it came about that there was a monk present that was present to see Hallbj?rn arrive in the east. This monk was his half-brother’s secretary. He happened to be one of the witnesses to the murder, but he confirmed to me that there was no violence that took place between the brothers.”

  “What? Where is this monk?” Oswine queried surprised.

  “He perished from wounds sustained from when he took flight from the castle and was to flee to Edda’s abbey for he believed that he might find shelter there. Despite how he was imprisoned in the abbey’s cells, on orders from Uhtric who wished for him to recover, unfortunately he perished a few days later. But not before he had confessed the whole of the story to my good friend Cuthbert,” the druid informed them with another distracted glance out the window.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  This struck Trygve as a highly unusual story. The likelihood that the very monk that should happen to be good friends with the ruling family, was the one to whom this unfortunate secretary had fled to.

  When he confessed these thoughts, it was Oswine who reasoned that, “It is very likely that he knew how close Cuthbert was with Uhtric and Eadburg and had hoped to speak to them.”

  “If he spoke to Uhtric why did the Ealdorman not listen to him?”

  “Mayhaps, he did not believe him,” Oswine muttered wherefore he turned his attention once more to the druid. “I have a question though; who exactly did kill Hallbj?rn?”

  “One of the knightwraiths, he apparently ambushed Hallbj?rn,” Wulfnoth replied even more distracted.

  Irritated by his tendency to continuously glance outside, Trygve followed his gaze to outside where he discovered first that the skies had darkened considerably. There was a storm on the horizon, he noticed at once.

  Following his gaze downwards when he heard the sound of hooves, Trygve came close to letting loose a great scream of terror, whereupon he clamped his hands over his mouth.

  Down below the window arriving just before the doors to the inn was one of the Knightwraiths.

  *****

  The wraith was to be greeted by the innkeeper Eoforwine who welcomed him along with his wife both of them studied the stranger with uneasy expressions. It was true that they had been informed by one of the local Suthelm guards that there were criminals out and about, in the local area. Given Wulfnoth and his companions’ descriptions they had not expected to ever find themselves greeting the druid. It was thus, after he had raised a scene of fury that had evoked disappointment and anger at the loss of opportunity to earn some much-needed coin that the innkeeper had opted to inform the guards.

  He justified it as doing his duty, to Rheged and Brittia.

  “Where are they?” The Knightwraith hissed, sounding not unlike a storm and a snake all at once his dark helm bending low towards the five-foot five plump Eoforwine, for the wraith was easily seven feet tall.

  His breath such as it was, was the foulest stench that Eoforwine had ever endured in all his years.

  At the merest whiff of it, his beloved wife Wassa fell into a swoon next to him, with her husband coming near to passing out himself. It was only with the greatest of efforts that he remained conscious.

  Stuttering, he pointed towards the stairs, “Th-th-th-there! U-u-u-up the stairs first d-d-d-door to the l-l-left!”

  The Knightwraith his dark cloak swirling about him, as though it were a dark burning fire licking away at the little light left in the evening air. The air grew frostier until Eoforwine felt chilled to the bone, his skin shivering, as he had the growing suspicion that this phantom could read his mind. Licking his lips as the strange wraith with the broken-scales upon his hauberk passed him with nary a glance over his shoulders at him.

  When he noticed that the tall figure was gone, Eoforwine almost breathed a sigh of relief. But concern for his wife won out over all else in his mind.

  It was shortly after he had succeeded in rousing Wassa his wife, who began to weep the moment she realized that it had not all been a nightmare.

  “Why did you invite that thing into our home?” She asked trembling against him.

  Eoforwine did not answer her stricken as he was himself he clung to her on the cusp of tears himself. The two of them lay there for some time.

  It was wrong he realized now, for him to have informed upon the druid and those friends of his. If only he could have taken back his actions.

  This thought gained even greater force when a terrible shriek of rage echoed down from the upper floor. So terrible was this great cry of anger that resonated, not unlike how the thunder that boomed in the vast distance away from them.

  As the great din echoed across the fields of Rheged, the couple prayed to the gods to save them.

  Thankfully for the shaking, frightened couple the Knightwraith did not think of them. He had greater things upon his spectral mind, as he burst from the window in the room up above them.

  Though neither Eoforwine nor Wassa knew this, the Knight of the broken-scales had by the time they regained their sensibilities regained his dark-horse whereupon he had charged down the road. The Knightwraith was thus, in hot pursuit of the horses charging off southwards.

  Little did he, or the innkeeper and his wife, this was not the direction that the trio of criminals had raced off towards.

  *****

  They had left whither for the west. It was there they knew that Leofgye had been hidden by order of Uhtric. There that Wulfnoth had been told ere his capture, at the hands of the Ealdorman’s men that the only person who knew where to find her beloved half-brother Swiehun.

  “She has been imprisoned in the Tower of Lufianc.” Wulfnoth had explained en route for the west, his expression grim. “The Tower lies by the mouth of the river Llathian in the woods of Lufwoods. The great-spire as it has also been dubbed; is the site where the ancestor of Uhtric, Ceadda toppled the witch Videra who was slain at the base of the Tower, which he set aflame. This he did after he rescued her beloved daughter from her, carrying her off to Castle-Rheged wherefore they lived out their life together.”

  “A wondrous tale, but if the Tower was set ablaze, why imprison Leofgye there?” Trygve cut in bewildered, as they cut through the fields to the west of the inn called the First-Solace. Traveling swifter than they had ever before, taking care as they went to not make any sounds.

  “It was rebuilt fourteen years ago, according to Eadburg and was transformed according to her into a vacation home of sorts,” Wulfnoth admitted only to chuckle when he saw the incredulous look upon the youth’s face. “I had the same thought, aye it does not sound terribly comfortable however it is where he has imprisoned his daughter.”

  “I still maintain it sounds ridiculous,” Trygve grumbled beneath his breath.

  “Bah, we have no time for such time therefore we must ride away faster than this if we wish to be away ere the phantom-rider becomes aware of the trick we played upon him.” The druid whispered worriedly, throwing continuous glances over his shoulders.

  *****

  They travelled all through the night, fearful as they were of being surprised in the night they were to sleep through the day and travel after dusk for another two days after that first one spent fleeing from Suthelm. They ate what they could pay for from some of the local farmers willing to part with some of their crops for some of Wulfnoth’s silver coins.

  Most of these farmers were in the midst of preparing for the night by the time that the three would arrive, to plead for a share of their meals. None of the farmers were to object to being paid in Silver-Thistles, unable to discern the difference between Caled and Brittian coins. Not that Trygve was much of a mind to educate them if he could have.

  Of all of them, Oswine was to adjust the least well to this travel-routine, often appearing utterly defeated or pale as a ghost in the middle of the night. Complaining often of how poorly he had slept, he soon became far worst company than Wulfnoth himself could be, ere he had drunk his first drop of ale or wine. Both beverages he claimed he could not survive still without, and so whenever and wherever he saw the opportunity he would insist they halt for him to refill his tankard.

  Saying as he did so, “You never know how long, it shall be until our next rest.”

  His insistence upon paying extra coin for liquor worried Trygve, who was concerned over how much coin they possibly had left. He did not know how Wulfnoth had kept his satchel full of coins. He knew only that he felt increasingly exasperated to once again be traveling at the slow pace that Wulfnoth sometimes set for them. At other times, he was made to hurry after the old man at the swiftest gallop he could push his poor stallion at.

  Somehow they journeyed through field after field, past hill after hill. They voyaged through the lands of Rheged at such a pace that though he did not at once realize it, Trygve was to soon when he was shown a map that Oswine had stolen from Suthelm see the vast progress they had made. Amazed to find that they had done what appeared to be a journey from east to west over the course of a week, he shook his head. “How did we do it with how often Wulfnoth stopped for wine and ale?”

  “That is life’s greatest mystery indeed,” Oswine grumbled without any true interest, for he was blinking sleepily in the soft suns-setting light, looking for all the world like a miserable bear. With his friend concluding that he was the sort of bear who would have liked naught more than to take a swipe at his friend’s head, with a mighty paw.

  Sighing in exasperation, Trygve attempted to make light of it, “And that is what makes life so worthwhile does it not?”

  Oswine let slip a mixture of a grumble and a sigh. The sort of sound that made it evident what he thought, of such platitudes at such a time.

  “Hurry up the both of you,” Wulfnoth bit out hurrying to climb up onto his horse, “We have no time for your dilly-dallying.”

  “Dilly-dally he says, I’faith! Does he not realize that it is he, who is always the one guilty of that particular sin?” Trygve grumbled only to receive another ‘harrumph’ for his troubles.

  It was times such as these that he truly desperately missed Cormac and even his brother Indulf. For all their own peculiarities and flaws, the two of them were genuinely cheerful and good conversationalists. Miserable at the lack of speech, the lack of desire to engage with him, on the part of his present companions he felt so very alone.

  It was times such as these that he most often thought back to the words of Oswine. Those regarding his family’s history, about how without it he had nothing with the youth also pondering the nature of his bond with Indulf.

  He wondered then if an angry Indulf was really so bad, in comparison to these two grumpy older men?

  *****

  It was two days afterwards as the forests became more and more common, and less and less pleasant to the eye with their grasping branches and overgrown weeds. Some trees remained strong, old and true, though they appeared a little mournful for what had become of the local lands. Most of the local lands that were nearby and not overcome by forests were fallow and overrun by wolves.

  The dread of the land was thick as the air ran thick with an air of fear, and haunting sorrow. It was as though a great tower had been erected ere it shattered due to ill-care and time.

  They were not completely dark in colour, so much as all lay wasting, with there being few signs of living folk, and fewer farms. Those that they did see were inhabited by gaunt fellows, those who looked upon the passing travelers with haunted, almost glowing eyes in the dark of night. The keen interest that Trygve read there in their gazes made him think of dark spectres, such as those they had encountered far to the north.

  “What a terrible place,” Trygve murmured horrified by the wickedness of the hilly countryside that lay for leagues all around them.

  “Wait until you see Barakurn,” Wulfnoth warned him through gritted teeth.

  The very mention of the name shook his spirit and made him think of evil.

  Depressed, as it seemed to Tryve that the whole of the land of Brittia was drenched in the malice of ancient curses, quite why this was was a mystery to him. Melancholic he inadvertently spluttered out his thoughts as they journeyed over one particularly steep hill.

  “It is not that the south is covered wholly in evil,” Wulfnoth retorted irritably, a touch of indignation in his voice. “It is simply that it was there that the Dark Elves made their abode as they hunted for those of Brittia and those lands that lay nearest to her.”

  “Did they abide in the Blackfields?” Trygve asked of him.

  “I thought you had little interest in the lands of the south, why do you ask all these questions?” the druid teased distractedly, hardly paying him any mind, his voice distant.

  “It is hardly as though there is much else to discuss,” the youth retorted with a roll of his eyes, eyeing the dark fields they traveled past. A great many of the fields to the right of them that lay to the north of them, was full of corn with a single distant hut. A muddy building that did not seem to be inhabited at least at first glance.

  Wulfnoth shook his head in disappointed at him, “And here I had thought you wished to learn for its own sake.”

  “Do I seem as restlessly obsessed with other peoples as say Cormac, or keen to claim knowledge ere to scorn it and claim that Gallia and Caledonia are superior in some capacity as Daegan?” Trygve said with no small amount of irony.

  Wulfnoth sighed as annoyed with his sly ways as ever, not that he wished to show it. It always amused Trygve how much the older man wished to appear dignified, and respectable when he was least inclined to comport himself in such a manner.

  “Then I do not wish to tell you of them,” He snapped coldly, miffed by the words and tone of his traveling companion who felt irritated in turn by this frosty treatment. They traveled for a time, before he began to harangue him to educate him about the Blackfields, when this failed he subsided into an extended silence.

  It happened the next night that they traveled past a large dark hill of black earth and darker stone, with the fortress in question. It was as dusky as the night and thrice as foreboding to Trygve’s mind. The remains of the fortress reminded him of the ruined remnants of Roma’s fortresses and estates that decorated a great deal of Brittia. So that he could not help but stare at the tall six meter high ruins in alarm and curiosity.

  “Ah so now you are curious,” Wulfnoth retorted when he asked after this keep, seeing the irritation upon his face, he informed him. “It has happened that Caledonia is situated in a very fortunate place, as is ériu.”

  “How do you mean?” Trygve snapped not understanding his point.

  “I shan’t speak of this… this thing here,” the druid replied with a shudder wherefore he forestalled any arguments by whispering to him. “It is a dark tale, one that I would rather not tell near to the phantoms said to inhabit this place.”

  *****

  Later, shortly after the Blackfields and dusky fort was left behind them, disappearing upon the horizon Wulfnoth addressed his young friend, saying to him. “The tale of that keep, the holdfast of Padrig, who was said to have been the first to resist the Dark Elves in the north, in the First Wars of Darkness, was a kingly man. He was leonine, and mighty, it is written that he was chieftain of all the local men of the Ellenii tribe. A descendant of Roparzh King, he it was who proclaimed alongside his seven sons his defiance of the Dark Elves. Whereupon they marched north to fight him in thirty battles, all of which he and his sons won. And- there is a song; it may in fact be simpler and quicker to simply sing it.”

  This last part was admitted with a gruff huff that ended in his friend encouraging him to sing it.

  “Misty nights and murky days haunted Vyrgard,

  Thereupon the parapets that Padrig did guard,

  He did the Dark Elves sight,

  As they poured north in dusky-night,

  All of the Ellenii did rally,

  Men raced to and fro to all they dubbed ally,

  Fire-hoofed his horse swept south,

  His blade flashed as thunder boomed,

  Foam poured from their mouths,

  As they delivered to their foes steel-tipped doom,

  Valiant Padrig glimmered as the stars,

  His bronze-hauberk dyed red in this darkest of wars,

  Plentiful slaughter of evil was had,

  Their numbers he did so halve,

  Peerless Padrig star and hope of the women of the Ellenii

  Won for himself many a maids’ hearts,

  Doom though found him,

  By the Fratriarch’s own malicious whim,

  He struck with his dusk-blade,

  That left the world all the more dim,

  As he threw down Padrig,

  And there beneath the stars and before his kin

  He sent to Ziu’s war-halls the hero Padrig.”

  With the last verse of the song spewed from the old man’s lips Trygve asked of him, “Where did you learn this tale?”

  “From the goddess Saga,” Wulfnoth answered eyes clouded as he looked faraway, “It was a long ago day, in the age when I lived near to Artuir’s Mound. It is only near holy places that the gods may be seen by us.”

  “How did she appear?” Trygve asked of him, his voice hushed.

  Wulfnoth did not answer for a long time, there was a mournfulness that overcame him then, “She- she and her distant cousin Scota were together, and they were… sorrowful, as all those who know history, tend to be.”

  “Why would knowing history make you mournful?”

  “Trygve, to know the past is to know the future,” the druid replied exasperatedly, “For it lies there the answer to the future. To we who know history, it is apparent that should we rise high, upon the great hill of civilization it is inevitable that we should fall and crash to the ground all the more forcefully.”

  It was a sad view of history, and of the future, Trygve mused and one that he did not much like. He bristled the more he thought upon the matter pressing the weight of his consciousness against the weight of the philosophy of his friend. “You make it seem as though our efforts are futile.”

  “Not futile,” Wulfnoth replied at once bristling now himself, tugging upon his moustache as always when upset. “But it is inevitable for down the road, a dark tyrant to arise from the line of the current kings were they to be victorious. As happened in the time of Roma, when from the noblest of lines Amentianus arose and proved himself a madman; it was he who collapsed the golden age of Roma long before the time of Veritian the Great.”

  The dark road stretched out not simply behind them, but before them.

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