The shivering land of the Blackfields left behind them, they were to reunite with Oswine who was relieved one day when they came across a monastery and Wulfnoth decided they should sleep through the night.

  The local monks were sworn to Tempestas the storm-goddess, one of Trygve’s least favourite goddess, with the peak of the temple shaped like a thunderbolt. This temple was a bright-stoned cheerily painted temple that was large, at eighty-two meters high and one hundred and fifty meters wide and long, with two separately attached buildings.

  They did not stay for long, and the monks were keen to restock their rations when they learnt of Wulfnoth’s name. The abbot identified him as the same Wulfnoth as the Paragon, by virtue of the man’s long moustaches and the many stories that circulated about the druid.

  “I am en route for the west, if only to see to visiting the village of Videria.” Wulfnoth said, later he was to claim this was not entirely a lie for they would need to indeed cross through the village in question to reach the Tower.

  The monks believed him, and pleased to have him present for a day or so, put themselves almost pathetically at his disposal.

  It was when they left the following day that Trygve asked him of why he had decided to rest in the temple rather than continue to travel through the night. “We could have made greater time, and might have reached this village you claim we must journey through.”

  “Because Trygve, I wished to see the Tower in sunlight,” Said Wulfnoth eyes clouded with consternation. “Besides Oswine, looked as though he may drop from exhaustion, and I felt as our principal guard we would likely have need of his strength.”

  “I thank you for that wise old Wulfnoth,” Oswine replied with sincere gratitude, his mood cheery once more, “Now let us ride with all haste!”

  Whistling a tune, he was to demonstrate a considerable more enthusiasm than he had demonstrated, in almost a week and a half. Annoyed by this change in humour, Trygve was to bite his tongue.

  The rest of the journey was passed in the bright of day, the birds were out and about more often in this part of the earldom of Rheged. The sycamore and alder trees were greener than any seen thus far, with this vision along with the great wealth of flowers that sprang about the Romalian road that they soon found themselves upon. The road was the Via Agrias which was the main road in southern Rheged, and connected it to Argoed the land betwixt Rheged and Hwicce. The road had like all others been left in terrible condition, due to neglect.

  “Such is the way of all civilisations,” He remarked sorrowfully, pity in his gaze and voice, “There was a time when this stone-road connected all people of Brittia.”

  “Until the Romalians gave way to madness,” Oswine muttered obstinately from between his clenched teeth.

  Wulfnoth gave him a sidelong glance, retorting evenly with words that bewildered his companions. “You sound very much like a Caled, Oswine. Civilisation can be both good and bad, it is nonetheless always a tragedy for a great many when it fails and falls not unlike a dying elephant.”

  *****

  The Tower of Lufianc or Videra as it was also known was unlike the other towers explored in the rest of the quest. There was no doorway to it, nor was there any means by which they could enter for only Uhtric’s servants could enter it and that by some secret means. It was for this reason that the trio had no other choice but to into it by the only window they could see. It rested not atop some hill as some keeps and forts did. The spire of the witch as the local had taken to calling it was a place they preferred to avoid. It lay at the centre of a large field of sunflowers which lay itself just past massive cornfields and wheat-fields.

  Overlooking the crashing sea it gave a remarkably magnificent view of the island of ériu. The great green-isle lay at a distance upon the horizon, with smaller isles here and there in the sea between the islands.

  This was the land of Videra, a land so green and yellow as to make the suns crimson with envy and shame. The great marble tower had some red-stones, so that it shone and gleamed as the two solar discs so oft did. Stretching two-hundred and fifty meters into the air, with a large orange roof that shown with rubies also so that this was also called the ‘Ruby-Keep’ by some.

  It was a place of great beauty where once it had been hideous to behold. But as S?gifu’s ancestress Wilburg had once lived there, it had been at her request that Uhtric had it rebuilt.

  It was in those fields by the tower that Lufian, mother of Uhtric’s eldest son had been born. There that she first saw the world, and where she became known as S?lufu which meant ‘Sea-beloved’ and also as Sunnstma or ‘Sun-flower’. These names had been given to her in her youth ere her fateful meeting with the Ealdorman.

  He had been young then; he had hunted and the fox had fled behind her, as she sat by the woods on the opposite side of the Romalian road. It was thereby the forest that she had shielded the trembling canine from the hunting lord’s son. Struck at once by love, it was said that he rebuilt the Tower to be nearer to her, but also to later guard her from his then fiancé, Eadburg’s men-folk who had felt that this was a slur to her honour.

  Furnished with rich apartments, it was a place of great and abiding love on the part of the Ealdorman though it was also a place of loneliness. One not visited by the lord in decades, or so it was said due to the great grief that he felt at Lufian’s passing.

  Enshrouded by a great many yellow and green-leafed trees it was an idyllic site that Trygve might otherwise imagined eloping to with Helga, in his previous life as a fisherman’s apprentice. Yet at that moment, he could not imagine a more tempestuous place.

  “Are we to climb the tower?” He asked of his friends, who looked at him aghast as though he were daft.

  “I should hope not,” Wulfnoth muttered, he eyed the red-tower with a discerning eye. “I shall meet with some of the local farmers to see if there is some way into the Tower.”

  “What of ourselves?” Oswine queried in frustration.

  “Maintain an eye out for one of your lord’s messengers, or one of those horrid phantoms,” the druid commanded dismounting from his horse, handing the reins to him ere he hurried off.

  *****

  The two men left by the spire searched about it, in search of some hole or tunnel. Despairing after a time at their inability to find it, Trygve suggested they still climb it after a few hours. Oswine rejected this plan at once, wherefore he wandered off to maintain an eye upon the horizon. Bored and full of unhappiness it came about that Trygve rested his back against the side of the tower wall, eyes on the distant érian shore.

  He pondered once more his heritage, and how he had had to resort all the more on this journey to his Arnish inheritance. This made him feel restless, so that he longed once more for home. If only because he felt as though he were losing some important part of him, it made him bristle.

  The song that came into his spirit was of Turan the goddess of love, of her wanderings through the woods of Anguisse in Mabillon (a territory in Gallia).

  “Eagles squawked and flew, skies high were blue,

  Airy breezes trailed about through trees-laden with dew,

  In the glades as upon the hills as a shooting-star,

  Light was seen and tall and fair seen from afar,

  Turan could be seen dancing this is true,

  Hair shimmering and glowing as might a star,

  Pink dress a-flaring as she wove along the glade,

  Thereby the cedars her giggles resounded,

  Snow-white and poppy-red,

  Arms unblemished danced down then above head,

  Jays and herons, and deer gathered,

  All as awed as I by she most-fair,

  Her titters joy itself and without an evil-thread,

  Tresses wove then dove, gold her hair,”

  It was as he sang the first verses that Trygve was surprised to hear another voice join in the singing of the song in the Caled tongue. Encouraged, he sang the second part of the song.

  “O heart throbbing and eyes a-tearing,

  How could a man not love the maid in the glade?

  Dress flashing blue then pink anew,

  Birds swooned from trees-laden with dew,

  In the glades as upon the hills prettier than a star,

  Her light was seen from afar,

  Turan o Turan you of the pink hue,

  Hair shimmering and glowing as might a star,

  Doubtlessly you weave still thy spell in the glade.”

  Looking about as he sang he could not locate where the female voice that sang with him had come from. Pleased and amazed, he eventually stared up above him, as he manoeuvred himself to one side of the tower to stare up at the balcony window. There were two such windows one that stared out onto the fields east of the tower and the other out onto the sea.

  It was as he stared that he realized he could no more discern the figure there than he could the center of the suns.

  Frustrated, the youth cried out to her in Arnish, “Greetings to she who sings of the love which the moon and the flowers have for the most graceful of maidens.”

  In Caled the woman replied morosely, “Greetings to he who sings longingly of love, with such wistfulness that he may well sing of his own immaturity.”

  Irritated by this mockery, Trygve was to call out with far less poetry in his native tongue, “Do you mock all, who sing by your tower?”

  “Only those who sing so poorly and stridently,” Said Leofgye in a mocking voice.

  “You would know of poor singing, would you not lady Leofgye?” Retorted the youth regaining his composure.

  Silence followed, Trygve grew agitated searching about himself, noticing as he did so that his friend was a short distance away eyes on the horizon.

  “You are not of this land, who are you who can speak the Caled tongue?” She asked of him after a time, her tone discomfited as his own.

  Her discomfort was strangely a comfort to him it helped him to know that he was not alone in feeling this way. This lack of loneliness was a first for him, since his departure from Rheged’s principal keep and city.

  “I am Trygve, son of Freygils and am here to rescue you alongside my friends Wulfnoth and Oswine,” Trygve answered at once tired of craning his neck, he searched about for another opening as he spoke. “Tell me milady, are there any tunnels to enter your tower?”

  “There are, though I do not know where they are, for they always enter when I am asleep.” Leofgye replied absently, she sounded agitated and worried when she asked of him, “Did you say that Oswine is therewith you?”

  “Aye,” He said not grasping the meaning behind her words.

  “I had wondered who that guardsman was, off to the side with his helm and torn tunic, yet I dared not hope that it was he,” Leofgye said warmly her voice trembling with eagerness.

  He did not hear from her for some time, while he assumed she had gone off to see to some womanly affair of her own, such as her wardrobe or hair she had no such interest. Imprisoned as she was she had nonetheless gone some way to prepare for such a possibility.

  Oswine for his part was pleased when he came to see him, to inform him that the lady wished to speak with him. He had known the lady for quite some time, and she had long held a certain place in his heart. When he had prayed for his children should he ever fall in battle, it was always to her that he hoped would look after his sons.

  When he had prayed for love since the passing of his beloved bride, he had thought of the daughter of his lord. All that had kept hope away was the knowledge of the distance that lay between them. A distance borne from his lowly birth and her high one, the thought that she may wish to see him for aught else than for lessons in the Caled tongue or other such lessons, was beyond him.

  “I shall see to speaking to her ladyship, you maintain an eye upon the horizon,” Oswine instructed the younger man sternly.

  It happened that Trygve was less interested in the distant east, and more about the eagerness of his friend. Not blind to the rosy cheeks of his friend, the youth was to glance continuously from the east to directly behind him.

  Intrigued when he saw the maiden dressed in a simple woollen green dress with a leather belt cinching it at the waist, drop from the balcony all of her bed-sheets, cloaks and the like from the ground. It remained however short of the ground by some distance, worried himself Oswine returned to his horse to withdraw his bow and arrows, along with a line of rope. The finest of the archers of all the huscarls of Castle-Rheged, he it was who had studied under the renowned Raibeart Redbow who had it was said slain the Northman Ivan, when he had invaded Rheged nigh on seventy years ago. Oswine backed away until he had a clearer vision of the balcony.

  It was thus that as she lowered herself to the ground, the arrow pierced past the balcony and well into the sitting room of her tower. Staring at this display of incredible archery-skill Trygve could hardly keep from gaping.

  “Do close your mouth, lest you should attract the most undesirable of beasts,” Oswine teased him, informing him as the lady raced back into her sitting room to gather the loosely tied line of rope. “I studied under the Redbow.”

  “Redbow?” Trygve queried unfamiliar with the name, of this particular hero of Rheged.

  Annoyed by his ignorance, for he took such pride in his now deceased mentor the former master-at-arms of Castle-Rheged, Oswine replied, “He it was who taught me arms. He was the finest archer of Rheged and Ergyng.”

  “Ergyng? Did he come from there?” Trygve asked knowing very little of those lands also. All that he knew of the lands of Ergyng was that they shared a common culture and a similar language to Cymru. Their dialect was known as ‘Ergyngian’ so that most of the sons of Ergyng could grasp the words of Cymru and Caledonia.

  Where the lands of Cymru were far more mountainous, Ergyng’s made for better farming and were amongst the most plentiful. The people of those lands were also stubborn, disdainful of their neighbours (save for the Cymrans), and every bit as fractious as those of Cymru.

  “Aye, for he came from there,” the guard admitted adding with a touch of sheepishness, “He was rather proud of his birth though most were disdainful of it.”

  “How did the Redbow come to leave his beloved, idyllic homeland to come hither to the dusky lands of Rheged?” Trygve inquired at his most ironic, feeling clever as he smiled to his friend, who like him no longer paid the road the slightest mind.

  Oswine smiled for he held his homeland in the highest regard he could see the warmth behind his friend’s cold words. “It happened that he was involved in a blood-feud of some sort. It happened that he slew his sister’s husband in some dispute, what followed involved a series of murders until he left for Rheged. It was there that he wed a cousin of Uhtric’s and became his master-at-arms.”

  There was naught else to say between them, as Oswine was needed to throw over to the tower another line of rope, in the same manner as the first. He then swept up the side of the Tower of Lufianc at the urgings of Leofgye.

  There it was that he found the apartment of the lady to be the most sumptuous, he had ever seen in all his life. All was silk and velvet, with carpets of the finest and softest fox-fur and wolf furs, with the apartment three storeys. The lowest of the three was a kitchen area where the servants that occasionally visited the lady were to cook. It was in the second storey of the twenty that existed within the tower, where she lived with this sprawling place having a bed-chamber where she may sleep off to the right-hand side, with the frame made of fine red-wood and cedar. It was crisp, well polished and carved, with intricate Brittian runes engraved into parts of the curved wood. To the left of the gargantuan sitting room lay a small library of a hundred books. Tomes that had been collected not out of interest on the part of Uhtric or his deceased lover Lufian, for the former was no great intellectual and the latter was illiterate. Nay, those tomes had been bought for fair Leofgye.

  The third storey that she had access to was where a great many of the falcons that Uhtric owned in the local area lived. Once he had loved hawking, and had taken Lufian out on many trips of this sort before she fell to the jealous dagger of his good-brother. It happened that the right-hand most room upon that floor of the Tower where great stores of unwoven cloth were stored. It was there that Leofgye had plied her hand, to make a modest income for herself, weaving together great dresses, tunics and banners for her kinsmen. She had also woven tapestries ones that told sad tales of the fate of her elder brother and younger one, along with the tragedies that surrounded her father. It was in this dour mood that she had hung a great many of these tapestries upon her walls.

  *****

  This then was why she greeted Oswine with such warmth and enthusiasm that he noticed only her inviting smile, and shining brown eyes. Enchanted by her, he took up her hand to pull her to the rope.

  “I have come to place myself at your service, milady!” Oswine swore to her, cheeks red-hot and heart beating apace with the great gallops of his steed the day prior.

  Leofgye every bit as pleased as he, was however worried for what lay along down the road, “How have you come to know I was trapped here, Oswine?”

  “It was thanks to Wulfnoth.”

  “Aye, Trygve spoke of him, how is it he came to be here?” She asked searching about the fields for the old druid.

  Oswine began an explanation of what had happened and how they had come in search of her and her half-brother.

  It was as he spoke that she grew confused, admitting that she knew not of the whereabouts of her half-brother save that she knew only that Eadburg knew.

  Confused by this, for he stood at the base of the tower, listening in keenly, Trygve asked after this particular detail. “What do you mean milady? How could Eadburg know where to find him? Do you mean to say that Eadburg lied to Brother Wulfnoth?”

  “I do not know what she said or did not say,” Leofgye replied with considerable caution, troubled she said simply, “I know only that there are no and never have been secrets between my father and her. Such is the way with all those bound by love, for one another.”

  Her words pleased Trygve, and were ones he had long thought to himself many a times, in the past. It was at this moment that he felt rather ridiculous to have come so far away from Castle-Rheged when they should have remained there to continue to question Eadburg. The notion of tormenting the elderly lady, for information troubled and distressed him.

  It was thus with considerable surprise that he greeted the hurrying figure of Wulfnoth. He made to call out to the old druid who raced hither in their direction.

  His cry to the old man died upon his lips, when he took notice of the great crowd of two score people with torches and pitchforks directly just past him. “Wulfnoth! What has happened?’

  “Never you mind it appears that these heathens fear their lord’s wroth more than that of the gods!” The druid shrieked passing him and leaping upon his stallion, crying out to the lady and Oswine. “Do hurry down, lest we shall leave the two of you behind!”

  Hardly paying the two any true attention, Wulfnoth was to turn his horse about to escape from the furious villagers.

  Mystified as to the reason behind their reason, for their anger Trygve asked as he regained his own horse, “Why are they furious? Did you say something to upset them Wulfnoth?”

  “Nay! All I mentioned was to ask if they knew how to enter the Tower of Lufianc and that I had come to be Leofgye’s absolver, when they suddenly sprung to action!” Wulfnoth shouted back, just as Oswine lowered himself and Leofgye who clung to his back from the top of the balcony.

  *****

  The four of them turned their horses to face west, unaware as Trygve had not been paying attention to the road east, of the danger that lay that way. Upon the distant road came the thunderous hooves of a full score of warriors, all darkly dressed in hauberks.

  Each hauberk bore the image of the dark drake, the same that had decorated the hauberk of one of the Knightwraiths. Horrified to see these vicious warriors galloping hither towards them, the travelers as one rounded upon Trygve.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Oswine whined with the daughter of Uhtric holding securely to his waist from behind him, “Trygve! Why did you not warn us of their impending arrival?”

  Having no excuse, Trygve stammered for several minutes which served only to rip a harsh complaint from Wulfnoth, “I should have guessed that the fool could not keep watch properly!”

  “But where to? We shan’t flee north or east!” Leofgye reminded him, full of fright and panic when she saw the warriors at a distance growing larger and larger with each passing moment.

  Veering near to the riotous farmers who the moment they saw the steed steer towards them turned to flee from before him. Heart thundering within his ribcage, Trygve could feel his stomach knot and unknot itself fearfully, at how close he came to stomping them. Veering also in the same direction, the dark-riders from the east who wore the livery of one of the wraiths were to give chase after him and his friends stampeding their way through countless farm-fields.

  It was not long before the mounts of the enemy began to tire, and they fell back behind the heroes who certainly did not feel by any means heroic.

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  They might well have tossed javelins after them, save that they wished to capture Wulfnoth and Leofgye alive. This halted their actions, and made them too indecisive to catch them.

  With their own mounts hardly any faster or better rested than those behind them, Oswine was to propose that they ride for but a little long, saying to them, “We should shift eastwards and change chargers soon or find some place to hide them!”

  It was as they slowed themselves to a halt that from over the hill the sound of galloping hooves of the enemy’s chargers could be heard from farther behind them. Fearful of what lay behind them, the trio of horsemen tugged and whipped the reins of their chargers over and over again. Encouraging the animals as best they could, to venture forth faster than before for fear of being caught by the servants of the Dark Laird.

  The dark-steeds of those who bore the arms of the dark-drake could well have been mistaken for boars or bulls, so fiercely did they stamp the land, and huff. Other horses might well have stopped some time ago, stricken by the excessive manner in which they were being forced to work more than they ought to. But never these dark steeds, they were made of such stern breeds that the phantom-chargers might well have envied them their vigour.

  Moving along the fields farther and farther north, along the road as they sought to put increasing distance between their pursuers and themselves. The heroes could not but marvel at the speed of the enemy, the lack of fright they showed and shiver in terror.

  “We must hurry, else they will catch us,” Oswine cried out to his friends, stricken at the sight of the enemy nearing more and more to their horses’ hindquarters.

  “We shan’t escape them, at our current pace!” Wulfnoth shouted back, equally bouncing up and down with each gallop of his charger.

  “I do not think they hope to capture us,” Leofgye yelled to them from where she sat in front of Oswine, upon his horse pointing before them.

  Growing nearer and nearer, larger and larger was the great grey-fort known as the Sorgkeep. A small fortress that was mud-splattered at various places and that had more than its share of trees growing near the base of the small hill it lay atop. The mound that lay beneath this fortress was put together more than two centuries ago, in the reign of Leofsige the Vociferous. The most formidable of the three chief-most enemies of the father of ?thelred the Great, the warrior-king ?thelsige who had usurped the throne of the line of Cedric; it was Leofsige who slew ?thelsige. He had the king of Gewisse imprisoned in this very castle after he had defeated him in the battle of Sorghollow. The castle had been built as much to repel the southern monarch, as it was to serve as a holding for the monarch’s eleventh son, Leofstan the Faithful.

  The castle was eighty-six meters high, six hundred wide and twelve hundred long, with there being three towers all built of the same grey stones that the principal dungeon had been. In all, it was a castle that failed to impress as others in the area had. But where a great many castles of Rheged housed stories of treachery and of great violence, that of the line of Leofstan the Faithful was different. Other lines may have gone astray, become heathen in their temperament and tastes, may have turned upon their chieftains and cousins, the men of the line of Leofstan had not. Though the present lord there, a man by the name of Osgar had never met Uhtric who considered his seventh-cousin hardly a worthy relative of his, Osgar remained steadfast in his loyalty.

  He might well have disagreed with the decision of his liege-lord to imprison Leofgye in the Tower of Lufianc, Osgar had nonetheless held true. He had seen to all of her mother’s needs and wants, with all the unfailing care of a doting grandfather. His daughters it had been who had cooked and cleaned for her, his sons who had escorted the stores of food and who had fished for the trout, salmon and other fish she enjoyed so much. Such was the loyalty of the house of Leofstan.

  She had no ill-will toward her distant cousins, if they could still be termed such given the thinness of the blood-ties betwixt them; Leofgye knew them to be her father’s men. They would not look kindly upon her release, and would return her to the Tower that she had sought escape from, so ardently.

  This old man had not come out himself, to confront those who had dared to gallop and trod down a great deal of his peoples’ farmlands. Wholly unaware of it, it was highly likely they all knew that he would take it as poorly as his people had taken Wulfnoth’s desire to free Leofgye.

  Trygve eyed those steep high walls, with a mixture of trepidation and rising resentment. He wished they would disappear, so that he and his friends could race past the fields that lay whither past where the keep was.

  Looking about for some means to escape his pursuers, he found only the forest that lay to the right (or east) of them.

  It was then in a wave of desperation he tugged and whipped at his charger’s reins, with far greater clumsiness than Daegan or Cormac might otherwise have shown. He very nearly toppled over his horse in his desperate act, and yet somehow the horse triumphed.

  His sudden change in direction did not go unnoticed, by any of his friends who called out reprimands to him. Each of them thinking him terribly foolish, to not only treat his animal so but to fail to continue to head north, thus allowing the enemy to grow nearer to them.

  ‘Most fishermen are in too much of a hurry to stitch together their nets, or to catch fish to catch more than the barest amount.’ The Salmon had complained one day, as they sat rods in hand upon their boat, with Trygve having at the time grown impatient at the sight of all the other fishing vessels rowing back to shore. ‘It is the same if you were to fish with a lance; if you strike too soon you are unlikely to catch a thing. My point Trygve is that impatience breeds sloppiness and that haste makes waste.’

  This was why he plunged headlong into the forest with his friends reluctantly turning their own mounts to give chase to him. Once inside of the forest he called out to his friends to race along at a slower pace compared to before.

  “But if we do as you instruct, we will be caught!” Wulfnoth complained at once, as was his wont.

  “Trust me, and in the land, for they seek to fish impatiently for us and this will be how we trick them and escape from them.” Trygve counselled him at once, the memory of the Salmon’s lesson ringing in his ears, as he recalled an important detail of the land as they journeyed westwards. “Do you remember the nature of the land as we travelled, westwards Wulfnoth?”

  “Aye, it was steep which was why we slowed just south of here, why?” Wulfnoth replied confused by his strange question.

  Trygve did not answer him, pleased to know that the land was indeed meekly distorted to the south and had to be considerably more so to the north. He had not had the time to truly discern to see if it came together as a ravine further north of their present position.

  Past knotted trees, and scarlet ones that reached for them and pleaded and grasped, the three horses threw them aside with nary a glance or consideration. Yet the steeds had by this time grown weary, in comparison to those behind them.

  This was not expected or desired by Trygve who pushed them a little faster, pressing his face down against its mane to keep from being whipped at by the nearby branches. Branches that felt akin to the claws of a cat he had once known and foolishly picked up by the tail when he was four years old.

  Opening his eyes after a time, to take in the sight of a small clearing where there was a large pond. The pond served as a source of momentary fascination to Trygve until he at last tore his gaze from it when he felt the horse beneath slow a little more. It was headed, he realized with a jolt uphill.

  Worried, he glanced over his shoulder to see the dark-riders pursuing them at the same speed as before.

  Pleased, he encouraged his horse to go faster than ever before, this caused consternation amongst his friends. Most notably for Oswine who glanced down at his steed which was huffing, and panting, “Trygve we cannot maintain this pace.”

  “We will trust me,” Trygve retorted evenly, exulting in the upward slope of the hill they were climbing.

  At last they burst out into a clearing after near to an hour of galloping. High above them, not unlike giant castle-walls, were the cerulean skies that yawned above them. It was a remarkable vision one that along with the snow-coloured clouds that bustled about. One cloud bore a similar appearance, he noticed at once to that of a dog’s head. This pleased and thrilled him all at once, as he momentarily forgot the situation that surrounded his bursting forth from the forest near castle Sorgkeep.

  Recalling where he was, and what it was that he was doing, he noticed at once the fold of the land and the manner in which the hill ended. This was what he had waited for.

  “To the right!” He yelled to his friends.

  This they did, wherefore they abandoned their horses and all pretences of racing eastwards.

  This was to be the end, of these dark-riders who galloped fast as thunder and with nary a glance about them until they overtook all reason and fell to their doom with a great many screams of terror. The last thought they must have had then, must have been to wonder where their prey had gone to.

  It was wrong. It had been an awful thing to inflict such a death upon all these men, however he had no doubt that they would, had the positions been reversed inflict far worst upon him.

  Panting the druid stared from the cliff, to the youth by his side, “How did you know-”

  “We were slowed the farther north we went, it stood to reason that it was creating a series of ravines somewhere,” Trygve explained with a shrug of his shoulders. “I also assumed since the dark-riders were riding so quickly that they could not have been paying attention, to their surroundings as I was.”

  “Brilliant!” Oswine said with visible admiration, which made Trygve both flush bright red and puff up a little with pride.

  “Come along,” Wulfnoth said with a grunt, looking as though he were feeling sore from the great pursuit. “I could use a bath.”

  “There is a pond by a nearby clearing,” Oswine pointed out, having noticed the very same clearing that his friend had taken notice of earlier.

  Before they left the short cliff from which the full score of men had fallen down, Trygve risked a swift glance down the length of the ravine.

  With a shudder he hurried thither after his friends, unsure if he would ever forget what he had seen and done to those men.

  *****

  Once they had left the dark-drake adorned warriors, they were to almost lose themselves in the forest, as Oswine and Trygve had forgotten the immediate location of the pond. Once they did find it they were to rejoice and leave to gather firewood whilst Wulfnoth bathed quickly in its cool waters.

  It was while they treaded a path through this part of Rheged that reminded Trygve rather strongly of the forest in which he had met Queen Alette, and the forest of Arduinna. Both fairy-queens had comported themselves with great grace than any mortal woman ever could, and both had appeared to him as warm as the suns themselves. They had made him miss his mother Ida, so that he expected that he might miss them at that moment.

  But in place of longing for his mother or his sister’s company, he missed Helga. He knew that she did not bear the same affection that he felt for her, however he could no more shut his heart, to her than he could stop it from beating. For the love he had always borne her, he felt he could defy those terrible dark warriors and the Knightwraiths thrice more.

  Thankfully, he would not have to for quite some time, with the youth turning now to his friends once they had stopped to allow their chargers to rest. “Who were those dark-riders? They did not appear spectral in their mien and nature as the Knightwraiths had.”

  “Doubtlessly servants of the Dark Laird,” Wulfnoth guessed with a frown.

  “I know who they are,” Leofgye told them once lowered to the ground with the chivalrous aid of Oswine, who aided her with flushed cheeks. Her own pink cheeks were most becoming, as she stepped forth to sit by the little pond in the forest-clearing they had chosen to rest their horses that were drinking noisily and rather thirstily from the said pond. “They were sell-swords, or so they claimed. They came to my father near to a year ago, most speak with a Jorvikshire accent others come from Norlion. They claim to be the ‘Sons of the Drake’, and have sworn themselves to ‘justice’ and the ‘betterment’ of the realm.”

  “You do not sound as though you believe them,” Trygve commented upon, noticing at once the bitter tone that she used when speaking of these dark-warriors.

  “But of course not, only a fool would,” She snorted wherefore she bowed her head in shame and despair, “My father however is that fool. He believes them and invited them into his service after the murder of my brother; they came with that strange spectre that at present haunts my father’s every step.”

  The mention of the wraith made Trygve’s stomach overturn and become nauseous. Next to him Wulfnoth and Oswine became equally chilled, both of them sharing an apprehensive glance. This just before the druid decided to search the area to make certain no one had followed them. This done, he would proceed thereafter to gather some of the local water, to bless it in private ere he dispersed all along their encampment.

  “It will keep out the wraiths and any others of their ilk,” He assured his friends, as he did so.

  While he worked to keep out the darkness and evil of the world, Trygve it was who continued the conversation, keen to ask of Leofgye about her father. Keen to change the conversation topic away from the subject of the wraith he chose his words as they ate with care. “You speak of your father being a fool, do you resent him milady?”

  “How could I? There is no greater love a woman could feel than that which she feels for her father, save for mayhaps that which she feels towards her husband and children.” Leofgye said at once with steadfast dedication, her words drew a warm smile from Oswine, one that brought a noteworthy pinkness to her cheeks whereupon she added. “I must confess that, I do worry about his wits as some queerness has crept into his mind, and soul. Poisoning him in some strange way, so that he no longer loves what he once adored and adoring that which he once loathed.”

  Oswine chewed on an onion, gazing at her thoughtfully, with a hint of consternation in his own gaze, “Aye, I too have noticed that about him. He has come to despise that which he loved most.”

  “It is all too much at times, so that I do wonder if the good man who raised my brothers and I ever so lovingly, and defended us once upon a time from Eadburg’s strange angry outbursts still lives in him.” Leofgye said despairingly, her eyes downcast as she admitted to this small amount of weakness and doubt.

  It was Trygve who piped up faithfully, keen to reassure her as he saw the pain that her own words caused her, and angry at the thought of such words being bandied about against Uhtric. Uhtric who had treated him with every kindness, who had taken him on as one of his own house-guards, an honour no other man had ever shown him. An honour that had elevated his station in life from that of a mere fisherman’s apprentice to a man of middling-means and position, it thus went without saying he felt gratitude.

  “Your father is a good man, he has fallen upon hard times certainly but you must keep faith in him Leofgye,” Trygve argued with a passion he might have possessed when defending his own father. “For if you do not keep hope and believe in his innate goodness, then who will? Somewhere deep within him, there is that man who once propped you upon his shoulders, and who wished to keep you safe from all the harm that exists in this world!”

  At his words a delighted smile climbed up steadily unto her full-lips. Eyes shining with warmth, she dazzled him with the brilliance of her beauteous, grateful mien. Pleased to have been a comfort to her, he felt proud of himself.

  The conversation soon turned now to lesser matters, mostly of Leofgye’s childhood. A time spent mostly in prayer, playing games with local lasses and studying scripture, Romalian and Dorian. As well-educated as she was well-bred, the lady was able to speak in seven languages, knew the geography of the known world and was able to quote almost as many poems as Corin.

  It was as he listened to her speak a smattering of bad Gallian that Trygve was struck by the realization that Corin had not lied about his origins. “I can hardly believe the depth of your knowledge or that all my previous assumptions about him, were completely and wholly wrong.”

  “Who do you mean? My father?” Leofgye asked of him, startled by his words an amused smile upon her lovely face.

  “Nay, Corin the Gallian,” Trygve said quietly, shaking his head at his own childhood folly, “I have no doubt now that he did not lie about his origins. He was a Gallian I never believed a single story of, as they all seemed to me utterly ridiculous.”

  “What stories are those?” Oswine queried with a great big yawn.

  “His stories were similar to yours though of a grander infancy. So that I have no doubt now that he was truly a nobleman from Gallia, for he knows more tongues than you, more of poetry, more of geography more of everything.” Trygve said with more than a little admiration.

  “He sounds quite grand,” Leofgyev replied at once, an impish look came upon her face though, “If I may, why doubt him initially? Were his tales truly so preposterous?”

  “Some of them were,” Trygve retorted at once with a laugh, ere he became sombre once more, “It was only as I spoke to you that I became aware of how different nobles and royals are. How different your upbringing is, from those such as myself.”

  “Mayhap one day I shall meet him,” Leofgye remarked lightly.

  “I hope you do,” Said the fisherman’s pupil adding as an after-thought, “And the Salmon also, I really like him. He was my mentor and grandfather of my very best friend after Cormac; Inga.”

  This last remark made her prompt him to tell more tales. Before he knew what was happening he was exchanging tales with her and Oswine, the two of them equally fascinated by what he had to say of Caledonia. They soon became just as enchanted by visions of the sea, of the tree of Ciaran, of Alette and all the folks he told them who made Glasvhail what it was. In turn he became equally gripped by their tales of the castle at the centre of Rheged, by the legends they had been told when young and of the particulars and peculiarities that made the Brittians what they were.

  *****

  The days that followed saw him introduced to a new aspect of Leofgye’s character; her penchant for mischief, for word-play. It was a match for his own passion for such games, as they challenged one another to out-insult one another as one might say, or to be cruder or crasser. Such was the crassness of her jests that Wulfnoth turned bright scarlet often as they crossed through the woods that they claimed his face to be as crimson as a strawberry. Hardly pleased by this description, he fell to fuming and grumbling about youths’ to-day.

  “Here I had hoped that she might have something of her brother’s gentler sense of humour,” the druid complained bitterly, “But no, she had to turn out exactly like her full-brother and father.”

  “Aye, such is the way of the world Brother Strawberry,” Leofgye guffawed from her seat upon the horse she shared with Oswine, who had occasionally joined them in their game. She turned now to Trygve, “Where were we? Ah yes, at the letter ‘b’; you beastly boorish bore of a barbarian!”

  “Really? If that is all that you know milady, I am truly befuddled by your lack of brains,” Trygve retorted with a wink in her direction, enjoying their game.

  She might well have rejoined then with her own insults, when Wulfnoth at last intervened having had enough of their little game. “I must ask of you milady, a simple question in regards to your brother.”

  “Which one?” She questioned her good mood evaporating at once, as misty air does before the bright rays of the suns.

  Full of pity for her, the old druid coughed to clear his voice an old habit of his that usually signalled his own discomfiture. Full of paternal affection for her though he had never met her before, he spoke gently, “Leofgye I refer to both. Did Hallbj?rn truly slay Swiehun?”

  “Brother Wulfnoth I do not think that question, entirely appropriate,” Oswine protested casting a worried look to the maid whom, he all but held in his arms.

  Leofgye remained silent, visibly pained by the words of the cleric. She did not answer for some time. It was not until they left the forest firmly behind them, and were once more upon a proper road that she answered the question from hours before.

  All around them were the usual remnants of the Romalian civilisation; the over-grown stone road, the occasional tombs made of marble stone in the shape of men in tunics without beards. Some had wives with them, maidens dressed with shawls pulled over their heads and with demure, gentle expressions. Others had dogs by their side, so that Trygve wondered about this phenomenon.

  According to Wulfnoth a great many of the Romalians had had themselves buried with their pets. This knowledge made Trygve sympathise with them, and feel a kind of kinship he had never considered he might feel with them.

  The grandest of all the monuments was the broken gargantuan twelve-meter high and ten meter thick pillars of the Romalian aqueduct. A once grand monument that was responsible for transporting water north from the middle branch of the Llathian-river all along the lands of Rheged, with this once great piece of architecture now in ruins. Only a few broken walls remained, much to the shame and sorrow of a great many people (Wulfnoth included).

  “I know that that is what people believe about Hallbj?rn,” Said Leofgye looking to the three leagues long remains of the great wall, with a dull pain that bespoke of her own regret. It had been her ancestors that had helped demolish those walls, to be able to build great castles and walls, or homes. Unthinking of the consequences of such actions they had ungratefully thrown aside the superior culture, and advances brought forth by the Romalians.

  Wulfnoth himself tore his gaze away from his own long study of the great monument of Roma, to study the stunning white face of the daughter of Uhtric. “You speak as though you know better, than they my dear. Tell me what you saw or believe happened to your beloved brother.”

  “It was Sivrard’s man, the one they dub the Dusk-Blade, his name is Waltheof and he is Sivrard’s younger half-brother.” Leofgye admitted quietly, “He is the head of those ‘Dark-Drake’ riders who pursued us.”

  This was a revelation neither Oswine nor Wulfnoth were surprised by, both of them simply nodded their heads glumly. They did so as though they had already been informed of such, with only Trygve having previously been unaware of this important detail.

  Seeing this, made him fume a little as he pondered to himself, ‘How is it I am expected to help them if they continuously insist upon keeping such knowledge from me? I feel akin to a blind man fumbling about in the dark, while being expected to find my way to the torch by sight.’

  “Waltheof Dusk-Blade, but how did he come to perform the deed? Did you see him act, or was this recounted to you?” Wulfnoth persisted keen to know all that he could of the crime itself, his gaze intent as he looked upon her.

  “He has long crossed from Jorvik into my father’s domain.” Leofgye told him irritably, sounding rather distracted and unhappy, “He would visit this lord or that one who was friendly with him. He is trusted by Sivrard, and it was he who came to my brothers to play the ambassador for Jorvik. It was thereby the castle of Vesgarde that I called my brothers together to restore peace between them, and there that they decided to call Waltheof hither to their presence. They decided to act in father’s name, by negotiating with Sivrard themselves. It was as they did so that they invited him out on a hunt, ignoring our father’s orders for them to desist from these actions or their provocations of war.”

  “What happened next?” Trygve now pressed her, ignoring as he did so the glare his friend gave him, as swept up by curiosity as the druid was.

  “I warned them, and warned them of the dangers of this particular hunt. I had had such appalling dreams, of corpses’ spilling blood of ravens, and of black-dogs and so very much more!” Leofgye said quaking and shivering with horror, she however rejected the comforting arms of Oswine though. Sucking a great breath through her nostrils, her delicate frame became rigid after several minutes of looking as though she may cry. “Swiehun took the lead as he always did; he was the manliest of men as all who knew him know. It happened that he overtook a great buck, one that he was in the midst of cutting apart for the servants. He wished to make it easier for them to carry it, back to the kitchens and to share some small parts with the dogs. It was then that I caught up with him, or came near enough to see Waltheof raise his javelin and with a great throw he slew my beloved brother.”

  “And it was then that he rode away,” Wulfnoth said familiar with this fact as he was later to reveal, thanks to a few of the servants of castle Vesgarde, those few imprisoned in Suthelm.

  “Hallbj?rn sought to chase him down, but there was a great fog that arose as only when that witch-wraith who attends father, is near. It was she who aided in his escape I am certain of it,” This gentle Leofgye growled out, her teeth clenched and hate in her bright shimmering eyes. It was a terrible thing to behold, yet it drew up each of the men straighter upon their chargers, for they knew her dark sentiment to be proper. It was proper to despise evil in whatever its forms, to wish to cast it away from oneself and to seek it out, to destroy it. “It was to our half-brother that Swiehun whispered his last words, pleading with him to shield our father, protect his children and to punish Sivrard for what he hoped to do.”

  “Swiehun was a truly heroic man,” Oswine murmured reverently, “We guards, all worshipped him, and all would have died for him.”

  “But you must do something greater than dying for him now, Oswine; you must live and fight on for him. To carry on his legacy of valour and righteousness,” Wulfnoth corrected sternly, his whiskers quivering with each passionate word he uttered.

  “Which begs the question,” Trygve muttered almost more to himself than to his friends, adding when they looked curiously upon him, “Just where has Hallbj?rn gone? Was he captured by the Dusk-Blade?”

  “But of course not, do not be foolish Trygve,” the Paragon snapped.

  Trygve exasperated prepared himself for another argument. It was another in a long-line of them that he had become experienced at, given how disagreeable his traveling companion always was. He could not help but think Wulfnoth could be as the stones the Romalians used in the construction of their great works; firm and steady. Instead of being so well-comported he was easily angered, flighty and something of a glutton.

  He was saved from this argument by Oswine who sought to delay another squabble between the two. Having grown accustomed to their endless contests of wills, he grunted with his eyes upon the distant farmlands to the west of them, to the farms that were growing principally corn and wheat. “Likely he has vanished into either one of Sivrard’s countless prisons, having been traded over to him or is in some well-hidden location herein the lands of Rheged.”

  This declaration was in line with Wulfnoth and Trygve’s own thinking.

  The former was to conclude that it was very likely that it was Uhtric that held Hallbj?rn while the latter was of a mind that it was Sivrard who held the heir of Rheged prisoner.

  Both of them were quite shocked when Leofgye revealed the truth to them, “What? Nay, Hallbj?rn is imprisoned in Castle-Rheged.”

  This brought them up short. Both men stared at her with wide-open mouths, unable to believe their ears.

  A great chortle escaped from Oswine’s lips then, one that was to make the lady flush red with anger. “What are you laughing about, Oswine? It is the truth.”

  “Hardly, how did you happen by that thought? It is impossible for Hallbj?rn to have been imprisoned in Rheged, lest those of us who are faithful to Uhtric would have heard of this fact.” He retorted evenly, firmly convinced that she was mistaken.

  “It was whispered to me by Waltheof Dusk-Blade,” Said Leofgye with a shiver of disgust, at her words he stared at her, while she turned her gaze downwards. Visibly distraught by this fact, “He would occasionally visit me in the Tower, to whisper dark words, secrets and scornful words to me. He loved to try to slip into my chambers, and was it not for one of the local washerwomen slipping into the Tower at night, to stay by my side at my request; he might well have done this. She slept with her back against one of the dressers in my room, knife in hand, shielding me in this manner when I was most afraid as I was not allowed even the slightest of sharp implements.”

  It was evident from the way in which she shook that she was still affected, by this experience. The manner in which she had learnt of the fate of her other brother deeply angered Oswine. Who for his own part, might well have ridden off to go find the Dusk-Blade to punish him, for the crimes he had committed against Uhtric’s only daughter were it not for his friends.

  “That vermin! I shall gut him, and spill his innards all over the swards of Jorvik for what he has done to you milady! Say the word, and he will suffer for his crimes!” Oswine bellowed trembling now also, if with a different kind of disgust from her own, his face purpling with rage.

  His was an anger that Trygve could well understand, he himself shared much of it. He imagined that he might well have felt far angrier, had it been Helga who suffered so. Just the thought was enough to make his vision tinge red.

  “Calm yourself,” Wulfnoth commanded coldly, “It is past and therefore unimportant.” At those words the other man looked as though he might argue, the druid carried on though. “I understand being upset at such crude treatment of so good a lady, but we must not forget what is most important.”

  “And what is it that you think most important, Brother Wulfnoth?” Oswine asked bitterly.

  “To investigate Castle-Rheged, as we have no other place to search for Hallbj?rn,” Replied the druid tearing his gaze away from the remnants of the once grand stones of three meter high part of the aqueduct wall.

  *****

  Rheged welcomed the small group of travellers with astonishment. Most of the locals were to point and cry out to Leofgye. She greeted each of these gestures with considerable politeness. Her visible affection and kindliness warmed the hearts of each of the people, who all cheered and threw garlands and flowers before her and Oswine’s horse. Pleased, by this show of love he was soon caught up if briefly in the heat of the moment that felt akin to a triumph-parade to him, Trygve could hardly keep from waving also. Wulfnoth sighed and grumbled, until he was offered thrown flowers also, at which time he smiled as well.

  Dismounting from their horses, with Leofgye leaping from that of Oswine without his aid, ignoring his proffered hand she flounced to stand before Eadburg. The old woman, who had studied their advance with a stunned expression on her withered face, hardly noticed the men.

  Eadburg attempted to speak then failed, wherefore she backed away to give entry to her stepdaughter.

  Studying her closely with stern eyes, Leofgye looked from her to the guards of the castle. All of whom stared with unmitigated shock and uncertainty.

  “Oswine, Wigheard seize captain Waltheon,” She ordered pointing to the steward of the castle who gaped open-mouthed at her.

  “Pardon milady?” The other guard asked of her.

  “It is he who has imprisoned my brother, Hallbj?rn.” Leofgye declared in a clear voice that resonated throughout the courtyard. She was to repeat this question when questioned once more, by those around her many of those around her were hesitant to obey her.

  “Milady it appears that you have become deranged, none have seen your brother in some time,” Waltheon began to attempt to dissuade the guards from believing her.

  The lady looked to her stepmother who winced and looking small as a child tremblingly whispered. “Oswine, Wigheard, Trygve search the prison cells in the west wing, there you will find what you seek.”

  The shame she felt reeked so that there was something of a stench in the air. The guard Wigheard was to accompany Oswine and Trygve who did as bidden.

  The west-prison was located to the rear of the dungeon; it was located beneath one of the principal towers of the aforementioned keep. The cells were set apart from the ones that most prisoners were often thrown into.

  These cells were equally small in some cases, and larger in others. Located beneath the tower in a small pit dug by Uhtric’s father Osbhert, the oubliette-cells were a haunted place. Discovering the tiny cells behind a door and at the base of a staircase, Trygve followed his friend wrinkling his nose as they went.

  The prison stunk as badly as it was shadowed. They were to find the son of Uhtric in the first cell to their right, with the two older men stopping when they saw him. Gasps escaped their lips, horrified to see the blonde-haired, dark-eyed thickly bearded man chained to the wall of the cell. Thinned after months of barely having been fed, Trygve could not help but feel sickened looking upon him, so greatly did his heart twist with pity for this man.

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