Weard Tigern stood back straight, eyes front, and thoughts elsewhere. Weard was a Húskarl, one of the two thousand professional infantry which formed the bulk of Rícewelig’s standing army. Last week he’d earned his first promotion to Téoðingealdor, a leader of ten men, granting him the dubious privilege of standing outside the throne room with his superior, Cempa Allard.

Weard removed his nasal helm, tucked it under his shield arm, and tried to scratch his scalp by moving his mail coif around his head. It didn’t work; he’d forgotten to wear his wool under-cap and his close cut, curly blond hair kept snagging in the mail rings.

He gave up and amused himself with trying to match his reflection with the decorative, wild boar’s head stamped onto the helm’s crown.

“Pay attention, Ælfscíene,” said Cempa.

Weard grimaced. Being called ‘elf-like’, or ‘beautiful as an elf’, was a compliment - if you were female.

“Morning, Cempa. Didn’t see you there.”

“Very funny, Weard.”

Cempa was six-five and broad as a prize-winning pumpkin. His face was weathered, clean shaved, and tanned. While he wore the standard issue hauberk and chausses, Cempa had swapped his coat-of-plates for a blue-tinted, steel cuirass. Faulds and a cullet were attached to the cuirass’s base and a wide leather belt covered the connecting silk straps. Iron-splinted, leather spaulders complimented his regulation splinted cuisse, boots, and gauntlets.

With so much armour, Cempa didn’t bother with a shield. He used a huge longsword, seven pounds and sixty-five inches of patterned steel with a rounded tip, ball pommel, and chunky crossguard; it rested on his shoulder in a leather sheath. A sæx, a twenty-inch blade with a minimal crossguard, hung from his belt.

Eight men hurried down the vaulted corridor towards the two Húskarlar.

Cempa said, “Duke Dolwillen Mánfeld, his Drýmann, Hewelin Guntard, and six over-armoured bodyguards, are approaching; stop scratching and put your bloody helmet on.”

“A what?”

“Drýmann. See that hexagonal metal staff of his?”

Weard nodded.

“Well, he’s not twirling it about for fun. It’s for casting spells.”

“Bet he spends more time heating the Duke’s bath water with his staff than doing something useful,” said Weard.

Cempa raised a single, artful eyebrow.

“Don’t ogle me,” Weard fiddled with his chinstrap, “If we let those bodyguards in, the Herewísa will give us an earful.” Weard clipped the clasp and straightened his helm. He hefted his shield but left his curved axe in his belt.

The pair imposed themselves between the Duke’s party and the throne room door. Cempa nodded and tucked his thumbs behind his belt.

“Good morning, your Grace,” said Weard.

Dolwillen was encased in several layers of dark green silk. He had grey compact hair and a remarkable potbelly, wrapped in a white silk sash.

Weard glanced at Cempa, “May we help you?”

Dolwillen sneered, “Out of my way, piss-pot. I’m here to see the King.”

Weard tilted his head down and eyed the Duke, “So am I, your Grace.”

“What?” said Dolwillen.

“I’m here to see to the King’s safety, and yours, so those lost puppies sniffing after your trail will have to wait in the corridor with us,” said Weard.

Cempa groaned.

Dolwillen fumbled for the silver flask stuffed in his sash. He took a long swig and scowled. Brandy vapours assaulted Weard’s nose.

Dolwillen raised his hand, but before he could strike, the Drýmann slid between them. He was thin, pallid, and a bit taller than Weard. He had a repulsive air.

Weard skipped back a step.

“Is this,” Guntard sniffed, “man worth your time, your Grace?”

“No, and neither are you,” said the Duke. “The King is about to announce his heir. I need to be inside, now!”

Iron screeched as the peephole behind Weard was wrenched open.

“Bugger,” said Weard.

“Cempa, Téoðingealdor, let everyone in,” said Ebýr.

“Yes, sir,” said Cempa. The peephole slammed shut. Weard and Cempa braced their feet and pushed the massive arched doors open.

“Don’t say a word,” said Cempa.

The Duke and his entourage hurried past.

“Have a pleasant day, your Grace,” said Weard.

The Duke whirled round.

Weard grinned as he pulled the doors shut in the Duke’s face with a deep, drum-like boom.

“Are you mad?” said Cempa.

“No more than he is,” said Weard.

“Were you raised in a wood? Duke Mánfeld is the most powerful person in Rícewelig after the King.”

“Born and raised, sir. A forest is a very healthy place for a child.”

Cempa massaged the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb then took off his helm.

“I’m flattered, but I’m not interested in your strip-tease, Cempa,” said Weard.

“Shut up, Ælfscíene.”

“Seriously though, that drunken cuckoo doesn’t even know our names. What’s the worst that could happen?”