Cempa leaned against the rough stone wall in the barracks common room, whittling at a lump of wood with the tip of his sæx. He wasn’t quite sure what it was going to be yet, but no doubt he would screw up his imagined exotic creature and carve another, accidental wooden spoon.

Several squads of Húskarlar milled about the straw-strewn room, playing cards, cleaning armour, and chugging ale. A scrape, clunk, and curse wafted from behind the door to Cempa’s right. He chuckled - Serves the Ælfscíene right for his cheek outside the Throne Room.

It was a pain having to guard the privy door, but last time he’d locked Weard in, Cempa had come back to an uncleaned privy, a pile of clothes on the floor, and no Weard to be found anywhere within the keep. Cempa had no idea how he’d done it, but he was determined to ensure Weard completed his punishment.

A screech of scraping chairs and snapping heels compelled Cempa to flick his eyes up from his woodwork.

Sir Ebýr Wylde, leader of the Húskarlar, strolled through the common room, waving the soldiers down. A bald man wearing a coat-of-plates, hauberk, and plate armour on his arms and legs, followed Ebýr. Both men headed straight for Cempa.

Cempa sheathed his sæx and tucked the mangled wooden block into his belt. He saluted, “Sir.”

Ebýr nodded and gestured at his companion, “This is Sir Thorold Wulfslæd.”

Cempa brushed the wood shavings from his palm and shook the knight’s proffered hand. “A pleasure, Sir.”

“Likewise,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Cempa waited.

Ebýr cleared his throat, “Where’s Weard?”

Cempa thumbed over his shoulder, “Cleaning the privy, Sir.”

Metal chimed against stone from behind the privy door.

“What with?” said Ebýr.

“Spade, I think. Maybe a rag and some lye too.”

“I thought the tradition was a toothbrush,” said Ebýr.

“Apparently he doesn’t own one, Sir.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” said Ebýr. “Get him out here.”

Cempa nodded and reached for the key. It was missing. He grunted and patted his pockets. Sir Wylde began to tap his foot. The privy door squeaked open. Cempa whirled round.

Weard waved the key in his face, “Searching for this?”

“I locked you in there!” said Cempa.

“You sure?”

“That’s enough,” said Ebýr. “I didn’t save your hides for a circus act.”

Cempa’s attention snapped to Ebýr.

Weard slipped the key into the inner lock and swaggered from the privy, “Sir?”

“Your antics yesterday have Duke Mánfeld calling for your heads. I’ve talked him down to dismissing you.”

“What?” shouted Cempa.

“Don’t make such a fuss,” said Ebýr. “I’m not going to do it, but I am sending both of you away for a while.”

“I guess mentioning it wasn’t my fault won’t help,” said Cempa.

“Correct. However, I have found something for you to do for a few weeks while the Duke forgets your faces, or gets bored and goes home. Sir Wulfslæd?”

“Do you know anything about yesterday’s announcement?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Something about how anyone can be King, or Queen,” said Cempa.

“I always thought Divine Right was drivel,” said Weard. “Glad to know the chap in charge thinks so too.”

“Quite so, Téoðingealdor,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “But acknowledging it and making the succession a competition has created a bit of a scramble.”

“Sorry, Sir. I’m not following,” said Cempa.

“Did you hear Hymlic was destroyed?” said Ebýr.

Cempa nodded,

“Three more towns have been razed since then and we still don’t know who, or even what, is responsible. Therefore, the first person to discover what’s happening, solve the problem, and bring the King evidence of the heroic deed, will be adopted, or promoted through the family ranks, and named his heir.”

“Seems simple enough,” said Weard, “but to become King? Bit much if you ask me. Why are the Húskarlar not doing it?”

“Expeditions are expensive endeavours,” said Ebýr, “it’s much smarter to dangle a carrot and make other people do the work.”

“I have a horrible feeling I know where this is going,” said Cempa.

“One more question, Sir,” said Weard. “Why does leading an investigation make a person fit to be King, or Queen?”

“The candidate,” said Ebýr, “has to persuade all others to follow him or her around the country in preparation to kill a fearsome creature, or who knows what. Also, they must convince others to die for their gain, while reassuring their followers that they’re intelligent enough not to let that happen.”

“You seem unhappy, Sir,” said Cempa.

“It’s better than a civil war,” said Ebýr, “but an awful lot of people are going to die for this.”

“They don’t have to participate,” said Weard.

“And that’s where you two come in,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “You don’t get a choice, as you’re coming with me.”

“You’re competing?” said Weard.

“I’ve little interest in being King, Téoðingealdor,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “However, I do need a favour from the King and that requires I do something useful in return. Perhaps we’ll be the ones to solve the mystery, perhaps not. Either way, I require soldiers, so you can both stay here and enjoy the view from atop a pike, or you can come with me. You will, of course, be paid at your current rate, with a bonus for any combat, if you survive.”

Weard shrugged, “What do you say, Cempa? Fancy an adventure?”

“Wretched Ælfscíene, why do I have to go because you can’t keep your mouth shut?”

“I unwillingly concede I provoked a prick to rash action.”

Ebýr snorted, “Weard, another quip out of you and primping privies will be the least of your concerns.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Weard.

“Cempa?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I’ll go,” said Cempa. “Someone needs to keep Weard on his toes.”

“Show a little gratitude,” said Ebýr.

Weard bowed, “Thank you for your consideration and assistance, Herewísa Ebyr and Sir Wulfslæd.”

Cempa’s eyes bulged. He’d never seen the Ælfscíene show humility. Weard didn’t even sound sarcastic.

“Ahem?” said Ebýr. Cempa realised far too late the two knights were staring at him.

Cempa saluted, “Thank you, Sirs. I will do my best.”

Sir Wulfslæd glanced at Weard, “I am sure you will. Come, I’ll introduce you to the others.”