A dirt road, forest on either side. Cempa was not surprised when a Nihtgenga leaped out from the undergrowth with a ghastly cry.

The creature was four feet tall with tanned, leathery skin, triangular ears, and ragged, greasy hair. Its massive, bloodshot googly eyes rolled in their sockets as the hominoid hopped between its two feet in mud-splattered braies.

It punctuated its eerie, garbled ramblings with wild stabs from a rusty knife, clenched in its knobbly hand. The Nihtgenga stuck a forked, scaly tongue out and lunged.

Cempa kicked it in the face. It flew back and spasmed in the dirt. While nearly everything Cempa fought was smaller than him, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was fighting a furious, young boy.

Before he could give it too much thought, Cempa pressed the tip of his longsword between its rotten teeth. The Nihtgenga twitched one last time as its spine crunched under Cempa’s assault.

His new companions, two tall archers, Tadhgán Pigott and Arnwald Elȝot, fired a constant stream of arrows from their bows at several frothing Nihtgengan charging their position in the centre of an unpaved road. The Nihtgengan stumbled, but didn’t go down.

Two women, Clæfre and Milde Misthliþ, flanked the archers with short spears and round shields, killing Nihtgengan with vicious, efficient stabs. Clæfre was left-handed and Milde right-handed. Fighting with their shields in alternate hands, helped them cover the archers’ flanks with ease.

Hrolf Cottrell, a short man smothered in elaborate, boiled-leather armour, gripped the halter of the troop’s pack mule with one hand as he tried to fend off a pair of Nihtgengan with a spear. With one hand on the halter, he’d been forced to keep his round shield on his back.

The troop’s cook and field surgeon, Péton Bardolf, backed him up with a sæx, but neither were great fighters and Hrolf was bleeding.

Letholdus, or Leth, Sir Wulfslæd’s son, rode back and forth with his father, scattering the Nihtgengan from atop their grey rounceys, but they couldn’t get close enough to ride the Nihtgengan down without separating themselves from the troop.

Weard had no such reservations and had disappeared, but the mournful howls of crying critters on Cempa’s left gave away Weard’s position.

Knocking back three Nihtgengan with his horse’s flank, Leth freed himself from the melee. He swept his gloved hands over his hexagonal staff, touching many of the symbols engraved into its surface. Three Nihtgengan recovered and screamed, then charged. Cempa sprinted from his spot in the vanguard, but before he could intercept, Leth pointed his staff at the foul critters and they tumbled onto their faces. The creatures rolled in the dirt shrieking as their tough skin blistered. Leth turned bone white and covered his mouth with one hand.

A pungent waft of roasting, foetid flesh rolled over Cempa in a nauseating wave. The glowing symbols on Leth’s staff radiated heat as a cloud of shimmering air descended, cooking the creatures. The Nihtgengan were remarkably resilient and took almost a whole minute to stop screaming.

Cempa skidded to a halt and shuddered. He prowled back to his position, stamping on corpses and shifting his head from side to side. The remaining Nihtgengan yelled from behind the trees, throwing stones. Several clanged off Cempa’s cuirass, he didn’t particularly care until one smashed into his helm, leaving his ears ringing. He glared at the woods, searching for the thrower.

A severed head sailed from the woods, bounced twice, and rolled to his feet. Dead eyes and a flaccid tongue mocked him from the dirt. The head was streaked with muddied woad and adorned with a headband of greasy feathers and colourful snail shells.

Fearful chitters echoed from the trees and little feet pattered through dry leaves as the Nihtgengan fled. Weard ambled from the woods humming, his leather-faced, linden-wood shield was warped and splintered, his axe dripping with gore. Weard’s face was covered in blood and a small piece of meat was stuck to the side of his helm.

“There had better have been a good reason for you to leave the vanguard, Téoðingealdor,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Weard pointed at the head with his axe, “The leader. They always run once you kill it.”

Sir Wulfslæd scowled, “Get some wood, Téoðingealdor, enough to burn the bodies.”

“Sir,” said Weard. He saluted and jogged into the woods.

Sir Wulfslæd dismounted and beckoned the soldiers over, “Is everyone in one piece?”

Hrolf hobbled over, “Not exactly, sir, but I think all my bits are still attached.”

Sir Wulfslæd nodded, “Good man. Mr Bardolf, see that they stay attached.”

“Yes, sir,” said Péton. He led Hrolf to a tree, his slightly chubby face bathed in sweat. Péton removed both his and Hrolf’s kettle helms, revealing Peyton’s grey streaked hair, and Hrolf’s scraggy red topping. Péton helped the injured soldier lie back. He unstrapped two leather rolls from his back, put them on the ground, and unfurled his tools, bandages, and unguents.

Péton rummaged through the many pouches on his belt, finally withdrawing a small glass bottle filled with clear liquid.

“Anyone else injured?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Tadhgán tugged his long black ponytail, “Don’t think so, Sir. Arnwald and I had the ladies to keep us safe.” He nodded towards the two Misthliþ sisters. Arnwald doffed his kettle helm at them.

“And don’t you forget it!” said Milde.

Clæfre placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder. Their hauberks shifted, clinking like a bag of coins.

Leth slid from his saddle, and prodded one of the bodies with his booted toe, “I’ve never seen a Nihtgenga before.”

“I think Weard’s the only one who has,” said Cempa. “They’re not supposed to come near civilized folk.”

“Something must’ve riled them up,” said Milde. “Can’t say I care though.”

Cempa squatted by a corpse and wiped his sword on its stained braies, “You alright, Leth? Thought you might vomit.”

“He’s not the only one,” said Clæfre. “I’ve sniffed a few bodies in my time, but never smelled one as they cooked and kicked.”

Leth leaned a little harder on his staff, “If they were human, I would have.”

“Vile aelfinn spawn,” said Arnwald. “Happy to be rid of them.” He kicked the head, it bounced several yards down the road. Arnwald’s feather and clay bead charm, rattled against his chest.

Weard slipped from the woods, glared at Arnwald, and dumped an armful of branches by the much abused head. Weard picked it up, closed its eyes, and placed it atop the pile of wood. He rushed back for more without a word.

“What was that about?” said Leth.

“Don’t ask me,” said Cempa.

“Enough,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “Misthliþs, check the pack mule and all the backpacks. I don’t want to have to stop later because someone finds a broken waterskin has spoiled our food.

“Sir,” said the sisters in unison; they trotted off.

“Pigott, Elȝot, recover your arrows, then sweep the area together. I want to know we’re really alone this time.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tadhgán and Arnwald.

“Cempa, assist Tigern,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “I don’t want him wandering off again.

Cempa saluted and loped for the trees. He glanced back and paused. Sir Wulfslæd tossed Leth a flask. Leth fumbled, nearly dropping the flask. Sir Wulfslæd frowned. Leth whisked the cap off, gulped down the contents, passed the flask back, and slunk back to his horse. Sir Wulfslæd crossed his arms and watched Leth as he checked his horse.

Cempa shrugged and hurried onwards. Their relationship is none of my business. He grabbed a few, stray branches.

Later, the troop assembled around a large, unlit pyre.

“Light the fire, Letholdus,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Leth tapped his staff and swayed. Sir Wulfslæd placed his hand on Leth’s shoulder steadying him.

A sudden blast of heat beat against Cempa’s face. Everyone but Leth jumped back, covering their faces with an arm, or splayed fingers. The air distorted as heat smothered the pyre; sap bubbled and bodies sizzled. Air rushed past Cempa and the pyre ignited with a great whoosh. Cempa blinked.

“Wow!” said Milde. “Wish I could do that.”

“You can do the same thing with a flint and steel,” said Leth, “and you keep your eyebrows too.”

“Suppose,” said Milde, “you’re wonder out of it though.”

Leth shrugged, his cheeks a faint red, “I guess it can be useful.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “Let’s move, I want to reach Éabrycg before sundown.”

Cempa shouldered his pack. He wrinkled his nose as he passed the pyre.

Eight, miserable miles later, and two hours past sundown, Cempa and the troop trudged into Éabrycg, stiff and crusty. The possibility of a cold ale beckoned. His mouth began to salivate.

“Cempa?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Cempa swallowed, “Sir.”

“Letholdus and I will stay with an old acquaintance of mine, Earl Bourdekin. The rest of you will have to find your own lodgings. I’ll give you two sceattas, it will be ample to see you all fed and sheltered. I’ll see you all at the north gate at dawn.”

“Yes, sir.” The pair left on their horses, taking the pack mule with them.

Weard appeared in Cempa’s peripheral vision and peered at the two, thumbnail-sized, silver coins in Cempa’s palm.

“He doesn’t expect that to cover the drinks too, does he?” said Weard.

“I expect that’s the point,” said Cempa.

Péton pointed at an orange and green inn halfway down the cobbled street, “How about we try there?”

The Garish Minstrel? Cempa nodded and rushed twenty yards down the street. He shoved the door open - the noxious steaming bustle of civilization slammed into Cempa’s tired brain with a vengeance. He smiled.

Just like home.

Six brass oil lamps hung from the ceiling and a bright fire crackled within a massive inglenook fireplace.

Cempa maneuvered between full tables and inebriated patrons. After much pushing and shoving, Cempa reached the coveted bar. The barman had a neat bead and wore an uncreased, intense yellow, velvet doublet.

“That’ll be two stycas for every one of your fellow soldiers who want bed and board,” the barman examined Cempa, “with no bed before baths, which are out back. Ale is two tavits a pint, wines and spirits are more. All arms must be locked in the storeroom if you wish to stay.”

Straight to business? Where’s the traditional, amicable welcome? Grumpy tosser.

“Eight,” said Cempa. He slid Sir Wulfslæd’s money across the bar.

The barman cleaned the coins and slipped them into his pocket. He pulled out a fistful of coins, picked four, shiny bronze stycas and slapped them on the polished, wood surface. The barman pointed at a short, rotund woman in a brown, wool tunic with a bright-blue sash, “See Ellen, she’ll look after you.”

Cempa considered giving the man an earful on how to greet people, but the smile Ellen gave him persuaded Cempa his effort would be better spent elsewhere. Cempa waved the troop over, trudged around the side of the bar after Ellen, and followed her into the steamy bath house.

Ellen rapped her thick knuckles on Cempa’s grimy cuirass, “Seen a bit ‘o action have you?” She winked. It was awful. Cempa didn’t want to hurt his chances by telling her, so he ignored her contorted twitch and gave her his best new recruit stare.

“Don’t glower at me you great bear. Do you want help with that metal skirt ‘o yours or not?” said Ellen.

Milde and Clæfre sniggered as they wandered through the door.

Cempa cleared his throat, “Please.”

Ellen whipped his belt off.

Cempa kept an eye on his pouches, but she didn’t try to steal anything. He endured the amused glances of the troop trudging past him as Ellen unfastened his faulds and culet and popped the two semicircular hip guards on top of his pack.

“You can take your chasseurs off yourself, I bet you’ve had more than enough practice slipping mail leggings off.”

Weard sidled closer in his braies and aketon while his hands cradled his dirty armour, “More than you could possibly know.” He winked at Cempa. It was much more suggestive than Ellen’s. Weard disappeared into a wooden cubicle.

“Oh, like that is it?” said Ellen.

With horror, Cempa realised he was blushing, “I will kill you, Ælfscíene!”

“I’d like to see you try,” said Weard, his voice muffled by the cubicle door.

“Ignore him,” said Cempa. “He likes to blow a lot of hot air.”

“As long as that’s all he blows,” said Ellen. “Hate to think I got me ‘ands dirty for nothin’.”

The corner of Cempa’s lip crept up in a lopsided smile, “Me too.”

“I’ll be back in a bit to stow your gear,” said Ellen. “See that’s nice and clean by then.”

Cempa saluted, “Yes, sir.”

Ellen giggled, it was closer to a trumpet than a titter. Cempa was forced to endure another wink before Ellen retreated. She swayed her hips as she crossed the room. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her jiggling bottom. It must be twice the size of mine! The bathhouse door shut with a decisive thud. Cempa shook his head.

“You sure you can handle her?” said Milde. She’d stripped to her undyed, linen under-tunic. It was cut for a man, ending at the knees, rather than the ankles. Shorter under-tunics weren’t an uncommon sight in the Húskarlar barracks, but unlike her taller sister, Clæfre, a rigorous life had done little to dent Milde’s curves.

“Well he certainly can’t manage two,” said Clæfre. She ran a hand through a close cut, dull blonde hair. It was more spiky than Milde’s, but just as attractive. Clæfre’s nose was slightly crooked, “Stop showing off and help me scrub this crud of my mail before it rusts.”

“But have you ever seen a big man blush so prettily?” said Milde, “I want to see it again, gives me a right tickle.”

“Buy me an ale and I’ll blush for you until the cows come home,” said Cempa.

“Bah!” said Milde, “Have Ellen tap your keg, there’s no way I can afford to keep you rosy cheeked.”

Weard began to sing the first verse of a particularly long funeral dirge.

He has a low voice for a pretty boy, good singer too. Cempa waved Milde off, “Unless you want to listen to all twenty-five verses, you should get scrubbing. He doesn’t stop.”

Milde and Clæfre nodded.

Cempa retreated to a cubicle and began the tedious task of cleaning both himself, his clothes, and his armour. After more lye and tallow soap than Cempa felt was healthy, he extracted his festival clothes from his pack and fought his bulky form into a light green tunic, faded red hose, and matching braies while wishing his tight hose appeared more red, and less pink. He finished his outfit off with a much newer, dark red, silk sash.

He dried his gear off with an oily rag, leaving the metal with a pleasant shine. The daily ritual was soothing, and put him in a much better mood.

Cempa helped Ellen store the troop’s gear then escaped to the taproom. He flicked a couple of copper tavits to the fastidious barman, downed the ale while he tried to spot the troop, bought a second drink, and dived into the crowd.

Arnwald and Tadhgán had cleared an entire table by the fire. As Cempa advanced, he noticed he wasn’t the only person dressed in their best. Tadhgán had a loose, black wool tunic with lace around the neck and sleeves, and Arnwald sported a fine, brown wool tunic.

The pair had stretched their legs across the wooden benches. When Cempa finally arrived, Arnwald moved. Cempa squeezed his legs under the edge of the table and sat next to Arnwald.

“Thanks,” said Cempa.

“No problem,” said Arnwald. His tunic was covered in patches of elaborate embroidery. Cempa peered at Arnwald's tunic and gulped his ale – it’s covered in charms.

A stream of dark malt and oat rich froth ran wild over Cempa’s tongue. His tension washed away and for a moment, he thought he might melt into the bench, “Ah! That’s better.”

“Good, isn’t it?” said Tadhgán.

Cempa nodded and yawned. His jaw cracked, “You two weren’t lying when you said you could shoot. It’s not often you see archers who can hold six arrows in the draw hand, most of the Húskarlar who bother learning top out at three, and they’re the keen ones.”

“It’s a more useful skill when you don’t have walls and forts to hold scraggy bandits and grumpy peasants back while you take pot shots,” said Arnwald. “It saves a lot of skins if you can shoot fast out in the open.”

“So does swinging a big sword,” said Cempa, chuckling.

“Can’t we agree everyone was pretty handy?” said Tadhgán.

Cempa snorted.

Arnwald said, “Your lady love is swinging in with a bunch of pies and the others.”

Ellen dumped a huge beef and potato pie before Cempa. Gravy burst from the pasty upon impact and flooded the large wooden bowl with thick, pungent liquid. A small sage leaf floated from the crack.

“To keep your strength up,” said Ellen. She slid another two, slightly smaller pies over to the two archers.

His portion was daunting, but Cempa wasn’t going to let the pie go without a fight, “Thanks.”

“You're welcome, lovey,” said Ellen. She lumbered onto the bench. It rocked, threatening to evict Arnwald and Cempa onto the smooth stone floor. Weard and Péton sat after the bench steadied. Clæfre, Milde and Hrolf cosied up to Tadhgán on the other. Hrolf’s arm was in a sling and a thick bandage encircled his wrist.

“Not your average day,” said Cempa.

“My average day is supposed to involve milking cows and tanning hides,” said Hrolf. “Or making cheese.”

“I thought you were a mercenary, like me,” said Clæfre.

“I’m a bloody dairy farmer,” said Hrolf. “But I’ve done six stints with the local militia. Sir Wulfslæd said he’d make sure my seventh is my last if I joined your merry band for eighty days or so.”

“That’s nice of him,” said Clæfre.

“Don’t know about that, said he needed someone who’s as handy with a needle as they are in a tussle. There are plenty of tents and tack that need tending. Truth be I’m better at sewing than spearing.”

“You did alright,” said Milde.

Hrolf rubbed his wrist, “My stitches say otherwise lass and I don’t expect to stay lucky forever. Thought I’d take my chances and take Sir Wulfslæd up on his offer,” he smiled, “appreciate the sentiment though.”

“Why are you all so bloodied?” said Ellen.

“We met a bunch of rabid Nihtgengan on the road,” said Arnwald.

“Everyone is spoiling for a fight these past few weeks,” said Ellen. “Don’t see why the little beasties would seek one though.”

“Tramping into the wilds to slay something might make you King or Queen,” said Cempa. “Nihtgengan will be high on the list of things people think they can kill, and now the vicious little buggers are out for revenge.”

“What are they?” said Hrolf.

Tadhgán laughed, “I bet Arnwald knows every legend.”

“I’m not that bad,” said Arnwald.

“Everyone has a hobby,” said Ellen, “You just wear yours around your neck, at least your charm is pretty.”

“I prefer to be a cautious believer than a dead sceptic,” said Arnwald.

“How do you feel about our little Drýmann?” said Tadhgán.

“He lights the campfire, stares at books, and picks his nose when he thinks no one is watching. I won’t lose any sleep over him,” said Arnwald.

“You stick an iron knife in the dirt above your head every night to ward off spirits,” said Cempa. “What are you afraid of?”

“Wóddréamas,” said Arnwald.

“Most of the men around here can’t wait to meet one,” said Ellen.

“There are male ones too,” said Arnwald. “I’m sure you’ve imagined a dalliance with a Wóddréam.”

Ellen snorted, “Imagination can only do so much. Tangible benefits are more my thing.” She squeezed Cempa’s thigh.

It was worth ignoring that wink.

“I can’t take their existence seriously either,” said Tadhgán. “They’re an excuse for every ælfscíene child, Déofol in the well, or Cargást in the mist.”

Weard pointed at himself, “What? Like me?”

“You might be pretty,” said Milde, “but you’re not as pretty as me.”

Clæfre hid her face behind her tankard.

Cempa chuckled, “Guess that makes you a sorry excuse, Ælfscíene.”

“How witty,” said Weard. He met Cempa’s eyes, “Nihtgenga are abandoned changeling children. They don’t fade after a year, or perish when they’re left in the cold. Like any rejected child, they run away. They survive, but they are Drýlic, they are ‘of magic’. Their physical forms reflect their emotions. In their case: fear, anger, and hatred. They wouldn’t be that way if their parents kept them.”

“Bullshit,” said Arnwald, “they’re scum who steal cattle, murder travellers, and drag off children.”

“You can believe whatever you like,” said Weard, “but next time you’re gleefully stacking their bodies on a pyre, examine the trinkets they hold onto as they die: bracelets, wooden animals, colourful shells, and rocks, and ask yourself what you just killed.

“You decapitated one!” said Arnwald.

“And the rest ran,” said Weard. “You would have killed them all if they hadn’t fled.”

Cempa was beginning to feel uncomfortable. A quick glance suggested he wasn’t the only one. Weard might tease, trick, and hide his agenda behind clever words, but Cempa had never caught him lying.

Arnwald glowered at Weard.

Cempa tried to change the subject before their argument became too heated, “Then what are Wóddréamas?”

Arnwald took a calming breath, but didn’t drag his gaze from Weard, “They mimic our appearance, but are beings made of aether. During certain times of the year, like harvest or solstice, they walk among us. They eat our food, drink our booze, then disappear, sometimes taking someone with them. If the person is seen again, they’re always a pale imitation of their original selves.”

Weard snorted, “You afraid of a pretty girl leading you astray, Arnwald? They’re nothing more than quiet spirits who inhabit the land. They come and go as they please, but only appear before those who are truly one with the earth, sky, and sea. I don’t think you need to worry about ever meeting one.”

“And if they succeed in their seductions, a half-breed is born,” said Arnwald, shuddering. “An Aetherbairn, a creature of both aether and flesh. They can walk through walls and possess people and objects. They even live as long as a Wóddréam. They’re an immortal plague. What does that make you, Ælfscíene?”

Weard smirked, “I’ll let you think about it, should help you sleep at night.”

“I don’t want to know what we killed,” said Clæfre, “it was them or us, but I can’t forget those screams. I’d feel right awful if they’d been real people, regardless of their appearance.”

“Nihtgengan are Wóddréamas spawn,” said Arnwald, “proper thinking people drive them away or leave them to die in the woods. Sometimes they survive to haunt us. We did our duty.”

Everyone stared at Weard. He raised an eyebrow, “Rejection is an awful thing. Like us, not every spirit is kind, especially Déoflas and Cargástas, Wóddréamas can be nasty too. They’re as much to blame as the people who discard their own family.”

“You speak like you’ve met one,” said Cempa.

“I have,” said Weard. “One of them gave me a hug after my dad died. I was sitting in the hollow of a really old tree, feeling sorry for myself. The resident Wóddréam heard me and paid a visit. It’s difficult to hate something that would do that for a person.”

“That’s a little hard to believe, lad,” said Hrolf. “I’ve spent most of my life outside. Many of them were bad days, but not once did a pretty face pop out of a tree or rock to say hello.”

“You wouldn’t know what they were unless they told you,” said Weard. “Perhaps a handsome man helped you with a stuck cart, or a beautiful woman comforted your crying children with a bunch of flowers that lasted much longer than they should’ve. Maybe a bizarre child handed you a pouch of tea herbs that made your cough disappear. If you listen, you’ll hear as many tales about unusual, helpful strangers as you do about a beautiful man or woman whom you tumbled with on solstice, but never saw again.”

“Sounds like a fairytale,” said Péton. “If there were people handing cures out like that, I’d be out of a job.”

“I like it,” said Milde. “I’ve heard stories like that and they have to come from somewhere, right?”

“That’s what I’ve always believed,” said Weard.

“I know Arnwald bangs on about them,” said Tadhgán, “but it makes me wonder if all the stuff he says is true if you actually met a Wóddréam.”

“Always told you it was,” said Arnwald, “Stings a bit when you shit on my words so bluntly.” He turned to Weard, “Did you really see one? And it didn’t try anything funny or reshape your appearance?”

“No, it didn’t. Not everyone grows into a stringy farmer or muscled sword-swinger. Some of us are more delicate. Doesn’t mean we were born from a saucy spirit union. Spend some time in Dúnlic, Burnehálig, or even Werodmýða, and you’ll see what I mean. The world is a big place. I neither mock your appearance or your beliefs, so you can keep your stupid questions to yourself.”

“What’s wrong with how I look?” said Arnwald.

“See my point?”

“No!”

“Are you afraid of what people will do or say if you stand out because all of a sudden there could be something wrong with you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” said Arnwald.

“No, there isn’t, but you’re mighty paranoid about it all of a sudden,” said Weard.

“That’s enough, Ælfscíene, you're ruining the mood,” said Cempa.

“Go fiddle yourself, Cempa. Did you learn nothing from my little rant?”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Cempa.

“Perhaps it isn’t, but have you ever thought about what it sounds like to me?”

“Gods no,” said Cempa. “I have much better things to do.”

“Well next time you need a salve for that rash of yours, don’t come crying to me.” Weard shoved the bench back, a considerable feat considering its occupants, and stormed from the pub.

“Lad has a point,” said Hrolf, “bit smart with his words, but they had depth. Wouldn’t hurt to apologise to him tomorrow. Will be a right tense march otherwise.”

“He’ll get over himself if we leave him alone,” said Cempa.

“Bit cold don’t you think, lovey?” said Ellen, “You’d better be free of that rash too.”

“Was only a bit of windburn,” said Cempa, rubbing the back of his hand, “nothing dirty. He didn’t have to help though. I’ll think about it.”

“You too Arnwald,” said Péton. “You saw how strong he is, and he must be good with that axe of his. Can’t hurt to have him on the same march as the rest of us.”

“I wasn’t trying to be offensive,” said Arnwald. “Only known him a couple of weeks. How was I supposed to know he’d fly off like that?”

“Don’t be so ignorant,” said Clæfre.

“Fine,” said Arnwald. “Don’t have to like it though.”

“It will take more than the right words,” said Tadhgán. “He was pretty pissed.”

Arnwald drank his ale and let the silence hang.

Milde picked up Weard’s half eaten meal, “I’ll go find him.”

“Don’t bother,” said Cempa. “You won’t find him.”

“I’m not surprised the lad’s good at hiding if that’s how he’s treated,” said Hrolf.

“Bit uncanny at it really,” said Cempa. “His antics always annoy me, never thought about the why of it all, only the how.”

“Then I’ll finish his food for him,” said Milde. “I’m sure he wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

“Leave it,” said Cempa, “Maybe cover it with your empty bowl too. I’m not saying I’ll apologise, but I suppose a little consideration won’t hurt.”

Arnwald pushed his empty tankard to one side and set a pair of dice on the table, “Game?”

“Alright,” said Tadhgán. “I could do with a little distraction.”

Cempa faced Ellen, “Any chance of another round?”

“I’m the bouncer, not the bloody barmaid,” said Ellen.

“I’ll get them,” said Clæfre.

“What, really?” said Cempa.

Clæfre held out her hand, “Right after you all flip me a few tavits.”

The evening passed in a haze of booze, spinning dice, and flashing coins.

There were a few footsteps, a nudge, followed by a firmer nudge, and Weard’s voice split Cempa’s head with a whisper.

“I didn’t think you’d sleep in your own bed Cempa, but I didn’t expect it would be the bench either.”

Cempa cracked open a bloodshot eye. Light was creeping through the shutters and under the inn door. One of his legs was numb and there was an unpleasant taste of stale ale in his mouth. His head ached.

“Shit.”

“Rise and shine, Cempa. We have to be at the city gate in ten minutes. The others are waiting outside, I have your pack. You’d better say goodbye to your lady friend.” Weard left.

Ellen was asleep on his leg. He lifted her head, placed it on the bench, and tried to stand up. His numb leg recovered in a wave of needle-like agony. Cempa stumbled and bashed his knee on the table, forcing his pins and needles up his spine into his abused brain.

“Fuck!” His voice bounced throughout the near empty pub.

“Morning, lovey,” said Ellen, her voice dry and rough. “Shame about the snooze, huh?”

“After everything that happened yesterday,” said Cempa, “I guess I had a few too many.”

“Not to worry, lovey. Pop in if you head this way again.”

Cempa thought about smiling, but that had never worked before, so he squeezed her shoulder, “Bye.” He opened the door to the cold, cruel sunshine.

Weard tossed Cempa’s pack to him. Cempa grunted as he caught it. Weard followed it with each of Cempa’s pieces of armour. The pieces piled higher and higher until he could barely see.

“Not so fast!” said Cempa.

“Still feeling lucky?” said Weard.

“What?” Cempa’s helm arced through the air. It caught him square on the chin.

“Ow!”

Weard smirked, “You’ll have to juggle your stuff to the gate. We’ll be late if we wait for you to put it on.”

“You could have woken me earlier.”

“Yes, I could.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I thought you hated stating the obvious,” said Weard.

“Fine,” said Cempa. “Let’s go.”

Cempa struggled through the cobbled street to the north gate. The morning light revealed a mishmash of cob and thatch buildings, interspersed with wooden warehouses. The river ran through the centre of the town. It was wide, but still fast flowing and laden with silt. A myriad of brightly painted wherries from Blæcernfenn bobbed along its surface. They crossed Éabrycg’s large, ornate, stone bridge spanning the Werodflód.

Five minutes later they reached the twenty foot wall surrounding the town. Only the first four feet of the wall and the two square columns holding the gate were made from stone. The remainder was built with thick cob and covered with wooden hoardings. Two men pushed a vegetable-filled cart through the iron-clad, oak gate.

Sir Wulfslæd sat atop his sixteen-hand bay rouncey in the middle of the road. He wore his customary coat-of-plates and had tucked his bassinet helm under his arm. A long-handled, flanged mace hung from his saddle and a large kite shield was strapped to his back.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, I hope you had a pleasant night’s rest,” said Sir Wulfslæd, in a voice louder than necessary, “because that’s all the rest you’ll have over the next few days.”

Seated on the back of his smaller, grey-coated horse, Leth held the tether for the pack mule. The animal was laden with two large barrels, several canvas sacks, and two wooden boxes.

Leth leaned forward and scratched the white spot between his horse’s ears. He wore a full set of boiled-leather armour, reinforced with iron plates and riveted seams. He held his steel staff across the front of his saddle.

“We’re going to Éaggemeare, a small village on the Rícewelig border,” said Sir Wulfslæd. Cempa squinted as he tried to focus on the rest of what Sir Wulfslæd was saying, as if by some miracle it would cure his hangover.

“Earl Bourdekin has heard of a terrible fire within Éaggemeare. With the unrest sweeping the country, he requested, as a personal favour, we examine the credence of these claims, absolve any crises and see if the trouble is related to the current unrest.”

Cempa gave up squinting. He removed his armoured boots and pulled on his chasseurs.

“Weard and Tadhgán, for today, you will scout ahead as a pair, and return every two hours, as a pair. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” they said.

Cempa put his boots back on and strapped his cuisse to his thighs. He’d no idea where Weard found his enthusiasm. Tadhgán sounded less pleased by the order. Cempa was glad it wasn’t him, he wasn’t sure he could take a whole day of the Ælfscíene’s prattle after yesterday’s disastrous performance.

“Excellent. Earl Bourdekin has been kind enough to outfit us with the supplies for our journey. Éaggemeare is south of here so we’ll be taking the south gate - I hope you enjoy the privilege of walking back the way you just came.”

Cempa was too hungover to care. His aketon was still damp, so Cempa decided he’d risk the day in his dishevelled, green tunic. He beckoned Leth who guided his horse to Cempa’s side.

“Hold this will you?” said Cempa, passing his hauberk to Leth. Leth nodded and bunched up the base of the long mail shirt. Cempa held up his arms and Leth slipped the hauberk over Cempa’s head.

“Are you ready yet, Cempa?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Almost, Sir.”

“What part of ‘ready at dawn’, passed you by?”

“Sadly all of it, Sir.”

“I’ll get him ready, Sir,” said Leth. He wrapped the mule’s tether to the back of his saddle and dismounted, then attached the two halves of Cempa’s cuirass to his chest and back.

“Do you think you could bring up the rear with the pack mule?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I should hope so, Sir,” said Cempa.

“I am sure you do. You can enjoy the dust for the rest of the day and ponder the meaning of time.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Give Letholdus a hand, Weard,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I’ll make sure the straps are extra tight,” said Weard. “Wouldn’t want him to hold us up again later.”

“Wonderful,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Weard was as good as his word. Little lights danced in Cempa’s eyes as he dragged his numb leg down the road, staring at the windy backside of Leth’s horse. Cempa clutched his stomach. Weard scampered along beside him.

“This is all your fault you know,” said Cempa.

“I will not be responsible for your problem drinking.”

“Not that.”

“You can admit you have a problem? Congratulations, that’s half the battle.”

“By the Gods, Ælfscíene! No more, please.”

“Are you going to apologise?”

“I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for your big mouth!”

“Funny that,” said Weard.

A sense of horror crept up Cempa’s spine, “Did you?”

Weard smirked.

“You weaselling little bastard,” said Cempa.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Weard. “If you’re implying that I insulted a Duke to have us both sent away on one of those patrols through the countryside I know you’re so fond of… I mean, who would do that? It’s positively suicidal provoking the second most powerful man in the kingdom. You’d have to be utterly mad, or a near immortal aelfinn spawn. Age can do funny things to people, Cempa. You should know better by now.”

“That’s not funny, Weard.”

“Neither is you calling me Ælfscíene all the time. Consider yourself forewarned.”

“I’m sorry Weard, I had no idea it annoyed you so much.”

“Pardon?”

“I said I’m sorry damn it! We’ve nearly crossed town and you have your orders. Can’t you go bother Tadhgán? My hangover is killing me.”

Weard met his eyes. The lad was almost a foot shorter, but his direct gaze made Cempa feel small. Cempa hadn’t realised he’d stopped until the mule pushed its muzzle into his back. Cempa stumbled.

“Fine,” said Weard. He left.

Cempa gathered his wits and plodded on. The long straight road swept through the south gate and into the farmland beyond. Cempa eyes wandered along the road to the horizon, he groaned.