Leth approached his father with a bowl of choice venison cuts. Sir Wulfslæd had tied his bassinet helm to his belt. He’d pushed his mail coif down and removed the cloth cap, exposing his bald scalp.

“Everything alright?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Yes, father.” Leth thrust the wooden bowl out, “I thought you’d like something to eat.”

Sir Wulfslæd smiled and accepted the bowl. He turned back to the wilderness, gazing in the direction of the Wúduwésten. Leth hurried back towards the camp.

“Hold a moment,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “Am I such poor company you can’t bear five minutes at my side?”

Leth shuffled back and stood by his father’s shoulder. Sir Wulfslæd pulled a small knife from its pouch on his belt and unfolded it from its wooden casing.

“That’s not it,” said Leth, “but I never know what to say, and silence is awkward.”

“I’ve never thought silence unpleasant,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“If we talk you might spout something embarrassing,” said Leth.

“Letholdus, you can’t have it both ways. You can either have painful silence or difficult conversation.”

Leth followed his father’s gaze. The Wúduwésten is a chance for me to experience something new. Father only sees obstacles. No beauty, no adventure - he’s a lifeless husk.

“That’s a rubbish choice,” said Leth.

“Whether my words upset you or not is up to you,” said Sir Wulfslæd. He flicked through the meat in his bowl with his knife, skewered a piece, and popped it in his mouth.

Leth folded his arms and didn’t speak.

Sir Wulfslæd finished his food. He tapped his knife against the bowl, “You never ask why we’re on this journey,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Does it matter?” said Leth “I have to follow. I’ve no home, and no money.” He winced – that didn’t come out as intended.

His father appeared unperturbed by Leth’s ill considered words. “You could’ve stayed with Edern and Edwin while I travel with the mercenaries.”

“I don’t fit in there,” said Leth. “Edwin is all: honour this, swords that, or holding ‘apples’ tried X last year, let’s try the same thing with holding ‘pears’. He doesn’t know anything about magic, and is only interested in day to day life. I can’t say I’m any better, but I don’t want what he has as much as I used too.”

Leth paused. He tugged on his gloves. His father waited, silent and unmoving.

“Edwin is great to ride about the countryside, or practice archery with,” said Leth, “but I can only do that for so many days before I get bored and Edwin has his household to attend to. I could read when he’s busy, but I’m not allowed to practice my magic anywhere near his house. In the wilderness, I can experiment as much as I like, but I can’t read. Both are irritating, but I like the idea of letting the days roll by under a friend’s largesse even less, especially when I could be making something of myself. Travelling with you and the mercenaries is possibly the only chance I’ll have.”

Sir Wulfslæd laughed, “Hoping to be King?”

“I’m too sceptical to pin my hopes on something like that,” said Leth, “but if the offer came my way, I’ve no reason to refuse. It would be a worthwhile achievement.”

“I’m glad you have ambition. I’d hate to see you waste your days.”

Leth snatched the bowl he’d brought over, “I’m going to bed. Do you need me to pass on any messages?”

“I don’t. Good night, Letholdus.”

“Try not to stay up all night,” said Leth.

“I won’t,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

*

Hours later, Milde kicked Cempa awake. The land was lost in shadows beneath a dull half-moon and a full complement of stars. The water shimmered like rippling, tarnished silver. Cempa rubbed his arms. The fire had burnt out. The outlines of the troop were slinking to the rock. Cempa grabbed his great sword and swayed, groggy from sleep. He crept with Milde towards the rock.

“Is everyone assembled?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

An ensemble of voices whispered: ‘yes’.

“There are two beasts by the water,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Cempa stared into the blackness. Two huge shapes padded around the pond, their murky outlines merging into one another.

“Letholdus, Bardolf, and younger Misthliþ. Climb the rock and take the crossbows with you. There’s no point exposing yourselves to danger if you don’t have too. Cempa, help them up.”

“Sir,” said Cempa. He grunted as Clæfre clambered from his linked hands to his shoulder.

“It’s the armour that’s heavy!” said Clæfre.

“Move it soldier, I’ve two more to hoist, and your yammering isn’t making this happen any faster.”

“You’re no fun,” said Clæfre. She slithered onto the rock.

“What should I do?” said Mésia.

“Take the pack mule and Letholdus’s horse around the back of the rock and stay there,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “If it seems like we’re going to lose, take his horse and run.”

Mésia crossed her arms, “Alright.”

“What are you going to do, sir?” said Cempa.

Sir Wulfslæd mounted, “I am a knight. I will face them on my horse with lance, mace, and shield.”

Is he brave or stupid. I suppose they’re two sides of the same coin and the outcome decides the result.

“Not even the horse is foolish enough to charge those things,” said Leth.

“He’s trained to charge anything and has never baulked at jousting.”

“A big beastie is a bit different, Sir,” said Cempa.

“You and Milde will support me.”

I’d rather not. “Yes, Sir.”

“Here,” said Clæfre. She lay on her belly and passed Cempa her shield and spear, “I’m not going to need these while I’m up here.”

“You could’ve given them to me before you climbed all over me,” said Cempa.

“Quit griping,” said Clæfre.

The cold nibbled Cempa’s extremities. He hefted Clæfre’s spear and shield, and tried a few experimental thrusts. I hate spears, they always shatter on me, at least I’ll be further from the beasties. Not sure about the shield, if I have to block a hit, those things will shatter my arm, better than dying though.

The two creatures sniffed and lapped the water.

*

Leth rubbed his staff, trying to feel the patterns covering its surface. He found the shapes for a light orb, and began to prepare the spell in advance in case they needed it. The drab dark world bloomed with magical colour.

The beasts shone with magic, an intense mix of bright yellow and dark green ropes flowed towards them, converging and coalescing on their brilliant forms.

Beautiful.

“The creatures are filled with magic,” said Leth from his perch atop the rock. He couldn’t keep his admiration from his voice, “I think it strengthens and sustains them. They’re lynxes of some sort.”

“How does that help us?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Nothing created by magic can live without it but there’s no shortage of it here. The magic must have come from the Wúduwésten, no idea why though.”

“What do we do?” said Clæfre.

“Stay hidden and keep quiet,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll disappear before sunrise.”

“I hope they’re not hungry,” said Cempa.

“Those your last words?” said Milde.

“No, my last words will be much ruder,” said Cempa.

Leth’s hands flexed and quivered as he double checked he’d found the right shapes. How can they crack jokes now?

He nudged a strand of magic to the base of his staff. A blue swirl pooled at his feet. Síþ aspect, good for fancy weather magic, less helpful for making a light. Leth added a few symbols to his spell to swap it to the pure white of Ficolu aspect. The conversion was inefficient and his staff warmed.

The beasts growled, a deep rumble similar to distant thunder. Two monstrous heads swivelled towards the troop.

They can sense me moving magic!

“Bugger,” said Leth.

The giant lynxes charged, spraying clods and water into the air.