“Top up?” said Cempa. He was relaxing in long, pale yellow grass in his grey linen under-tunic and braies. His boots were lodged in the crook of an apple tree.

“Aye,” said Weard.

“I’ll have one too,” said Clæfre.

They presented their clay cups. Golden, cloudy liquid sloshed and gurgled from the mouth of the brass spigot. It was an old brandy barrel, about five gallons.

I love a good challenge.

“If you’re offering,” said Tadhgán. A third cup joined the fray.

They were all as immoderately dressed as Cempa, hoping to cool down after a bout of frenzied apple picking.

The cider was coarse, dirty, and horrifically strong, but it had retained its raw, apple juice taste and rich smell, potent enough to elicit a small tingle in Cempa’s nose every time he brought the cup to his lips.

Perfect.

“I still can’t believe we get paid in cider,” said Weard. “It’s like a dream come true.”

“I never earn anything though,” said Clæfre.

“That’s because you drink it all,” said Weard.

Clæfre shrugged and quaffed half her cup, “I guess I don’t need money. I have a room, plenty of food, and it’s rare I need to buy anything.”

“Exactly whose pay are you pouring down your throats right now?” said Cempa.

“I haven’t forgotten,” said Weard. “It’s much appreciated.”

“To Arnwald!” said Tadhgán.

The troop echoed him, “To Arnwald.”

Cempa felt a malevolent gaze on his back and turned to face his nemesis of the last three weeks: Sir Mayberry and his feathered harem.

“That cock is back,” said Clæfre.

“So much for the good life.” Cempa sighed, “Gods, that pompous pompom can hold a grudge.”

“You did kick it,” said Weard.

“It pecked me!”

“Seriously Cempa, how old are you? Forty?” said Clæfre. “You shouldn’t get baited by a chicken.”

“I’ll have you know I’m only thirty seven and Sir Mayberry is not to be underestimated. He has a very sharp beak.”

“And still single,” said Clæfre, chuckling.

“Do you have to bring that up every time?” said Cempa.

“He’s quite big for a chicken, I’ll give you that,” said Tadhgán. “He has no trouble going for your toes when you’re on the step ladder.”

“I thought picking fruit would be fun,” said Cempa. “I was wrong.”

“Where’s Milde?” said Weard.

“She’s fawning over Péton in the kitchen,” said Clæfre.

“That man’s more dense than I am,” said Cempa.

“Péton’s not oblivious,” said Clæfre. “He’s just not interested, and for Milde, it’s a matter of pride. I don’t think she’s serious about him, but it irks her that she can’t persuade him to make a pass at her.”

“I don’t know how he resists,” said Weard. “Your sister’s charms shake all over the place now she’s not held in place by reams of mail.”

“And which of us is right here now,” said Clæfre, pressing her lips together.

“You, of course, are also a very beautiful woman,” said Weard. He leaned forward and tucked a daisy above Clæfre’s ear.

“Well saved,” said Clæfre.

“I am the master of evasion,” said Weard.

“I always prefer to be caught,” said Clæfre.

“Dungeons are moist and miserable abodes,” said Weard. “There are much better appointed rooms if you’re bold enough.”

“Such as milady’s chambers?” said Clæfre.

“From time to time,” said Weard

“Really?” said Cempa. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Is my face not pretty enough for you?” said Weard.

Cempa raised an eyebrow at Clæfre.

“As much as it annoys me to admit this, that wavy blonde hair, stupid grin, and ælfscíene face of his are up to the job,” said Clæfre. “Those delicate cheekbones make it look like he’ll be gentle.”

“You can get that from a face?” said Cempa.

“It hints Cempa, it hints,” said Clæfre.

“It’s about the details,” said Weard. “Not shouting and waving the biggest sword you can find.”

“In that case, I’ll have to buy a ballock dagger,” said Cempa.

“I’ve never seen one,” said Clæfre.

“They look similar to what they sound like,” said Tadhgán. “A big spike on a stick with a dodgy looking, bulbous hilt. They’re for finishing off fallen soldiers who wear thick mail or heavy plate armour.”

“I always thought they were called that because when you see one coming at you, you yell: ‘fuck me!’, before you die,” said Weard.

Clæfre choked on her cider, “Weard! Don’t tell jokes when I’m drinking.”

Cempa threw a rock at Sir Mayberry, who squawked and retreated with a nonchalant waddle.

“What happened to Godfrey?” said Tadhgán.

“I’ve no idea,” said Weard.

“Rubbish,” said Clæfre. “You sacrificed him.”

“To whom?” said Tadhgán.

“I don’t care about a stupid goat,” said Cempa. “I want to know why the half-nude ice statue started walking.”

“Wish I’d seen that,” said Tadhgán. “Péton told me about it after he found me sleeping under one of the tables.”

“Hey, don’t all look at me,” said Weard.

“But you look right guilty,” said Clæfre.

“Well, no one believes me if I pull an innocent face.”

Tadhgán lifted part of a charm from around his neck and rattled it twice. The middle stone dangled on a separate leather strip, “There’s this too.” He tucked the charm back into his tunic.

“Gods, you just won’t leave it alone will you,” said Weard.

“Come on Weard,” said Clæfre. “You’ve known us for months now, that has to count for something.”

“It does,” said Weard.

Clæfre lent over and peered at his face, “Damn, I think you’re prettier than me. Are you a déofol?”

Weard shook his head.

“A wóddréam?” said Tadhgán.

“No.”

“Ah! I know,” said Cempa. “Remember the Nihtgenga? Perhaps you’re a surviving changeling.”

Weard smirked.

“I was right!” said Cempa.

“You’re way off the mark,” said Weard.

“How about an Aetherbairn?” said Clæfre.

“I’m not going to tell you, even if you do get it right.”

The blood drained from Tadhgán’s face, “Arnwald hated Aetherbairn the most, you both got in a big fight about it, and now he’s dead. Did you ki-”

Cempa swatted the back of Tadhgán’s head, “Don’t be stupid. Sorry Weard, I’m starting to understand why you never tell anyone.”

Tadhgán sighed, “Me too.” He put his cup down and massaged his face with his hands.

“Still haunts you, huh?” said Weard.

“It’s not something you forget,” said Tadhgán.

“Milde nearly died from a Gréatian,” said Clæfre, while staring at the clouds.

Cempa rubbed his ribs, “I don’t think I’ll forget either.”

“I’m human,” said Weard.

“Alright, Weard. We get it,” said Cempa. “I won’t ask again.”

Clæfre huffed, then looked back at the troop with a bright smile, “No, no, no, no. That won’t do at all.” She waved her empty cup at Weard, “At least tell us where you’re from.”

Despite what I just said, I really want to know too. Cempa drummed the top of the cider barrel with his fingertips, “It’s free.”

Weard laughed, then gave an overly solemn nod, “In respect of trials shared and the spirits drunk, I will give you a hint.

“I grew up in the Knells, along the Froreflód with my father. My mother, I saw less frequently. Despite their infrequent meetings, I think they cared for each other deeply.”

“What were their names?” said Cempa. He refilled Weard’s cup.

“My mother was Ingerith and my father, Asketil. Although he often called her his Ifiht Gyden, his ivy covered goddess.”

Clæfre smirked, “Is that where you get your charm from?”

Weard ignored her, “Ingerith was a herbalist. She travelled a lot to gather her herbs and give them to those in need. Asketil was a trapper. He had to stay in the same area to cure pelts and the like, which is why he was the one who cared for me most often.

“After he died, about three years ago now, I didn’t want to live alone among the hills, crags, and dales, so I travelled. I love the crowds and cities as much as I do the wild places, so I visited all the ones in Rícewelig.”

“What about your mother, do you still see her?” said Tadhgán.

“From time to time. She appears for the calendar festivals, to check I’m alright.”

“How does she know where you are?” said Cempa

Weard smiled, “That’s a secret.”

“You still look guilty to me,” said Clæfre. “How much of that heart warming yarn was true?

“There were no hints either,” said Cempa.

“That’s rude, considering I just said my father’s dead,” said Weard.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” said Clæfre.

Weard sighed, “There were two hints and all of it is true.”

“Bullshit,” said Clæfre.

“Has the time we’ve spent together taught you nothing?” said Weard, with a serious face.

Clæfre ruffled her hair, “My own words!” She quaffed her cider, “You win, Weard.”

Cempa scowled, “What about the other stuff?”

“What other stuff?” said Weard.

“You know, the magic and things,” said Cempa.

“It’s only folklore, nothing more nothing less. Both my parents told me many tales and passed on their respective trades. Stories are the best thing on a dark and stormy night.”

“That’s it?” said Cempa.

“It’s close enough.”

“Siblings?” said Tadhgán.

Weard shook his head.

“Sounds lonely,” said Clæfre.

“I was never lonely. There was always someone to look out for me.”

“Besides your parents?” said Cempa. “I think I’d have gone mad if I only had my parents to keep me company.”

Weard smiled.

“Fine, fine. Another secret. I won’t ask anymore,” said Cempa.

Weard sipped his cider and stared at Cempa over the rim of his cup. Weard clearly didn’t believe him.

“When’s the next hunt?” said Tadhgán.

“Depends on Sir Wulfslæd,” said Cempa, glad for an excuse to look away from Weard. “Soon though, I think.”

“I’ll find Elewýs tomorrow, get her to join me for archery practice,” said Clæfre, while miming firing a crossbow. “Twang!” She giggled.

“If you can find her,” said Weard.

“Is Elewýs alright?” said Cempa.

“I think so,” said Clæfre. “I try to visit her cabin once a week. Hoff goes every day, once he’s finished with the animals. She’s still having a hard time fitting in.”

“I can sympathise with that,” said Weard.

“Seems silly when she’s so big though,” said Tadhgán. “You’d have to be an idiot to attack her.”

“It hasn’t stopped anyone yet. Do you remember the ball?” said Clæfre.

“As in Duke Mánfeld?” said Tadhgán.

Clæfre nodded.

“I see what you’re getting at,” said Tadhgán.

Cempa glanced at Weard, “I’m guessing you have absolutely no idea about the ice statue coming to life.”

Weard raised an eyebrow, “Why would you ask me? You already know my answer.”

“I’ll break the ignorant mask you wear one day.”

Weard snorted.

“At least tell me our adventures are over,” said Cempa.

“Our adventures are over,” said Weard.

Crunch. Liquid seeped into Cempa’s braies: he’d cracked his cup.

“Bollocks,” said Cempa.

“Did you need a new cup to go with those?” said Weard. “You’ll have to order it, I don’t think they keep extra small in stock.” He fluttered his eyelashes.

Tadhgán laughed.

“Shut up, Weard,” said Cempa.

Clæfre sighed, “I don’t want any more adventures. Our last one had enough thrills to satisfy me for a lifetime.”

“As if that’s even possible,” said Cempa.

Clæfre leapt to her feet and swayed. She pointed her cup at Cempa. A dash of cider slopped over the rim, “Are you going to tell me what you mean by that?”

“I had no idea you were such a prickly drunk,” said Cempa.

“I’m not drunk!”

Weard chuckled, “You just keep telling yourself that.” He ripped a handful of grass and watched it blow away in the wind, “In all seriousness, it will be a long time before someone can seal the Cwylla. It can’t be blocked, only diverted, or contained within a set area, like the Galdorcwide did.”

“If I was King,” said Tadhgán. “I’d have a bloody big ditch built and send it out into the Cassuc Westeland where it can mess with nature as much as it likes.”

“And all it would take is a big storm to blow it all back to Rícewelig,” said Weard. “It’s the diffusion that’s the problem.”

“I quite like rain that smoothes out your wrinkly bits,” said Clæfre. “It’s like the opposite of a bath.”

“If only it didn’t result in a profusion of wisps, oversized beasties, and fatal or debilitating mutations,” said Cempa.

“So what do we do?” said Clæfre.

“As long as no trouble comes our way, nothing,” said Weard. “As for the King and his enthusiastic, aspiring replacements, I think they’ll have to devise a way of recreating the Galdorcwide’s magic.”

“Nobody knows how though,” said Clæfre.

“Maybe Leth will solve it,” said Tadhgán. “He’s been buried in his books since we got back.”

“Only if he doesn’t blow himself up first,” said Cempa.

“What do we do in the meantime?” said Clæfre.

“Always bring an umbrella,” said Weard.