Long grass brushed against Elewýs’s leather leggings as she strode through the open plains, making her legs slightly damp.

The troop had congregated into small clusters. Cempa brought up the rear, leading the shambling raiders, whom he’d tethered together with thick rope.

Clæfre and Milde rode either side of Elewýs.

Not having to look down to talk to someone is a welcome change.

Elewýs smiled at her companions, “You didn’t have to swim across the Werodflód with me. I could’ve circled around Éabrycg and then we could’ve taken the Werodweg.”

“Of course we’d come with you,” said Milde. “Besides, Cempa really needed a bath.”

“I heard that!” said Cempa. He kicked his horse and trotted closer, forcing the prisoners to jog a few steps.

“I suppose Béolæs is beautiful and we had to avoid Héorefeld anyway,” said Elewýs. “I liked the Áchangra too, even if we could only see it from a distance.”

Weard gravitated towards them from the front. Tadhgán followed him.

“I thought it was nice as well,” said Weard. “The oaks there are very special. Almost like people, don’t you think?”

“They have more character the older they get,” said Elewýs.

“I think you’re all crazy,” said Cempa. “Trees are trees, nothing more, nothing less. Nature spends its entire time trying to kill us, I don’t see what’s beautiful about it.”

Wow, so grumpy! Does he have a vegetation vendetta?

Weard laughed, “If you say so. You’re the boss.”

“I thought that was me,” said Leth.

“Don’t you worry, lad. Sir Wulfslæd gave you command and that’s the way it’ll stay,” said Cempa.

“No need to be so serious,” said Tadhgán. “Cempa only disembowels people who disturb his breakfast.”

“Or his afternoon nap, drinking time, or when he’s sitting on his arse,” said Milde.

“You make me sound like a terrible person,” said Cempa.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Péton.

A prisoner sniggered.

Cempa yanked the rope, dragging all five men into the dirt. He scowled at Milde who blew him a kiss. Cempa’s frown deepened.

Clæfre yawned, “How much further to Færtún?”

“Twenty miles, maybe,” said Weard, shrugging.

“I can see a town,” said Elewýs. “Not sure it’s the right one though, looks bigger than the town described to me.”

“Anything else?” said Leth.

“There are ten armed men hiding in the grass to the northwest,” said Elewýs, pointing. “They’re a mile off.”

“What do you want to do?” said Cempa.

“Depends who they work for, but I’m more concerned about the size of Færtún,” said Leth.

“There are hundreds of tents,” said Elewýs. “Does that help?”

“An army,” said Milde.

“That makes those grass lurkers scouts then,” said Cempa.

“We may as well try speaking to them,” said Leth. “We’re about equal in numbers and I imagine Elewýs will give them something to think about. It’s better to find out now rather than potentially walk into a hostile army. We’ll ride straight towards them. At a quarter of a mile, we’ll leave Péton and Tadhgán here with the prisoners, then the rest of us will confront them, find out whose side they’re on.”

“We don’t even know who the sides are yet,” said Péton.

“I think we can take an educated guess,” said Cempa.

“Well, you might be able to,” said Clæfre. “Either way, it’s civil war, isn’t it?”

“We’ll find out in a minute,” said Tadhgán.

They rode closer.

“Cempa, would you do the honours?” said Leth.

“Sure.” Cempa dismounted then took a deep breath, “Oi, incompetent scouts, want to talk?”

“I suppose that’s one way to get someone’s attention,” said Péton.

“It worked didn’t it?” said Cempa.

The scouts stood and advanced in a long line with arrows notched, but bows pointed at the ground. They wore light brown leathers and had long brown cloaks.

“Wild boar insignia. King’s men,” said Weard.

“How the hell did you spot us?” said the centre man.

Yet another grumpy man. Is it because of the extra markings on his clothes? Elewýs waved.

The men halted at one-hundred yards but didn’t step back.

“Holy shit, you’re huge!” said the scout leader.

Milde giggled, “I never get tired of seeing people’s reactions. It would be nice if they were more imaginative though.”

“At least he didn’t scream monster and try to shoot me,” said Elewýs.

“What do you want?” said Leth.

The man continued staring at Elewýs. The soldier next to the scout leader whispered in the man’s ear.

“Are you the Eten Lady from the ball?” said the scout leader.

“Something like that,” said Elewýs.

The scout leader spoke to his troop for a moment then jogged forward by himself, “Sorry about that. Wasn’t trying to be rude, I’m ashamed to admit you caught me completely off-guard. I never believed the rumours, but Bayard thought it was you. I thought it was an illusion, and now I owe him a Stycas. You’re approaching King Firgen’s camp. What are you doing out here?”

“Escorting evidence,” said Leth.

The man’s gaze snapped towards Leth, “Who are you?”

“Apprentice Drýmann, Letholdus Wulfslæd.”

The man took a step back, “Are you in command of this troop?” He kept glancing between Elewýs, Cempa’s rank markings, and Leth’s staff.

“I am.”

“Fine. Your prisoners?”

“They attacked my father’s estate. We’re bringing them to the King as evidence for reparations from Duke Mánfeld.”

“You’re not the only one who wants to carve a piece out of the Duke. His son was seen sabotaging Lady Quillinane’s territory, the King has backed her, and Engram and Vyvyan have sided with Mánfeld. Another couple of days and Færtún will be a battlefield. I’ll have Bayard escort you to the camp to prevent any misunderstandings. What you do from there is up to you.”

“Thank you,” said Leth.