Firgen shuffled his bony buttocks back and forth on the throne.

Gods, this is uncomfortable. How could Áberd leave an old man like me without a cushion?

“Can I get you something, Sire?” said a very pretty woman in a well cut white dress and a woven flower tiara.

“Who are you?”

“Gesælþ, Sire. I’m Áberd’s assistant.”

That was a relief. I thought she was a foreign dignitary he’d forgotten about.

“Really? My condolences.”

“He’s a good man, Sire.”

“Is he? You’ve certainly picked up his bad habits if you’re talking to me like that.”

“I’m sorry, S-”

Firgen waved her to silence, “No, you’re not. If you’re going to lie to me, you may as well put yourself to good use. Behind the throne is a trunk filled with cushions. Fetch me one.”

Gesælþ curtsied and scurried behind the throne, face bright pink. Firgen chuckled. She re-appeared holding an orange felt cushion.

“That one’s no good. Felt is too itchy.”

Gesælþ curtsied again.

Before she could swap it Firgen said, “Wait!”

Gesælþ froze.

“You see that huffing fat bastard with his forehead pressed to the floor.”

“Sire.”

“Give the cushion to him.”

Gesælþ glided towards Duke Engram.

“Not like that, pass it here,” said Firgen.

Gesælþ returned the cushion.

“Look up Engram.” Firgen hurled the cushion. It collided with the man’s third chin, inflicting it with a pendulous wobble.

“Be grateful you’re not a messenger,” said Firgen. “Now, pick it up.”

Engram clutched the cushion to his fleshy chest.

“A little higher.”

Engram held the cushion above his head.

“Good, keep it there. Gesælþ, do you have any knives?”

Gesælþ nodded and handed him a leather roll. He unwrapped it on his knees, revealing five throwing knives.

He balanced the centre of a knife on his index finger, then flicked the hilt and waited for it to stop moving, as if it were a pair of scales. It stabilized quickly.

“Where did you get these?”

“Áberd gave them to me this morning, Sire.”

“Do you know how to use them?”

“No, Sire.”

“Bit pointless don’t you think? No, don’t speak.” Firgen pulled out two more knives, “You use them like this.” He tossed all three into the air and started juggling them.

Gesælþ smiled.

“This is supposed to be serious.”

Gesælþ’s smile vanished and she turned pink again.

“Next, you pick the biggest target you can, so you don’t miss,” said Firgen.

Firgen threw one dagger extra high, and hurled the other two at Engram. The first struck his heart hilt first and the second bounced off his forehead, leaving a shallow cut. Engram bit down on his lip.

Firgen caught the last knife, “Damn, must be losing my touch.”

Engram was very pale.

“Stop squirming,” said Firgen. He threw; the last knife struck the centre of the cushion, “Your turn, Gesælþ.”

“Sire, I-”

“Nonsense. This is an important life skill. What’s the point in carrying them if you don’t know how to use them? Here.”

Gesælþ’s fingers shook as she extracted the roll of knives from Firgen’s hand.

“I love underhand throws, they really show you mean business, but you can start with an overhand one,” said Firgen.

She pulled out a knife.

“Relax and put your dominant foot forward.”

Gesælþ put her right foot forward.

“You’re about ten feet away; you’ll need one whole rotation. Hold the handle between your index finger and thumb, rather than the blade. That’s right. Now, point the blade at the sky. When you’re ready, throw it, not too hard though. Oh, and watch for your toes. You don’t want to let go too late.”

“But what if I hit him?”

“I imagine it will hurt.”

“I don’t want to kill him.”

“This man helped orchestrate the deaths of thousands of people. You’ll be doing me a favour.”

Gesælþ sucked at her bottom lip.

“Please, no more knives, Sire,” said Engram. He placed the cushion on the floor and wrung his hands, “I was coerced, threatened, and terrorized. Dolwillen said he would wipe out my villages if I didn’t obey. His Drýmann even threatened to kill my family.”

“Is that true?” said Gesælþ.

“Yes, my lady,” said Engram.

Gesælþ’s brow wrinkled, “So, rather than tell the King and warn him of the treachery, isolating Duke Mánfeld for easy removal, you decided to inflame the situation by backing the Duke in a Civil war, where thousands of people died because you are incapable of passing secret missives,” said Gesælþ.

Firgen cleared his throat, “Well, miss assistant, your royal verdict if you please.”

Gesælþ’s eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. This time her skin turned the same colour as her clothes. She dropped the knife and grabbed the back of the throne to steady herself.

I can’t remember the last timeI squeezed such a good reaction out of someone.

Engram gave a nasty laugh, “Weak bitch, lying down at an old man’s clever words, you’d do better mouthing off on your knees.”

Gesælþ scooped up the knife and lobbed it at Engram. He raised his arms. The knife caught in the folds of his voluminous sleeves and clattered to the floor.

“Not bad, I can see why Áberd likes you,” said Firgen. He yawned, “I think that’s enough for one day, don’t you? Take him away. Gather up the knives please, Gesælþ.”

“Yes, Sire.”

As a defeated Engram was dragged out on his knees, a ragged bunch of men and women filed into the throne room. Several different ways of saying ‘go away’ flitted through Firgen’s head, each ruder than the last. He was about to utter the final one, when his favourite, admittedly only known Eten, entered.

“Welcome,” said Firgen. “I am glad you escaped Dolwillen’s machinations.”

The youngest member of the group stepped forward, “Thank you, Sire.”

“Good, good,” said Firgen, frowning. “Well, don’t keep me waiting. What happened?”

Gesælþ returned to the dais and said quietly, “Sir Wulfslæd’s son, Letholdus, and his soldiers. Letholdus is a Drýmann. The soldiers are a mix of ex-Húskarlar and mercenaries.”

“I knew that!” said Firgen.

Gesælþ retreated behind the throne.

Leth cleared his throat.

“Carry on,” said Firgen.

“Duke Mánfeld and Hewelin Guntard are dead and the Cwylla has been neutralized,” said Leth.

“Can’t you spice that up a bit,” said Firgen. “That was rather anticlimactic. Elewýs, what happened?”

Elewýs stepped forward.

“The Duke jumped into the Cwylla after we threw a lump of Feorhhord Gimcynn, containing Hewelin’s Guntard’s heart, into it. The Duke and the heartstone held significant amounts of opposing magic, enough to change the nature of the Cwylla and limit its influence to the Wúduwésten alone, as the two magics cancel each other out to some degree.”

“Proof?”

“Time, Sire,” said Elewýs. “If the Duke does not return and you cease to receive reports attributed to magical disturbance, we are right,”

“Or you could look out the window and count the wisps,” said a young man with long blonde hair. “They only hang about in areas with lots of magic.”

“Bugger that,” said Firgen. “Who’s idea was it to chuck the rock in?”

“Mine, Sire,” said Leth.

Firgen stood, “Come here.”

Leth strode forward, he certainly looked confident.

Firgen pointed, “Take a seat.”

The lad stalled with one foot on the dais.

“Hurry up, lad.”

Leth sat cross legged upon the dias.

Firgen removed his crown and plonked it onto Leth’s head. Firgen brushed the dirt from the lad’s shoulders, trying very hard not to laugh at the boy’s shocked expression.

“There we go,” said Firgen. “I’m going for a walk, you’re in charge until I get back. Gesælþ will help you with names and cushions. Try not to start any wars or make the treasurer cry.”

“That’s it?” said Leth. “I’m King, just like that?”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Firgen. “I’d never hear the end of it if there wasn’t some ceremonial nonsense and a few ornate documents that nobody can read due to inappropriate artistic flair. Think of this like archery practice, you’ll know if you muck up.”

“I’ll miss?” said Leth.

“You’ll be the butt of everyone’s bad jokes.” Firgen smiled, then frowned, that wasn’t quite right.

“He means you’ll be the archery butt,” said Gesælþ.

“That’s right!” said Firgen. “Knew I’d get there eventually.” He jumped off the dais and slipped behind the throne, “Have a nice afternoon.” Firgen slammed the side door behind him.

*

“Goodbye, Weard,” said Cempa. “Bye, Elewýs.”

It wasn’t quite the right atmosphere for farewells. The Hramsacrop Manor courtyard was noisy with the clatter and scrape of masonry, a saw, and at least three hammers. Cempa scowled.

“Bye, Cempa,” said Elewýs. “Bye, Dad.”

“Good luck, sweetie,” said Hoff. “You come back if you need anything. I’ll be here.”

“And Mum?”

“Not sure,” said Hoff. He turned aside, “I haven’t seen her for awhile.”

“Will you be alright, Cempa?” said Weard, adjusting his saddlebags. “Won’t you be bored, what with the lack of fisticuffs and flopping guts.”

“I prefer pruning trees to limbs.”

“You know trees have limbs too right?” said Weard.

Cempa raised a single eyebrow.

“I’ll miss you too, Cempa,” said Weard.

“Where will you go?” said Hoff.

“I need to go to the Wúduwésten first,” said Elewýs. “Then,” she smiled, “Then we’ll go everywhere: Dúnlic, Burnehálig, Werodmúða, maybe even across the Hérohnes Sea.”

“And you, Weard?” said Hoff.

“You know me,” said Weard. “My planning is all over the place.”

“It’s not another bloody secret, is it?” said Cempa.

Weard laughed, “No, no. I’ll stick with Elewýs for awhile. We can both go places the other can’t, together we can visit more locations.”

“I’m surprised the others didn’t come out to say goodbye,” said Cempa.

“We had a lot of toasts last night,” said Elewýs, “Even I got a little tipsy.”

“They’re sleeping through this racket?” said Cempa. “They’re lucky I’m in charge for a bit.”

“How long is Sir Wulfslæd saying in Tégemýðe?” said Hoff.

“Not long,” said Cempa. “He said he’d spend a fortnight with Leth. Poor lad’s first task is to restore order after the rebellion. I’m surprised Sir Wulfslæd isn’t staying longer.”

“He’s not the hand holding type,” said Weard.

“Suppose not,” said Cempa.

“I wonder if his mother will suddenly appear if she finds out about her son,” said Hoff.

Weard shrugged.

“I can’t believe we’re going to have a Drýmann King,” said Hoff. “Will the people stand for it? What do you think, Elewýs?”

“I think we need to go, Dad.”

“Fine, fine.” Hoff sniffed, “Do you have everything you need? Food, blankets, clothes?”

“I have my bow, my knife, and my friend. I’ll be alright,” said Elewýs.

“Don’t forget to send a letter every now and then, if you can find someone to write it, I’ll be sure to have someone read it to me.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“And visit.”

“That too.”

“Be safe.”

“Bye, Dad.”

“Goodbye, sweetie.”

Elewýs knelt and held Hoff carefully. Weard mounted his horse. Cempa patted Hoff’s back as the two travellers left. Just before the pair slipped around a bend in the road, they turned and waved. Cempa smiled and waved back.

Cempa left Hoff standing alone in the courtyard and returned to the manor. He sighed. For the briefest moment, he wished he’d gone with them.