The journey down the mountain took far less time, than it did to ascend it for the lot of them. The only part that took any considerable amount of time, was deciding how best to bring Remus down. Gwilherm in the end simply picked up the seventy pound dog, in order to carry him down bodily, with this action startling the dog who soon settled into place, with a large white grin as he very visibly enjoyed being carried. Some dogs grew out of such things, and felt that being carried was an uncomfortable act. While other dogs never truly grew out of puppyhood emotionally. In Remus’s case, he was of the latter variety, so that he began to buck a third of the way down, much to Gwilherm’s frustration, before he was put down so as to hurry down the mountain pass himself. The speed, with which they traveled down the mountain, did little to appease the worry that gnawed not only at the bones, but the very soul of Gwilherm. He felt as he descended the memory of the sight, of Balthrorth’s massive jaws devouring the maid, and the loudness of his roar echo, burn him. He would give anything at that moment to have never reached the mountain, notably when he heard the boom of the dragon’s roar shake the whole of the land, once more.

  Frightened, he followed after the hurried friends and maids, with the warrior advising them as they reached the forest, “We must find a place to hide, less the Wyrm should give chase and burn the forest to cinders.”

  “Nonsense,” Cried the dark-haired maid impatient, “He would never burn his forest down, he loves it too much, caring more for it than he does those who live in Estria.”

  He would very much have liked to counter with the fact that he had never heard, of a dragon that cared about local forests, outside of Arndryck the Younger. That particular drake was said to love to take the shape of a unicorn or an elk to wander and trod amongst the deer, and other times a wolf so as to enjoy the company of local wolf-packs. His passion for the forest was always considered an oddity in the tales told to him, however now he wondered if it was common for dragons to love forests.

  “Only a monster could love the green of the forest, without bearing any love for the animals, and people who wander through it, truly one of the ‘Rejected Ones’,” Ealhstan muttered with a shudder, agreeing to the young woman’s counsel. “Very well, we continue to your home, so show us the way lass, and we shall be in your debt.”

  She nodded thanks, with the younger girl asking in confusion, ‘‘Rejected Ones’?”

  “Ah, I forgot how little the young truly know, in recent days; those dragons who were rejected by Vé, their Drago-Father for not following his vision and who afterwards turned against him.”

  “Why would they do that?” This time it was Gwilherm who asked with his query earning him a slightly irritated scowl from the old man.

  “Do I look as though I am a dragon? Who could tell what lies in their hearts?” Ealhstan snapped as he gave the mountain a vicious glower, before he led them away through the forest.

  It was just as they had left it, with the girls pulling them eastwards though, rather than south something that made Gwilherm a tad nervous. He had good reason to feel as anxious as he did, given that the direction they travelled in was one that he recognised from childhood. They were headed towards somewhere his brother, Eadwin and his sister Elena had forbade him from ever heading towards; the lands of the Falsveal.

  There was a village there he knew along with a temple he was not familiar with the details of who commanded the aforementioned temple. All he knew was that it was commanded by a deacon, with the shrine dedicated to the goddess Brigantia, the chief goddess of the Lordly-Isle.

  “Where are we headed, Réalwaldr?” Vladin questioned with a glance towards his human friend, evidently confused as to their destination.

  His question drew a sharp snort and laugher from the two women, with the dark-haired one retorting, “But of course not! Why go to the King’s estate? None venture thither these days, as it is little more than a dilapidated ruin with a greedy steward who has all but claimed it, for himself.”

  “What? The steward ?lred, was he not appointed years ago by the King, because he was a local, loyal man?” Gwilherm queried confused, recalling just how his good-brother had oft boasted of the loyalty of the steward he had appointed over the Réalwaldr lands.

  His confusion led to another spurt of laughter from the two girls, and even Ealhstan burst out into a series of chortles, with the heir of Eadwin feeling small and foolish. He flushed red with anger, at this insult and might well have spoken heatedly, however he was restrained by the good-judgement of Ealhstan who as ever intervened, to save him from further embarrassment. “No lad, ?lred is hardly a loyal man, to the contrary he is a little more than a brigand who sends to the King but small scraps, of what he owes him. All whilst he plunders the locals, for his own gain rather like the local deacon is said to.”

  This was news that the newly knighted Brittian had had no notion of, nor had he thought it possible given how wise in regards to political and administrative matters, ?thelwulf tended to be. His wrath could be even greater as all knew it was wiser to avoid angering him and that nothing enraged him quite so much as thieving from him.

  “Is it wise, for us to be venturing east to Morcar of Falsveal’s domain?” Vladin asked nervous as his human friend was, as he caressed his beard worriedly.

  “Where else can we go?” Ealhstan replied wearily, “I wish for food, and we must learn more about the situation.”

  “Aye, and where else are to go? You are sworn to escort us home are you not?” The dark-haired maid queried arching one imposing eyebrow in the direction of the men. Not understanding at all their consternation, or the message that appeared to pass between the three of them. As she walked, she held the small satchel on her waist close to her, with this gesture being a nervous one that immediately drew Gwilherm’s eye as he wondered why she did this. What he also mused was as that he had not noticed, any satchel upon her person when he had first rescued her.

  Shrugging he assumed it to be his own over-active imagination and of no great importance, what was crucial was getting the two peasant girls home, so that they could now dwell upon destroying the dread ‘King of Estria’.

  *****

  It took several days for them to reach Falsveal where Morcar resided, with the forest by the end of the first day giving way to the green farm-fields of those peasants bound to the great lord of Estria. One of the last of those lands, given how most nobles had been slaughtered by Balthrorth, over the past two decades. A great many others had left, preferring to give over the management of their estates to stewards who either robbed them, in their absence or were reduced in family members as they were made to replace the sacrifices due by their lieges with their own daughters, sisters and wises. During which time, Remus had to the displeasure of Gwilherm, taken rather too well to Elena, favouring her constantly by often times abandoning his own side, in favour of hers. The young woman for her part adored his company, and spent a great deal of time fawning and petting him, feeding bits of meat to him often until he fell over to reveal his belly with a happy groan. This never failed to amuse the two ladies, where it simply irritated him, as he found himself feeling resentful of how Remus had seemingly changed sides.

  Encamped next to the road, with Vladin too anxious to not stand watch for some time, with the chestnut haired girl giving them all a toothy smile and going on at some length how happy her parents will be to see her and she them. “My father is a wine-merchant you see, so skilled is he in his craft that even the lord appreciates his wine!”

  “This in spite of how he once failed to pay the tithes he owed my father,” the dark-haired woman teased her young friend, who giggled in response.

  “Must you always remind me Elena?” She pouted evidently having a great deal of admiration for her father, though it appeared to be the subject of much humour on the part of Elena.

  “My apologies, Ethel,” Elena retorted dryly, with a slight snicker at the other girl’s expense. Quite how the said wine-merchant had survived without paying immediate tithes was a mystery to all the men, with it destined to remain so until their arrival in Falsveal several days later.

  But for the moment, the knowledge that the dark-haired woman whom he had found, the most compelling of the maidens and the most likeable in his eyes, felt as though it were a betrayal. Halting in the midst of biting into a salted piece of meat that she had just given him, after having handed a similar piece of food to Vladin, who did not appear all that concerned about her name, where suspicion darkened the heart of Gwilherm.

  He could not forgive her parentage, or so he told himself if she indeed were the daughter of Morcar though he wished desperately to not show his hatred for her sire. This was the reason, why he spoke hoarsely when he did to her a few minutes after biting into his supper. “Elena? Elena, are you mayhap the daughter of Morcar?”

  “Aye,” And now she turned her gaze away, her cheeks a little pink, “Is that not why you came to my rescue? Out of loyalty to him?”

  The thought of doing anything out of loyalty to Morcar filled Gwilherm with outrage. However where he had previously, worn his hatred openly as a terrible gem for all to see, he now devised a cruel plan; to hide who he was and to reveal himself only when he had entered into the abode of his family’s greatest enemy.

  After years of lies and surviving amongst the treacherous ilk that populated the court, of his good-brother the King he had learnt to smile and hide his true sentiments quite well. Thus his smile was every bit, as charming as that of Roparzh or even Léon. “Yes, I did though I must confess that I also did it to see my sister, whom is also named Elena.”

  This intermingling of lies and truth, were the best way to hide his true intent as he had learnt, with Ealhstan hardly awake and Vladin lost in his own thoughts.

  For her part, Elena appeared a little disappointed though there was still some sort of hope in her eyes, as she smiled warmly at him, “It was a very brave thing you did.”

  Her words warmed his heart, it was difficult to resist given how quickly a flame burst forth to life in his breast. He had not been called brave in years, especially by any woman who was remotely attractive in demeanour or with half so bright a smile.

  “I nonetheless failed, to rescue the other lass,” He stuttered instead of replying directly, returning his gaze to the flames.

  “Hardly a great loss given how she chose her fate,” Elena retorted tartly, her brow knitting together in contempt. “She was ever the image of her father, the terrible Brother Millarth’s daughter.”

  “Who is Millarth?” Gwilherm queried confused, as he threw the bone in his hand into the fire, eyes on the dark-flames, as he became steadily more morose with each passing hour.

  “The deacon of Falsveal,” the younger girl explained with a large yawn, before she was to pull up to her ears a fur-cloak. The cloak had been given to her by Ealhstan. The enchanter having also shared a second cloak he had likely stolen from Galen, with the lady Elena, who held hers close to her chin whilst she discussed the matter of her home with her rescuer.

  For his part, armed with a fur-cloak of his own Gwilherm wished the ladies a good-night, as one smiled and went to sleep whilst the other gave him a slightly irritated glance, before she added. “I insist to have the next watch, sirrah.”

  “Very well then, and it is Gwilherm as you likely already know from my companions,” He replied as smoothly as he possibly could, praying that his voice did not tremble.

  As she lay herself down to sleep next to Ethel, he looked up at the stars and imagined for a moment that Eadwin was amongst them. Looking down upon him from amongst them, quite what he would say or think of this deception he did not know.

  *****

  It took several days for them to reach Falsveal, with Vladin sent on ahead to herald their arrival. Before any of them knew it; they were being heralded as the heroes who had slain the terrible Wyrm of Mt-Sorg. Of course, this was not true and the Dwarf was sent on ahead on one of the few ponies lent out to them, to warn those in command of Falsveal of the truth. Being of a sly nature, he was the natural choice in contrast to the sardonic Ealhstan, the quick-tempered Gwilherm and as they had discovered in recent days the sardonic Elena.

  “Ethel is liable to forget the whole affair, and burst into tears and throw herself into her father or mother’s arms,” She had complained at some length which had drawn an immediate counter-complaint from the younger lass.

  “Noooo!”

  “Yes you will.’

  “Than what do you suggest, we do lass? Why not go yourself, if you must insist upon a herald?” Ealhstan questioned impatiently, evidently as bewildered by her desire to enter into Falsveal as ostentatiously as possible.

  “Because I must enter the city last, upon the same steed as Gwilherm here,” She argued back with a zeal that left each man present speechless, with the old man studying her with a pitying look whilst Vladin who had yet to depart at the time, sniggered at her words. Her words made Gwilherm colour quite a bit, he raised a brow in place of asking her verbally about why he should escort her into the village in quite so brazen a manner. Seeing this, she let slip another sigh this one was an impatient one. “Because, it was you who was sent to rescue myself and Ethel from Balthrorth, and it is you who ought to enter the town in triumph, as a Romalian hero might have, were this Roma!”

  “But this is not Roma,” Was the feeble argument of the harpist who coloured a bit, forgetting for a brief moment that there was a more important detail he had neglected to correct her upon; namely that of how he had not been sent by her father to rescue her.

  “Bah, have some imagination, if brave King ?thelwulf may aspire to emulate Roma, then we aught to do so also, for are we not all the heirs of those Romalians who remained upon the Lordly-Isle?” She challenged with such a temper that all fell silent, and all grumbled under their breaths, Ethel included who complained about her behaving ‘pompously again’.

  It was with Elena in command of their troop that they entered the township of Falsveal, with her having secured a work-horse from a local farmer, who loaned it in the hopes that she may cancel three months’ work of rent for him. A deal she readily agreed to, whilst ponies were secured for the others, with Ealhstan to enter with Ethel behind him, something that made the younger lass pout until the enchanter suggested in jest that he ride behind her and toss his legs to the side of the pony as ladies were supposed to. This mockery of the pompous Elena earned him a scowl from the fierce lady, and a series of giggles from not only Ethel but a loud snort of laughter from Gwilherm who ignored the hurt glance the dark-haired lady threw in his way.

  As they entered into Falsveal, the villagers were all gathered with a great many of them very apparently artisans. Much as Elena had hoped to make a great show, of their entrance into the town this effect was ruined by Ethel leaping from the pony to race to embrace her chestnut bearded balding plump father, who alongside his blonde wife burst into tears and held her fast to their breasts. They were soon encircled by a brood of four boys and three other lasses, whom one and all leapt forward to clasp their sister in their arms also.

  The vast majority of the villagers present congratulated the couple, with a few of the local men and women, eyeing them jealously. Doubtlessly a great many wondered why it was that their daughter was safely returned, and not their own womenfolk had previously returned safely. The hope in the eyes of the multitude of local people present herewith worried Gwilherm, who exchanged a worried glance with Ealhstan. Both of them fairly certain that despite his many attempts, Vladin (who was off to one side with an onion in one hand, and a mug of ale in the other) had failed to tell them all the truth of Balthrorth’s continued survival.

  Worried by this, for as all know the crash from hope to despair and fear can oft-times drive men and women to terrible evil. This knowledge weighed upon Gwilherm as he escorted the lady Elena into the town, where they were to be received, not by the lady’s father, but a small group of well-dressed men and women, along with the mob of peasant farmers and merchants. For his part, Remus entered the city skipping about, only to draw a small crowd of children and villagers who cooed and cheered at the sight of him, in turn he jumped at them, licking everyone he could reach and in turn receiving much affection from the peasants. This pleased him inordinately so that he was soon rubbing himself against one young merchant’s legs in particular.

  As to the town itself, Falsveal was near one hundred and seventy years of age, and had since that time been under the protection of Morcar’s family. With the town composed of almost one hundred buildings, most of them thatch and wooden houses, in the lower part of the city. The upper component of it, being positioned on a slight rise facing the sea itself, the Firth of Sudestria as it was called by some. The principal two buildings upon the rise were the temple of Brigantia to the left, which was approximately twelve meters high and twenty long, with a wideness of fifteen, made entirely of wood.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  It stood apart from the principal building, the house of Morcar at about five meters, with the manor-house of the nobleman being four stories (or fifteen meters high), twice as long as it was high, and built rather similarly to a Northman’s long-house, being ten meters wide. There was a hole in the roof in the middle of the building, likely for the interior-fire. Built and rebuilt at times, it was said to have been built originally of stone however there were rumours that some time ago, Morcar had refused Balthrorth one of his nieces and that the dragon had torn down his stone-keep in response. This was not however a tale that Gwilherm, put much faith into as the notion of Morcar proving himself capable of the remotest sense of loyalty and love, was something that appeared to him less likely than the Queen of Nifleheimr doing anything good.

  The chief amongst those nobles who welcomed them back to Falsveal, was the man evidently dressed in rich robes of the finest blue wool that must have cost more, than even the finest cloth Gwilherm had ever worn. The man was old, at least sixty years with a thick grey beard and white balding hair, muscular arms and was powerfully built with an aquiline nose and a smiling face that set the brother of Eadwin ill at ease. The old deacon for he was very obviously the deacon, also wore sumptuous gold rings on each of his fingers, held in his left hand a copy of the Canticle, the holy text of the Temple with the coverlet being made of fine gold materials, and he had earrings of purest silver and gold that glittered in the sunlight, upon his ears. His unsmiling eyes were deep black spheres that reflected no light, with his robe kept together with a gold sash, so that in all he had an imposing air being at least six and four feet tall.

  He was also the most chilling presence that Gwilherm had ever endured, with a natural aura of cruelty about his person that frightened him. He had previously thought most clergymen to be good and decent, such as in the case of his friend in the capital, or the one Archdruid of Jorvik Thom, with Uhtred a mere exception. This man made the violent Archdruid of Lundrun appear a tame hare in comparison.

  The rest of those assembled about him, were a dark-haired man who appeared to be about the same age as Gwilherm himself, he had a similar appearance to that of Elena save, for how he was far more swarthy than she in appearance and hair. Sporting a beard slightly longer than that of the man from Réalwaldr himself, he was dressed in a tunic of bright red wool with a similarly coloured hose, with a cloak thrown about his shoulders as dark as his hair, and kept in place with a silver brooch which was in the shape of a ram. His tunic was tied together with a thick belt that also kept his sheathed short-sword in place, one whose black scabbard was highly decorated with golden Brittian runes and symbols. His dark eyes though were not as warm as Elena’s tended to be, but pompous dark and angry, with his lips thick and sensuous much as hers were, though that was where the resemblance ended. Where her eyebrows were sharp and thin, his were thick and bushy, appearing to have a life all their own with the man being a little taller than the blonde warrior and just as muscular. His jaw was set like iron, with his powerful and dark presence making all three of the newly arrived men wonder, if all the nobles of Falsveal were of a dark and forbidding nature naturally.

  If he was unpleasant to look upon, simply by virtue of the anger that radiated from him, the five young girls who encircled him were of the opposite sort. Three of them were equally swarthy in appearance and hair, with each of them between the ages of five and fifteen, all cheery with faces that made them appear quick to smile. The eldest was slightly shorter than Elena but there was no doubt she would soon overtake her in height, as to the next sister she was slightly plumper but with a warmth that reminded Gwilherm of his niece.

  The last two were blonde in features, and had the same dark eyes as the dark-haired girls, with one of them having the same jaw-line as Elena, a slender build similar to her own and appeared to be about thirteen, and was a little shorter than the girl of fifteen. The other blonde girl bore some sort of resemblance to the swarthy man, and was likewise more pleasant in nature, was at least two years the elder of Elena and of a far more weary nature.

  Each of the girls was to burst into tears or leapt forth to embrace one another once Elena had descended from the work-horse, with Gwilherm’s assistance. All of the women-folk were visibly pleased to have their sister and cousin newly returned to them, with Gwilherm reminded at that moment with a feeling of sudden homesickness for Auldchester of his sister.

  “Sister!” Cried all the girls as they embraced Elena, who cried out much the same, with the deacon giving them a slight glance from the corner of his eye, one that was but for a moment.

  He moved his gaze back to the three newly arrived ‘heroes’, to give them an oily smirk that might well have chilled even the blood of Balthrorth. “Welcome brave warriors, ye are truly the images of heroism.” The gentle sarcasm in his voice, left no doubt that he was hardly pleased to see any of them, the irritation in his eyes and the fact that his false smile hardly reached his eyes, did not help matters at all. It was when he set eyes upon Ealhstan that he uttered, “And the slaver, Ealhstan quite the unexpected surprise to witness you in their company.”

  “Ah Brother Millarth, always a pleasure to see such a paragon of faith and clerical humility,” Ealhstan retorted at once, there could be no doubt that he did not mean a word of it.

  Millarth’s scowl worsened when his eyes traveled over Gwilherm himself, who wondered what it was that, he had done to displease this young man. It was however this robust youth who took a menacing step forward towards Ealhstan, snapping whilst he did so, “How dare you! If you mean to attempt to test our hospitality already-”

  “I was, merely expressing my pleasure at, the sight of the deacon of Falsveal, Wigstan, nothing more nor less.” Ealhstan was swift to utter, a nervous sweat having already begun to decorate his brow, as he demonstrated his own nervousness towards the youth who threw his dark-cloak over his shoulder in a dismissive gesture.

  His gesture one that annoyed Gwilherm, who felt his old bitterness towards the house of Morcar lurch forth to life once more, as he bit his tongue. This was a gesture that impressed Ealhstan, who had waited for him to reach for his blade and to abuse the dark-warrior defiantly. This might well have been what he would have done, once upon a time however the lessons the enchanter had begun to impart to him, had had their effect.

  “Ealhstan is a noble and brave companion, one full of wit and goodness,” He said instead, feeling as though he had to at least defend the man whom had rescued him from captivity.

  “Hahaha, he is none of those things but it is commendable on your part, fair warrior to defend him.” Old Millarth snorted before he waved an arm to beckon them hither, into the home of the lord of Falsveal, “Welcome and do come to claim thy rewards from noble Morcar.”

  “Let us hope he is still sober,” Wigstan grumbled beneath his breath, as Gwilherm passed him by, moving slowly out of genuine reluctance to enter.

  His lack of enthusiasm was certainly apparent, with Vladin who had by this time finished his onion and handed over his mug of ale to another man (he had of course emptied it), now by his side and shooting him a warning glance. By no means accustomed to danger, as he was a builder rather than a warrior, he however could still sense when things were on the vestiges of going awry for the worst. And at that moment, so stiffly did the noble descend from the horse to join Ealhstan (who hurried inside, keen for a fire as the autumn air had frozen him) that all those near them, gave them an odd look.

  “What is the matter, why do you not seem more pleased?” Elena complained having broken away from her sisters and cousins, to scowl at him a little, her reproof drew even more attention to the reluctance of the noble near her.

  All about them the peasants and merchants began to complain beneath their breaths. What was the matter, with this hero? Whispered each of them, why did he behave as though he were unhappy to be amongst them? Was their hospitality and house of their beloved lord, not good enough for him?

  This could not have ended well had he continued to comport himself in this manner, Gwilherm however was not blind to his own gaff, and attempted to recover from his moment of foolishness. He had thrown a startled glance Wigstan’s way at his remark, regarding Morcar as he had not expected such a remark, however he should have. After all the worst vices, could likely all be ascribed to the terrible traitor of Falsveal.

  That aside, he was impatient to meet the traitor in person, and hoped to win him over in order to mete out treachery in turn to him. Or so he schemed at that moment, imagining the terror that would cross the terrible long face of the traitor he had only seen once in his childhood, just before his departure from Estria for the western lands of Gewisse, where Eadmund ruled and received them well. The last he remembered of the swarthy lord was that he had dark hair, with bright blue eyes along with a muscular build towering over Eadwin by almost a foot, the last lord of Réalwaldr not having been particularly tall either.

  When they entered the keep of the lord of Falsveal, the breaths of all sucked in, save for the daughters of the lord as they had naught to fear. The cheers upon their lips and laughter still in their spirits, as they all but danced over past the fire that crackled and burnt in the middle of the house seated not far from it, upon a large marble chair that might well have been a throne, sat Morcar of Falsveal. This was not all that there was to see in the grand hall, which had as stated a fire-place in the middle of the building, one which stood beneath a great round hole in the roofing/ceiling, in order to let out the smoke. This was consistent with the style of Brittia, with the chairs and tables to either side made of the finest oak-wood, with another table just past the fire, not that it attracted Gwilherm’s attention at that moment as he had but eyes for the lord of Falsveal. As to the walls they were decorated with the gold-ram of Falsveal, with the banners all crimson to contrast it with the golden-threads of the ram, with a staircase just behind the principal table that led to the second floor of the building. So great and grand was this first audience hall that it covered the vast majority of the first floor of the building, with the kitchens approachable via a left-hand door which led to a long-hallway that separated the feast-hall from the kitchens.

  The figure was a shrunken figure, in comparison to the mighty warrior with the booming voice from seventeen years prior, with his dark hair now wispy white and shrinking it seemed form his head. Eyes and head bowed, with his chin resting upon his fist, with a silver armband decorating his left arm, where it appeared as though it might slip, this pitiful figure was dressed all in black, with his wool of far less fine wool than that of Wigstan. His cloak was woven from the fur of a wolf, one that Gwilherm knew to have once belonged to Eadwin, and to their father before him. This knowledge sharpened the anger in his breast, with the cloak fastened in place near one shoulder with a gold-brooch in the shape of a ram, much as in the case of Wigstan.

  What bewildered him was the fact that there was no sword near the shrunken man’s hands, or person instead he held close to his heavily white-bearded chin a drinking-horn full of wine. The misery and lines of care carved into his face, struck Gwilherm at once. He had never thought that long-faced Morcar could have appeared so pitiful, with the man’s long-white beard reaching his chest, with his blue eyes reddened and his cheeks visibly streaked with what were the marks of tears.

  “Father!” Elena called as she raced to his side to clasp him in her arms, wherefore he blinked in surprise at her before he called out with visible relief.

  “Elena? My Elena has returned to me?” He cried out, clasped her back as his body began to shake with what Gwilherm at first believed to be laughter, only to gape alongside Vladin when he realised it was in reality the old man sobbing. “O Brigantia, I prayed and prayed to thee as I did Ziu to have you returned to me! Gods be good, this is not another illusion cast by Denelor’s wine?”

  “No father, she truly is here!” Another of the daughters of Morcar cried seeking to reassure the broken old man.

  “Thank the gods! They are better to me than I deserve! We shall have to give a great offering to them!” He wept as he clasped his girls to him, which to the bewilderment of Gwilherm lasted for quite some time.

  Appearing a few feet behind Morcar, a young blonde maid of impressive beauty with a gold armband several gold rings, and a fine dress of beautiful green that was rimmed at every sleeve and with the hem having gold trimmings. There were also gold-runes of the Brittian sort interwoven into the cloth. Her yellow hair was long and interwoven back into a multitude of braids, with the maid tall, voluptuous and with a warmth to her that reminded Gwilherm of his own elder-sister. She had full-red lips, and was of as pale flesh as Elena of Falsveal, she hurried to her husband’s side to press a kindly hand to his bony shoulder.

  “You see, husband? Hope remains, I told you I would pray before the altar of Turan in my chambers and promised that she would guard Elena, and here she is!” Her voice was high and lyrical with Gwilherm already enchanted, though he could see that Vladin was all the more enchanted by her, given how he could hardly tear his eyes from her.

  “Yes, yes ?lffl?d, you spoke true when she left,” Morcar muttered taking her hand in his own with a sincere smile.

  This mother of the two youngest of Morcar’s daughters both of whom were no older than six years of age, as they later learnt. She was ?lffl?d, the ‘Suns-Kissed Daughter of Egnor’ a renowned beauty. Yes, that Egnor of Velantyril! Egnor who was one of the great lords in the north-east of Estria with the lady’s father having been one of many who had buried all his sons in the aftermath of Morcar’s betrayal of Eadwin. He had had only daughters left after the great betrayal and had wed one of Morcar’s daughters to father several sons, though they had later passed because of Balthrorth also. His daughter was for her part coldly married off to Falsveal to win over his support. It was said that it was Millarth, who had desired her with ?lffl?d initially reluctant towards her husband before she in time came to like him. This was because of how he had loved her deeply, an affection that not all of his daughters approved of. Being jealous in nature, they had followed the example of Eadgyth (the eldest of Morcar’s daughters, sacrificed once upon a time to Balthrorth) and Elena.

  “I have returned, father and have done so with Ethel and I ask that you honour our hero, Gwilherm of Auldchester,” Elena interrupted keenly annoyed by the display of affection between her stepmother and father. Full of resentment towards the older woman, who frowned hurt by her tone.

  “Heroes, milady and milord,” Vladin corrected with a sharp bow that visibly pleased both of their hosts, who offered grateful smiles to him, being rather flattered by his gesture as both knew the value of Dwarves and their many-works.

  “You are most welcome herein the halls of the children of Cenric Throne-Giver,” Morcar greeted him with a slightly waved hand, speaking with genuine warmth. He referred to his ancestor, the greatest of the line of Falsveal who was said to have been the eldest of King Eadwulf II of Estria, known as ‘Iron-Hand’, for how he had after the near-loss of his left hand in his youth always wearing a great iron-gauntlet of Dwarf-make upon his left-hand. It was said that Eadwulf had been banished by his late grandfather, King Eadgulf the ‘Vociferous’ who was evidently of a mean-temper. And whom was so sorely offended, by Eadwulf’s mother’s brusque manner that he banished his son’s concubine and her son, only for Eadwulf to be recalled by his brother Gl?dwine the Honourable, who refused to accept the crown when urged to do so by his loyalists, until Eadwulf had been consulted. Eadwulf thus took the crown, and married his chief opponent’s daughter, and fathered six sons upon her, with the eldest being Cenric ‘Throne-Giver’. Cenric had refused the throne, in favour of his brothers and uncles, as he desired marriage with a woodsman’s daughter and alongside his great-friend the Dwarf Vlangrun Stone-Cutter, built Falsveal castle. As to Gl?dwine, he eventually took the crown whereupon he reigned for forty-three years until his death, at the hands of the Northman Helgi the Terrible.

  The Réalwaldr line had always claimed supremacy over that of Falsveal, by virtue of being descended from Gl?dwine the Honourable’s eldest daughter Mildgye White-Neck. This claim was based in how Cenric ‘Throne-Giver’, had become in effect the vassal of his uncle, who was acknowledged as the senior line thereafter.

  This split in the descent of the line of kings of Estria was almost a century and a half ago, back six almost seven generations, and remained in the spirit of Gwilherm.

  “Now that the introductions have been seen to, along with gratitude mayhap we could discuss the necessity to secure the dragon’s hoard-” There was no denying the greed in the eyes of fanatical old Millarth.

  “Always about silver and gold, with you Millarth, rather than the life of thy daughter and kin,” Elena complained furious so that her father sought to soothe her.

  His thin lips pressed together, just as Wigstan opened his mouth to argue with her, Millarth quieted him with a single glance before he addressed her. “Need I remind you, milady but I am due wergild.”

  “Wergild? For what?” This time it was Gwilherm who spoke, and he did so with a touch of suspicion in his voice. He truly felt culpable for the death of Ethel, and would have preferred had they never mentioned it to him again.

  “For the death of my daughter, Ethel, whom I loved dearly,” This time his words drew a bemused look from all around him and a sharp ‘Ha!” from Ealhstan who hid it as a sneeze.

  One that drew a foul glare from the deacon, who might well have continued to speak if in anger against the enchanter, was it not for Morcar who interrupted. “You shall have your wergild, pious Millarth, and I shall pay what I may in advance, for your loss: For now though, I would ask the names of the other two heroes who stand before me.”

  “I am-” Began the enchanter wishing to sound grand as a lord, yet he was interrupted by the spiteful Millarth who meanly stole the moment from him.

  “Ealhstan the slaver,” Said he in a voice rather akin to a hot-poker freshly drawn from the fire.

  “The enchanter rather,” Corrected the wise elder sharply, with an irritated frown in the direction of the deacon.

  “Well-met, regardless of your prior work, any who return my precious Elena to me, is most welcome in my halls.” Morcar said politely though there was a slight tightness to his voice, as he not unlike most people of the faith, did not much care for magi.

  This lack of joy served to deflate Ealhstan a little further, whilst he sulked, the nobleman turned his vivid blue gaze onto the young man who stood nervously, before him. Gwilherm tensed in preparation to lie, as he prayed that the old lord had already forgotten Elena’s introduction of him. She had not forgotten him, having been silent as she drank from her father’s drinking-horn, ere she passed it along to her blonde-cousin, the lady Mildburg (the younger sister of Wigstan).

  “This is Gwilherm of Auldchester, father, the man who-” She began brightly.

  “Gwilherm? Auldchester?” Murmured Morcar for a moment, as he motioned the warrior to come closer, “I know you…”

  “I have a face that many oft-mistake-”

  “You are Eadwin’s brother!” Morcar hissed as he grasped the face of the younger man, with a claw-like hand. “Eadwin, the resemblance is uncanny!”

  “What?” This one word echoed throughout the hall, as all the gathered people in the hall gaped and whispered amongst themselves. Elena, Wigstan and Millarth gasped with expressions of horror and shock writ upon their faces.

  “N-no,” Stuttered Gwilherm instinctively, so bewildered was he by how quickly the old man had seen through him.

  “Eadwin!” Morcar spoke the name was as though it was a prayer, “O how I would take back my former acts and die by his noble side if I could!”

  His words drew a sharp glance from ?lffl?d, who was largely as were the rest of them, forgotten by the blue-eyed great-lord who continued to stare deeply past the eyes of Gwilherm, and into his very soul. In turn, he was stunned to find himself staring even more deeply into the eyes of the lord of Falsveal. What he discovered there was not the monster, he had always imagined but a sorrowful, broken man.

  “A Réalwaldr?! Seize and kill him!” Wigstan yelled full of wrath, as he turned now to the huscarls of the house of Falsveal.

  “NO!” This one word froze the movements of all gathered about him, as Morcar leapt to his feet with a surprising amount of vigour, with Gwilherm himself thrown back a little. “None shall touch the brother of Eadwin, son of Eadgar so long as he is my guest! He has returned Elena to me, therefore he shall be honoured and treated with the utmost dignity. We shall now honour him and his friends with a feast, thence we shall discuss how best to restore his estates to him.”

  These words so shocked those assembled that they gaped once more, only Ealhstan appeared unsurprised, as he had expected such a response from the old man with none more shocked than Gwilherm himself. Sweeping forth to his side, to grasp him by the arm was no guard but the lady of Falsveal herself, a bright smile that melted his heart as surely as a dragon’s flame might have, if for different reasons upon her full lips. “You must seat yourself by his side Gwilherm of Réalwaldr.”

  Nodding dumbly, he followed after her with his own comrades doing much the same, as they were given high-stations at the high-table of Morcar. It was difficult to say who was more upset; Wigstan or Elena. All that Gwilherm saw of the latter for the remainder of that evening was her hurt gaze before she swept from the hall up the stairs, and out of sight. What he could not understand either, was the wound this left in his heart, for he only realised then just how strongly he had become attached to her bright enthusiasm towards him.

  If he had known what was to come, he would have done well to maintain a closer eye not upon Wigstan or Elena, or even Morcar or his queenly bride, but Millarth. For the calculating cleric had kept a close eye upon all of the new arrivals, and was to leave the feast next, though not because of any lies told on his behalf, but because he sought to weave evil.

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