The broken sword of Morcar along with his fallen buckler, which was as any other of Falsveal were intended to form the grave of the noble lord of Falsveal. It was the chaplain Cendric who did the honours of blessing the burial of the lord, with the whole of the village (fugitives included) present for it. It was considered an honour to place his sword in the ground with the shield planted firmly into the blessed soil after holy water and incense were poured upon the selected spot in the family necropolis nary two miles south of Falsveal. The tomb itself was a simple temple of Orcus, which housed the corpses of all the ancestors of the house of Falsveal going back to the Throne-Giver and was a solid building of stone of human craft, with a stone statue of the god of light and the dead in the middle of the principal hall. None, not even Balthrorth dared to desecrate such a place, so mighty was the god of the dead believed to be. The intended grave was originally to be a miserable place outside, but Elena and Gwilherm prevailed upon the local druid (who was a man who had loved Morcar and did not need much persuasion), to switch the place of his burial to be nearer to that of the sons Morcar had buried and loved above his own life.

  Planting the shield into the slot that had been made just before the large box where the remains of the lord had been intended to lay, Gwilherm uttered with total reverence and sincerity. “As ye would have done for myself and my brother, I hope you are in the halls of Ziu, drinking beer with your sons and served by the many sisters and servants of the war-god.”

  His words were greeted by grateful smiles from the women of the house of Falsveal, as well as the men as Beorhtsige burst into sobs. His son Beorhtric patted him on the arm in embarrassed silence, apparently annoyed by his father’s display of weakness. But Beorhtsige might well have fallen upon his sword to join his liege, were it not for his duties to the man’s women.

  Full of awe for this great steward, Gwilherm felt his words stick in his throat and become forgotten as he studied the broken sword of the house of Falsveal, then he glanced at Elena who was in the midst of holding Bada and the rest of her sisters, all of whom sobbed brokenly. Morcar had been a dreadful lord in his youth, but he had loved his kin above all others, and had been truly magnificent to them.

  “Now for his sword, for the blade of Eadwulf II,” Cendric declared if reluctantly, tears in his own eyes as he signalled for Gwilherm to lay it upon the sarcophagus of Morcar.

  “No,” Gwilherm said which drew another round of surprised glances from those about him, as he returned his gaze to the sword, “May I keep it? For but a few days?”

  “Whatever for?” This time it was Elena and she was very apparently upset.

  “I wish to do battle with it,” He declared this stunned all those around him, to which he answered the strangled laugh of Vladin, who assumed it was a bad jest. “Even a broken sword can cut, and I think it fitting that it is to be the last thing Balthrorth sees.”

  The notion that he could stop the dragon earned him several more upset glances, as Mildburg remarked, “We mustn’t speak of such things now-”

  “Now is precisely the time when we must speak of such things,” Ealhstan corrected as he came to the aid of Gwilherm, patting him upon the shoulder, “Now lad, what have you in mind? How shall ye fight such a beast?”

  Gwilherm had no ready answer, opening and closing his mouth he strove and failed to find the words necessary to reply to his reply, whereas Elena argued against his resolve, saying as she did so, “You mustn’t! If you venture whither to Sorg, you will perish as surely as father did! Especially with a broken sword-”

  “But I must, if I do not fight the dragon more people will perish-”

  “They will do so regardless of what you do!” She interrupted furiously, outraged by the arrogance of his quest, not understanding the resolve that had taken shape in his breast.

  How to explain such things to one such as her? The young woman being trapped in the depths of the blackest grief, such was the force of her pain that her life appeared at that moment in her eyes as utterly insignificant and meaningless.

  Moved by her fear for him, Gwilherm felt warmth spread throughout his being such that he felt timid as he had once been, in the days when he was little more than his good-brother’s harpist. He swallowed his thoughts having been purged by her sudden outburst, his shyness a nuisance that served only to irritate him towards himself.

  He swallowed his bitterness towards himself, preparing his own resolve to argue with her, when Vladin piped up wearily, “She is right my friend, you fight against Balthrorth and you will perish as surely as Morcar did.”

  “Nay, do not listen to them lad,” Ealhstan said quietly, stroking his beard with a thoughtful expression on his face. “You must face Balthrorth less Estria sink further into madness and despair, until at last the misery shall spread outwards into the rest of the kingdom.”

  The enchanter was fortunate that Vladin nor Elena nor Mildburg, were physically as fierce as Beorhtsige or as much so as Gwilherm himself were, less he might have at that moment come to an unfortunate fate. For all of them gazed upon him, with such enmity and appeared every bit as bitter towards him, and treated him in the same manner they might have, had he murdered Morcar himself. The first to complain was the Dwarf who with red-rimmed eyes growled at him, “To suggest such without due consideration for the life of Gwilherm, is intolerable! You sir have no care for him, where I once thought you as much his friend as the lady Elena or myself!”

  “Gwilherm could perish out there! Just as my cousins did,” Mildburg objected also, with every bit of the same agony and indignation as the Dwarf.

  “Before any of ye object further to myself we must also discern why Balthrorth claimed that there was a goblet missing, for I do not recall having stolen from the dragon.” Eahlstan ground out from between his teeth as he chewed on the tip of one of his gloves (he oft wore gloves these days for some reason).

  His question left them all at a loss, as they stood in the large hall which was decorated with a good ten stone-slabs to either side, each of them containing the ancestors of the lords of Falsveal. A number of them had shields slotted before them and swords resting atop them, with the dates and names of the dead engraved into the very stones. To the center of the hall was a long black carpet, with it being lit up by a number of torches and windows that were all little more than holes in the walls that let in the light. The statue of Orcus stood behind the altar, a tall bearded figure with an upraised right hand that called for all to stand tall whilst his other hand held a simple myrtle branch. The kindly and soft expression upon his engraved face was shared by a number of those present though all were at a loss, unsure of how to answer the enchanter.

  He was working himself into a frenzy of anger, one that appeared to the curiosity of Gwilherm to chill Elena who swallowed. Dressed in black just as the rest of those around her, she had carried with her a satchel one that she pulled the gold goblet from, one that shone brightly in the dark hall and one that she had not let out of her sight since she had departed from Balthrorth’s lair.

  At the sight of this goblet, the first thing that any of them did was gape, whilst Ealhstan exploded with fury, “You stupid, stupid child! Have you no thought to how dragons know, and count all the treasures in their hoards, and to steal even the smallest and pettiest of coins can have dire repercussions?! You may as well have struck your father dead, by stealing such a thing!”

  “B-but I just- father was always complaining of how he was growing poorer and I thought-I was just,” Elena stuttered tears in her eyes, as Cendric and her stepmother hurried to her defence.

  It was a ridiculous and cruel thing to say, and yet Gwilherm found himself snorting rather similarly to what she had done in days past, commenting as he did so with more than a small amount of bemusement. “And you have criticised myself for my foolhardiness.”

  The hurt look she cast upon him, made him feel guilty for his terrible words. Ones that Eahlstan cast a long glance towards him for, one that bespoke of disapproval. Not that this sort of remark remained long in his spirit, so preoccupied was he with dissuading the cursing Beorhtsige from continuing to scream out about how foolish Elena had comported herself with.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Now is not the time to cast blame, though I myself share some measure of blame for my overly-impulsive response, we must now discuss sneaking away from this place Gwilherm to confront Balthrorth.” He stated in a loud voice, once again lending his support to the young man.

  “Beorhtsige, can you secure for me arms and armour, those that Morcar intended for my use in the coming battle?” Gwilherm requested turning to the steward who opened his mouth only to close it with another glower at the eldest surviving of the daughters of his liege and finest friend.

  “Yes, give me but a few hours, however why the hurry?” He asked thickly, not understanding at once the preoccupation with speed and guile of the two heroes.

  “Because, Wigstan is not here and likely is in the midst of attempting to propose himself as lord of Falsveal,” Gwilherm explained having long suspected this to be the ambition of Wigstan and the source of his fear of him. He doubtlessly believed the good-brother of ?thelwulf schemed to take Falsveal, when this could not be further from the truth.

  The realisation of what it was that Wigstan hoped for there was no denial by any of them, for even the children knew that he was horrible enough to care only for what he could gain from Morcar’s death. The man’s own sister hid her tears behind her black sleeve; ashamed of the man whom she shared blood with, weeping softly as she did so.

  It was only Egnor’s daughter who demonstrated enough naiveté to doubt his accusation, saying with a shocked expression, “How could he ponder such a thing? My husband has but died, to do so would be unlawful as the rightful heiress is Elena!”

  “Yes, but the law is hardly something that a greedy man cares much for, when opportunity stares him in the face, I have no doubt he will attempt to wed her before her departure or to wed her next sister.” Vladin glumly stated, guessing at the motive of the horrible brother of Mildburg also.

  This was the course for all of them set, Beorhtsige was to return to the castle to slip inside to steal what he could for the journey. Whilst the women to remain in the temple in the care of Cendric and the monks of Orcus, all of whom swore to never allow Wigstan or Millarth entry, as sanctuary was a holy thing one that even the least pious of lords would not dare to besmirch. Not without fear of drawing upon their heads the wroth of the Temple.

  Before he departed, Gwilherm made certain to attend a Session of the Temple, requesting the approval and blessings of Cendric and the monks, all of whom eagerly gave it. Once he had risen from where he knelt before one of the benches that lined the main hall of the temple, he arose to his full height for a moment, before he knelt before each of the ladies to beg their blessings for the quest he was going to undertake. Feeling that in some way, it was necessary, as this family had suffered even more utterly in some ways, by Balthrorth. Their faith and that of the ladies served as a balm for his grieving, fearful heart. Only Elena withheld her blessings, weeping as she did, she pleaded once more with him after Cendric had concluded his prayers. “Why must you depart, when it is certain death?”

  “Because it is right and… I broke an oath once, made a fool of myself in Cymru and swore to my sister… never again, therefore I must beg you again milady, do I have your blessings to avenge your noble father?” Gwilherm answered after a lengthy pause, needing to think before he answered as he had not until then known quite why, he was still insisting upon this quest, when he had nary a hope of victory.

  “No,” She whispered still not approving, a few tears slipping out as he stared up at her wounded by her words, kneeling before her he felt as a fool.

  What made him feel all the more foolish was the hurt that spiked through his heart at her refusal, it felt as though she were denying him personally, and this was something that hurt worse than the most brutal of sword or mace-blows, he had ever endured in the fields of battle.

  Elena for her own part, fled from his presence then with another sobbing ‘no’, the hall was left bereft of her presence. She departed through a left-hand door, which led to the monks’ quarters, which were a cramped addition to the building with the abbot’s personal quarters currently loaned to the women for their use. Most notably to Elena, whom they acknowledged as the natural heir of Morcar, as by all the laws of Brittia it was she the heiress, and not the illegitimate nephew of the previous lord.

  *****

  Melancholic after this refusal on her part, Gwilherm remained inconsolable though he knew not quite why, as the failure on the part of Elena to bestow her blessings where Mildburg and ?lffl?d had not withheld theirs, ought not to have cast doubt upon his mission. The doubt was not directed towards the mission over-all, as he had little faith in his own ability to counter Balthrorth’s claws and fangs, or his great magicks. But rather, was in regards to his own quality as a man, for some reason Elena’s refusal to acknowledge his quest and to bless it, left him feeling only half a man. He tried to pretend to be unbothered, but he could see that some such as ?lffl?d, or Vladin could discern the pain that lay in his heart.

  Gripping his arm, Eahlstan guided him from the temple, confiding in him in a quiet voice, “I must advise you that, I shan’t help you in the battle that is to come, as my magic pales in comparison to that of a dragon.”

  This knowledge was terrifying and was something that drew a worried glance from Gwilherm, as he struggled with accepting it. He swallowed, and wished to question him further about this topic yet was denied this chance at that moment, by the return of Beorhtsige who did so, on the back of a large dark horse. The dark war-horse was accompanied by another, a large brown one that was tied to the first, which he tended the reins of, to Eahlstan with a curt nod. What none expected was for him to be accompanied by Remus, with the hound bounding up to Gwilherm who patted him on the head only to ruffle his ears and hold him close. He had missed the canine and worried a great deal about him, in the past several hours since they had determined that Wigstan, and Millarth were likely to be up to no good. He had been through so much with the hound, he could not live with himself were any misfortune to befall him now.

  “Milords, I have the steeds and all that is needed for thy quest,” The steward stated leaping from the horse before them and the white-temple of Orcus. He wasted thence no time in decorating Gwilherm in the armour of the house of Falsveal, the cloak of the Réalwaldrs, tightened the belt and scabbard of Eadwulf II, father of the Throne-Giver. This he did only to bow then before the youth, as though he were his lord and not the heir to the man’s rival family, on bended knee he thus offered up a weapon unlike any other that Gwilherm had ever beheld, in all his life.

  It was a large stick, with a pointed razor-sharp tip, one that appeared to be a large crimson scale of the sort that reminded Gwilherm instantly of the scales of Balthrorn. “This is a scale of Balthrorth, how did you come by it lord Beorhtsige?”

  “This would be thanks to one of the sons of milord Morcar, the lord Eadric who briefly returned to the house of his father, crawling with it in one arm only to perish in his bed due to his burns and wounds.” Beorhtsige explained with a voice thick with emotion, as he swallowed heavily.

  “Take it Gwilherm, this shall surely pierce the scales of the dragon, though it remains unpolished and unforged.” Eahlstan breathed in an amazed and hopeful voice, “This is our great hope; the means by which we shall triumph!”

  “‘Unpolished’?”

  “Yes, for it can be purified by magic-fire and Dwarvish forging techniques, but as Vladin is no smith and I never finished my training, we could no more forge it into a proper weapon with which to strike evil. It shall still do, in this great battle, most especially if Balthrorth remains so arrogant, as to refuse to believe that mortal men could harm him.”

  His words were the best possible reassurance he could have asked for, or so Gwilherm told himself, casting aside his doubt as he gazed into the eyes of his friend and former captor. Taking heart as he did so, from the faith and strength found therein.

  As he mounted the war-horse the man offered to him, and to the enchanter the warrior chewed on his lower-lip, thinking back upon his old cowardice and bitterness. By taking up the spear and shield of the Falsveal to save them, in spite of their old enmity, he knew he had to cast aside his old self. ‘I have always chosen to save myself, to hide from dragons and kings, regardless how little they left me with…’

  This thought inspired him to request of the steward, to the bewilderment of even Eahlstan just as the women and Vladin stepped out to see him off. “Milord, do you have a war-horn?”

  “Yes, why?” Beorhtsige asked pulling one out from a satchel he carried upon his belt.

  “Give it to me.”

  “What do you intend to do with it Gwilherm?” The enchanter asked of him now, as confused as the rest of them were.

  “To show my cowardice, to Wigstan and Millarth as they hide behind their walls, and show myself to those of Estria,” Gwilherm replied with far more confidence than what he felt, as he whipped his horse about which left Eahlstan to either continue to stare after him or to give chase.

  Once upon a time, Gwilherm had blown the great-horn for his good-brother, ?thelwulf just before the battle in Cymru. He had been left a bitter broken man, one who resented others and blamed them for his own failures. He had shamed himself by not acting when he should have, not only in Cymru, but just before Morcar had perished.

  Thus did he blow the great war-horn of Falsveal. Thus did he alert all to his quest, to his duty and newfound resolve and dare he say it… love. Thus did they hear of his departure, one that contrary to the stealth and shadows preferred by Eahlstan, the women and Beorhtsige and even Vladin. It was thusly that all of Falsveal gathered together, to stare from atop the walls, around them or raced on out to watch as he rode past the gates blowing again and again the great war-horn. He left thusly in the middle of the day, the suns beaming down upon him and out to war to defend them rather than skulking out as a thief in the night.

  For the first time since childhood, he felt as though Eadwin were with him once again.

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