The battle of Mt-Sorg was a dreadful affair, for just as he had fallen upon Réalwaldr, Wigstan fell upon the unsuspecting forces of the King. Who being entirely unaware of the danger had failed to post guards, or his usual round of scouts, with many men falling before ?thelwulf could rally his men.

  A surge of panic arose in the army, in particular amongst the women, who being completely untrained for battle knew not what to do. The most prepared was mayhap the lady Elena, who was swift to worry more for Gwilherm, crying out to him as he leapt upon his horse, prepared to go back the way he had come to seek noble justice for his lands and peoples.

  “Gwilherm, wait!” She called out to him, her greed for more of the gold within the mountain momentarily forgotten, as she worried for the man she had come to bear a great love for.

  “Vladin,” ?thelwulf called out, more worried for his own wife and the ladies herewith him, he wished to see to their safety before that of any others. “Open these gates and let in your Queen, fair lady that she is, she has no part in our feud! Even if you consider your duty to I your King forfeit, you must surely still have some honour and wish not to let any harm befall her as in the case of the ladies and men of Réalwaldr.”

  None foresaw the effect these words could have had upon Vladin, for they chilled his very blood beneath his veins. Greedy for the hoard of the dragon, he had already laid claim to much of it, satisfying some part of the greed, though not enough to assuage his full desire for it. But the thought of ?lffl?d subject to the vile maltreatment of the evil Wigstan was more than he could possibly endure. Such was the power of the pure-hearted passion he bore for ?lffl?d, and the fatherly love he bore her children that none could stop him from tearing his way down the ladder of the walls, to bellow at his followers. “Open the gates! Open them!”

  “But, Vladin what of the treasure?” Someone questioned, one of the Ratvians he saw, with the man fortunate that time was of the essence, less the Dwarf might well have struck him down in that instant.

  “Pah, to the underworld with treasure, out there stand my friend, our Queen and ?lffl?d’s slayer!” He shrieked in such a rage, that he hefted up an axe that lay against the wall, with few present unaware of who ?lffl?d was, or of his love for her, for he had spoken much of her. Some knew her by sight, as they were themselves of Estria and as with all who beheld her before, the contamination of Balthrorth’s accursed gold had had its way with her, they adored her. “Any man who prevents me from avenging her, from justice shall be cut from crown to foot by this very hatchet!”

  The way was decided for them, as it was for Gwilherm when he was handed a great bolt of cloth tied to an iron pole, as the lady Elena told him, just as Vladin encouraged his men to open the gates. “This… I have sewn these past night, it was my dearest hope that should battle come you or Roparzh may…” Here she flushed a bright red colour, as crimson as the cloth which bore the leopard-head thereon the cloth at the end of the pole. The leopard had the mane of a lion, yet had sharp fangs with the stitches perfectly knitted together with its claw also bared to the right of the cloth which was but a half meter wide and two long. In all it was magnificent with gold trimmings, and looked rather akin to the lion-helm of Falsveal which Gwilherm wore so well. Moved he was quite unprepared for the gift, and could do little more than nod, pleased by his reaction she also took up a cloth, tied it about his palm, “My favour!” And with a kiss on his lips, she stole away.

  Pleased inordinately so, despite the dubious glance his sister shot him, he threw the standard to Roparzh who proudly unfurled it. “Roparzh!”

  “Oui, I will bear it proudly!” Said the new standard-bearer of Réalwaldr, head high and hair glistening as the banner served for the first time in Brittia’s history to unite her royal forces together in common cause.

  King ?thelwulf that great unifier of all Brittia, was first into combat, sword in hand, war on his lips, sword aflame and none who beheld him doubted his valour, his gloriousness. His was the mightiest blade in the whole of the Lordly-Isle; his was also the bravest soul in many ways and the blade that had ended an age. An age wherein all men could declare themselves kings, and challenge the rightful monarch, the heir of the house of ?eelric and Eadmund Land-Taker, an age of chaos and suffering one that only the mightiest sword, the greatest general could end. This man was the one who bore the axe- the unbreakable hatchet forged stem to blade to pointed peak using the wyvern-lord Blaurung’s hide. It bore the crimson name of that same terrible beast and had never failed to find its mark or to tear asunder the lives of those who opposed the sons of ?thelwulf, be they Erde-Wyrms, phantoms, monsters, bandits, Caleds, peasants or wyverns. The song of that axe was carved well-nigh into all the corners of the realm, and was the most high, most glorious weapon in all the south of the Lordly-Isle.

  Charging into the woods, upon his steed with Remus upon one side and to his right Roparzh, galloped Gwilherm, a sword given to him for this battle by Aymon days prior (for the broken blade of Falsveal lay in Elena and Mildburg’s possession) aloft. The sword gleamed brightly as it slashed asunder through the wind, hilt held high and tightly as he of the lion-helm charged whither through the ranks of the enemy, the ram-shield held tight in his left hand. Though nowhere near as skilled as Roparzh or even Galen in combat, his was the deadliest resolve of all present.

  He was not alone in his great desire to search out the battlefield for his sworn enemy, as he cut through the lives of men as a sickle through wheat, proving himself every bit the knight Aymon had wished him to be before the quest. Proving at that moment, as he cut, slashed, parried and rode through the ranks of his foes worthy of the Black-Falcon’s admiration. Though he flew not through the woods upon horse-back as mightily as Aymon, nor did he combat as brilliantly as his good-brother or demonstrate half so much courage (or madness) as Léon oft-did. Gwilherm was as any true Brittian when pressed, truly a sight to behold in the battlefield, as he fought with distinction.

  If Gwilherm struck the enemy as particularly remarkable, Remus was as a demon. Fangs bared and claws unsheathed as he leapt upon one mercenary hired by Wigstan, or one huscarl with all the mad fury of a demon. Soon there began to be spread tales of the ancient dog of Erebus, Cerberus the pet of Orcus the lord of the underworld, having been let loose into the world to ravage the enemies of ?thelwulf.

  Just as they proved themselves noble and true achievers of mighty deeds, Wigstan also fought valiantly, if nefariously with the dark-warrior fighting upon his own feet, as most Brittians did in those days. Only a few were properly trained to be cavalry, with the warrior proving himself no coward for having fled from Léon. A man who might well have cowed even the worst of demons and monsters, into submission, his lordly sword-arm such that the wisest of his foes had always chosen surrender in preference to combat.

  Wigstan and Gwilherm. Bound by destiny as enemies, as much by blade, one man brought up in the south despite being of eastern birth and childhood. The other raised in the east, with a father from the south, from the lands of Morwyn where he traded in furs and cloth, until he journeyed east when he caught the eye of a mighty-lord’s sister. A great love was born between them, with Wigstan thus being of the south as much as Gwilherm was from the east, though the former was raised in the east rather than the south. Thus were they in total contradiction of one another. Both fierce as tigers, and mighty in their ways and as opposing in their natures as any men could have been; were it only that they could have been fostered together, and learnt to admire one another they might well have woven great and goodly deeds across the lands of Brittia!

  The first blow struck was done so by Wigstan who waited whilst a man of his distracted Gwilherm with a spear, his horse reared a-back frightened of a lance through the ear wherefore the pretender-lord leapt thither to throw his great-axe upon the reins which the true lord held fast. Cut asunder, he thus fell back whereupon his steed burst forth from there out of the woods, and towards freedom which he never again lost, where he fathered a great many stallions in the Ashen-lands with many a mares, with his children growing to become many a war-steeds for many a great warriors of Estria!

  Gwilherm knew none of this, and likely might well have cared little for it, as he lay winded and surprised. Saved only by Remus’s bounding upon the spear-man who fell back with a great cry before his throat was torn open, by the mightiest fangs any canine ever a-wielded. At the sight of this, Wigstan grew hot with anger and comported himself with little honour as he struck out at the beautiful canine, delivering a cruel blow of the sword just as the dog leapt back to avoid death. Still though, his side was gashed and he let out a terrible whine, the sort that any man of feeling could not have resisted tears at the sound of. Roparzh busy with fending a terrible onslaught of attacks by three of the wicked Falsveal noble’s men felt his own heart break for the dog. Aymon the Iron-Hearted winced and threw himself with renewed rage against all the rebels, full of hatred for all of them, as he reduced the majority of the horde to pleading, whereby he accepted none of their supplications and gave even less quarter than they might have shown him.

  None though were so angry, as Gwilherm or Vladin. That great Dwarf whom most of you might very well have forgotten, charged forth with his fellow artisans and peasants, axe in hand, gleaming and shining in the sunlight, un-armoured save for in his simple tunic and for raiment his majestic valour. The women by then safe behind the walls, as all the true Brittian men of worth threw themselves against the black-hearts who threatened their thrice-beloved and respected Warrior-King! At the sound of Remus’s scream of agony, Vladin knew true rage for he had long held the dog in high regards, and could stomach no such cruelty against him.

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  His efforts though as he waved his hatchet at Wigstan who dodged, leapt, rolled and otherwise wore him down until he panted and heaved, only to scream once more at him with renewed rage, “Blackheart! Defiler! How dare you harm brave Remus! And ?lffl?d and her daughters before him!”

  At the sound of their names and the source of the Dwarf’s rage Wigstan laughed an ugly laugh. His face hidden behind his demonic black helm, his snort was mocking, shrill and all that was foul in this world. The black-heart’s laughter served only to heighten and worsen the terrible anger that dominated Vladin who leapt once more upon him, swinging wildly with a great bellow. The ancient warriors of Doris could not have matched that leap, or that blow, or the heroism of brave, brave Vladin! Not Achillos, nor his foe Hector, nor even Hector’s heir and son, the King Astyanax. And yet, much as he came near to knocking Wigstan from his feet whilst he laughed, the blow was parried by the man’s shield which he was forced to abandon so deeply did the hatchet bury itself into it.

  He then struck a terrible blow to Vladin’s shoulder that loosed a cry now from his lips, as he fell to his knees. This bellow of agony was horrid to hear, it almost matched the pain that had been heard in Remus’s throat. All men then knew respect for though he fell to his knees, his mask crisp with agony and red with the force of that emotion, he bowed his head not, knelt not in defeat and refused to do otherwise than to spit up at Wigstan’s face.

  Enraged, Wigstan might well have beheaded him were it not for Gwilherm’s own shield catching the sword of the man from Falsveal. This only angered him further, for he despised the sight of Gwilherm in his uncle’s raiment, worse than Queen Elena had. Despised this man that his uncle had favoured so, for jealousy had poisoned his spirit so that it was a physical pain to him, to see Gwilherm dressed as the lord of Falsveal.

  “Die!” He screamed full of rage, but his anger was naught compared to that which dominated noble Gwilherm.

  For his greatest friends, Remus and Vladin had both been wounded, both been ill-used by this villain, this terrible man who had sacked Réalwaldr unjustly. This after he had raided a temple of Orcus, in order to lay hands upon Elena and her kinswomen, in order to sell them to Balthrorth. This after Morcar had sold his own life, to try to stop Balthrorth from continuing his evil reign of terror over all of Estria.

  The duel that followed was a sight to behold, as Gwilherm struck left with his sword before he struck right, then parried the next blow this one being directed to his left leg by Wigstan. Haughty and brave, he had a spare shield he stole from a nearby man, one who had already fallen this he used to block the sword-blows of the lord of Réalwaldr. His own sword-blows were mighty things, as were those he blocked in the following moments as he struck five blows towards the shorter man’s head, wrists and legs.

  All of these attacks were blocked by the ram-shield, only for Gwilherm to strike four of his own, one to the left thigh, another to the right one, then to the head and at last to the man’s left side. All to no avail, much to his frustration, with sweat beading down his face he realised with a feeling of slow-creeping horror that he may not prove the stronger, more valiant warrior. Where he had fought in dozens of battles for ?thelwulf, Wigstan had fought thrice as many for Morcar, as well as for himself behind Morcar’s back. The urge to raid others’ lands never having been one that the brother of Mildburg ever resisted with much resolve, with the taller man grinning as he realised the same thing that his foe did.

  “You shan’t win, Gwilherm!” He cried as he parried another three strikes, all aimed at his jugular, convinced of victory he risked a worried glance though towards his left and right to find that ?thelwulf and Aymon had swept away the vast majority of his men away and were giving chase to others not hidden by the trees.

  Whilst he did so, Gwilherm risked a swift eye about himself, to find Vladin with Roparzh now by his side, pressing down upon the gash in his shoulder, keen to keep him from bleeding out. Tears in his eyes, Roparzh failed to take much notice of his surroundings, so keen on keeping his friend alive was the brave knight. Whilst Remus lay to one side whining and struggling to regain his paws, without too much success, this in particular aggrieved Gwilherm.

  The Brittian tore his gaze away from Wigstan for too long, and did not properly maintain an eye upon his surroundings, always a difficult thing to do in such a situation so that he misjudged the situation. Driving forward, Wigstan convinced that he could still slay Gwilherm before he fled from the royals, forced him back with four rapid blows all of which were parried by sword or by buckler. So that his arms ached, and his breath grew ever shorter, this being all part of the grand scheme set out by his foe who drove him back until his feet hit a tree-trunk and he fell backwards with a cry that might well have drawn tears and driven panic into the heart of the heartiest of the gods, Ziu himself.

  At the mercy of Wigstan, Gwilherm might well have ended his days there in the forest of Mt-Sorg, had Galen not arrived. Having fought valiantly elsewhere in the forest, he had however after having despatched the head of Wigstan’s guards, the feared and reputed huscarl Njornir Blade-Thrower. This being a battle well-worthy of the finest of poems and songs sung in latter-days by the great bards of Caledonia, Cymru, Ergyng and Brittia, though separate in nature from our tale. Galen espied the danger that had come over Roparzh and Gwilherm, and though he fought against those who might otherwise have threatened Roparzh, and though he despised the ‘false-knight’ of Brittia that is to say the lord of Réalwaldr, he did so valiant a deed as to convince many he bore no special ill-feeling for him.

  The words of the prior days in his ears, he leapt forth to parry the blade of Wigstan, saving Gwilherm from the final strike dealt out by his foe. Who rounded at once upon the old man who pushed him back with three great sword-strokes that he clumsily parried. The battle such as it was, was a great thing as Galen cried out five times, with each great sword-strike he dealt out that nearly sent the nephew of Morcar reeling from his feet. “Pour Dagd!” this being the great war-cry of all Lyonessian knights; it could be translated into Brittian as ‘For the Day!’ or ‘For Dagd’ the great sun-god of North-Agenor.

  His great strokes, his mighty deeds that day won him considerable admiration from Wigstan, who growled, let loose a mighty, horrid curse and called upon the power of his ancestors, especially the wicked ones and dealt out a terrible blow that smashed the knight’s sword to naught. Astounded, Galen had not time to save himself, as he was stabbed through by the wicked blade of Wigstan the Cruel.

  Stepping forth to deal out the terrible blow, he failed though to watch where he now stepped, even as he laughed horridly at the old man’s astounded, pain-stricken face. For had he glanced to his left, he might well have noticed the dog who lay near where Galen had driven him back; Remus though was full-aware of the presence of the man who had wounded him and threw himself forward with his fangs biting deeply into the right-ankle of Wigstan.

  His great scream of pain was torn from his thick lips as he wept then in pain, still though he kicked the dog in the head, who released him with another whine. He had not time to deal another blow though, as Gwilherm with the rage of a man sorely wounded in spirit by the many injustices of Wigstan attacked him once more.

  Armour a-gleam, sword in hand, and shield in hand he fought ferociously, with one then three sword strokes first to the left, then the right then the middle of the other man. Who parried, leapt back as best he could, given his great pain from the bite of the canine, he blocked not only with his shield but his own sword, so desperate was he.

  Things might well have turned out as before, but Gwilherm was the cleverer man, and had observed how the other man fought and even in his battle-rage he acted with great deliberation and thought behind his attacks. Screaming as he did so to the newly arriving ?thelwulf, who had finished rounding out the rebels, “He is mine! MINE!”

  At this, for the first time in their lives, the King simply let him be. This was a matter of honour and on this point for the first, the King showed him deepest respect, and let the heir of Eadwin and Morcar do as he wished. This was a noble thing, a manly sentiment the sort that a true King was wont to do, and though he was to rarely demonstrate such goodness again, many of his successors were to comport themselves in such a good manner in the centuries to follow.

  But as to Gwilherm his plan was simply to wait for Wigstan to strike with all his might, and anger in another attempt to break his blade as he had done Galen’s. This he did, and let loose the same victorious laugh, so that he now assumed victory and did not pay much mind to the Brittian’s other arm. The shield when it struck did so to the middle of his brow, stunning him and even drawing a rivulet of crimson blood from his forehead.

  A gasp of shock escaped the dark-man, as he his helm broke and fell from his head, so hard was the Dwarf-steel of the ram-shield and mighty was the strike of Gwilherm. In the next instant he cut through with what remained of his blade the wrist of his foe- that which held the man’s sword whereby he drew a scream of pain. Dropping back in agony, Wigstan fell back upon his wounded ankle and fell onto his back, raising his other hand in fear and terror.

  “N-no, please Gwilherm!” He begged for his life, even as his other hand reached towards his belt, to where he had sheathed a great many daggers, pain clouding his mind as he failed to hide this action.

  It was the last thing he did, as Gwilherm faster than he and swifter-footed drew Wigstan’s sword from the mud, and slew the treacherous man who had inflicted such cruelty upon Estria, in his terrible quest for wealth and power.

  *****

  The battle thus ended, Gwilherm turned away not paying much mind to the cheers and cries of joy and triumph of his good-brother and Aymon. Both of whom considered the battle a glorious thing, and the duel between Gwilherm and Wigstan a great accomplishment, where he thought no such thing.

  Not with Galen lying thither dying, and Remus along with Vladin wounded. By the knight’s side in a heart-beat Gwilherm shed many a tears then, as he held the old man in his arms. He had once hated him, yet at that moment this was forgotten in favour of pity. Gwilherm held up the man’s head and pleaded with him, holding him as tenderly as a son might have held his father. “Galen! Galen! Live! Live! Galen of a Hundred-Battles, why must thou perish in this manner?”

  Galen himself had once despised him in turn, as he spoke his last words did so with even greater tenderness. “I depart this land for a higher, loftier one and would ask only thy forgiveness Gwilherm, so that we leave naught undone and unfinished between us.” His eyes pled with the youth, who nodded four times, offering up his forgiveness without hesitation, this pleased the knight who departed forthwith with a smile, a tender brush of his hand along the cheek of his rescuer and said at last, “I leave ahead of you, with full pride of all that thou has accomplished, may you join me in five score years!”

  And thus he died a gallant knight.

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