“Why oh why, did the gods abandon me, in my greatest hour of need?” Vladin complained hiccupping and tottering on his pony, every bit as miserable as the knights were in regards to the journey. At this time of year, they wished to be at court, hunting and swaggering about with drinks in hand, and possibly a lady or two on each arm and not off east, on a quest that could well end in all their deaths. Sworn to risk their lives, neither however remained keen to defy a dragon, both men aware that the only dragon-slayer alive, was Éluan the Golden-King.
To turn back was unthinkable, this they knew as men of honour and in spite of how they had not been tasked with fighting the drake themselves, and they remained resolutely willing to do just that. Or so believed Gwilherm, who would have given anything the more they journeyed east, to simply turn back as his sister Elena had counselled he do before his departure.
“Turn back, flee, do anything save challenge Balthrorth, Gwilherm!” She had pleaded with him, gripping his shoulders, trembling as much as he had upon his departure.
The shock of his quest still sent feelings of nausea and made his hands shake and quiver, until he could hardly hold the reins of the grey-steed he had been given, by Aymon. Who though, he had disapproved of his knighting, refused to allow him anything less than his own horse for this quest saying as he helped him onto it. “You will have need of it, if you truly expect to challenge Balthrorth, sieur Gwilherm.”
His gift of a mount was a kind one considering how he had always disdained him, since the younger man had fled during the battle in Cymru. If his offer was a kindly one, it was one that lacked any semblance of warmth or affection whereas Léon at least offered him a sword and a slap upon the back.
While he appreciated the warmth of the younger of the two princes, Gwilherm had little gratitude for his positive feelings, due to his unhappiness with the task given unto him. He was for all intents leaving to meet his executioner. This might have depressed any man, and certainly cast a pall over all four of the travelers. The only source of relief came from the barking Remus, who raced on ahead, before doubling back, only to take off to chase either a local animal or person, his great thin black tail waving about in the air behind him.
As they traveled they rationed, what provisions they had, having to scare away Galen and Vladin from the rations, as both of them enjoyed their salted foods, which consisted of deer-meat hard bread and carrots. With the plan being to refill their bags, along the way at local estates of the king and monasteries, with Roparzh carrying on his person letters bearing the king’s wolf-wyvern seal. Unable to read, just as the rest of them were he knew what they said though, thanks to the king having apparently dictated them in the knights’ presence.
The lands just north-east to Auldchester was covered by the farms, with the Auldwoods past the farms, with the old road, the Apia Rubrum or ‘Red Road’ as it was known in the Brittian tongue. It was said to have derived its name from the fact that it had been paved in blood that of the original inhabitant, upon the Romalians’ conquest of the isle. With the original name being in the old Romalian language; which was now called the ‘scholar’s tongue’ or ‘monkish tongue’, due to the fact that only those, raised in monasteries of the Temple still spake the language or could read or write in it.
Hardly of peasant birth, as he was a lesser gentry-man from Estria, Gwilherm, had only learnt a few words here and there in it, and had never really been interested in learning more. It was simply not useful to his mind, not like knowing to ride a horse, battle and play a harp. This last one though, was the least useful of his skills, still though it had served him well when bartering for his life with Æthelwulf. A skill that no longer seemed that useful when he considered, the sorrow it had brought down upon him, especially now that he was no longer in one of the king’s castles, his mood souring with every hour that passed.
Every second that passed also filled him with melancholy, and dark feelings towards his companions. Sentiments that seemed shared by Galen and Vladin, the further along into the woods they trotted, with the latter two sinking into mumbling and glancing about themselves also. The woods were safe, unlike many in the north, where it was said that many of those Arns who had not fled with Arnór across the sea to Fialin in Ériu, after Æthelwulf had seized the north-east of Brittia.
This was said to be where Æthelwulf’s great-uncle, Eadwin had fled to, in order to resist the invading Grand Northern Army, which had come from Arnrige and the far northern lands across the Glacial Sea, which had briefly destroyed all the kingdoms of Brittia, Gewisse included. Whilst his elder brother fled to the fens, Eadwin had turned to the forests and fought against the Arns, from the forests alongside the common-folks and warriors who had fled there also. This he did until the great battle of Auldfields just north-west of Auldchester, where he led the left wing and died in the aftermath of the battle, in the arms of Æðelric.
The bond of the brothers had become an important canon, in the collection of tales passed down from father to son, especially at the royal court. With Æthelwulf and his brothers, Æðelric Æthelred and Eadmund told those same tales it is said, throughout all their lives. And which was responsible, Gwilherm suspected for why the king’s brothers had been sent to the Cymran and Norlion frontiers, with near regal powers.
These forests were thus not as dark, or as nerve-racking to travel through as more distant ones were, despite the odd outlaw here and there in it. It stretched for miles, with the silence stretching for longer than the forest possibly could, doing so in all directions. All save Roparzh wished for this, as he whistled for a time only to with a glance, towards his sullen companions break into song with a shrug. A song that pleased Remus, who trotted about near his horse with nary a thought to danger, before he took off not unlike an arrow shot from a bow, into the middle of the forest. This was the last they saw of him for a time, until he came back with the bloodied carcass of a partridge. The song that overcame them one and all, was one that they had heard many a times, in days of yore by the fire, with a drink in hand after a hard day’s fighting or work. It was part of the song of Ærgad the Tall, one of Gwilherm’s ancestors, whom was one of the most valiant men to have ever lived, on the lordly-isle. Yet even he appreciated the great jest at the core of the song, and the good-humour that lay beneath the ditty.
“Tally-ho! Renwein a-shriek’d for she be stolen from her boar,
So unite must Hengist and he for war!
To the tower they must go to tear away his door,
Lo! Once Ærgad was a bore,
Sally-ho! He is now more boar than boor!””
It was not long before Gwilherm had joined in, if unconsciously at first. It was not that he particularly enjoyed the song, but that he was so accustomed to singing alongside others that to not do so seemed impossible to him.
“There you are! Song will chase away all of our woes!” Roparzh cheered with visible relief, having apparently grown weary of the silence.
“Must there always be noise, or song to amuse you Roparzh?” Galen complained bitterly, his dark features darkening, as he cast an irritated glance towards his peer.
“Aye,” Replied the first man with a short laugh and a smile one that disappeared when he noticed just how annoyed, it made the Neustrian to his right. “What is the matter Galen? Is it that you are leaving your wife and daughter, in Auldchester? Mayhap you could take them, on a tour of the countryside another time...”
This cavalier reply frazzled not only the foreigner, but the Brittian who was for his own part as dumb-struck as the oldest of his companions by it. Neither could quite manage to rediscover their words, in order to put the man trotting along between them, in his proper place.
Thankfully, the rather hung-over and still quite ill Vladin who appeared as though he might descend into tears was at hand, to assist them on this point or begin, raging against them. “Could you lot keep silent, for a tad longer?”
The misery in his voice, hardly moved a single one of the three, the knights feeling that his words felt as though a command, where the king’s good-brother now buoyed by the song felt that it was for him to fall silent, with Roparzh retorting. “Mayhap if you were to sing, your mood might improve itself Vladin.”
“Doubtful.” He grunted with a snort from Gwilherm, who earned himself the Dwarf’s ire next, “And what is so humorous Master Gwilherm? Were you not, every bit as miserable and as fearful as I of the dragon that, awaits you on Mt-Sorg? If so, why do you sing?”
“It is habitual I suspect,” Galen grumbled his stare returning to the forest that hung all about them.
It was dark, with foliage that seemed to blot out the landscape past it, with the Red-Road stretching behind and ahead of them. The once perfectly paved marble route, had now in the past half a millennia since the Principate had fallen become cracked and broken in places. The roads once so carefully planned and paved, by the great Princeps Kadrianus the Ogre, begun in the fourth year of his reign had evidently eroded over the centuries. The Princeps may not have been the one to have originally conquered the isle for Roma, but it was he who took the most profound interest in the isle, in marked contrast to his predecessors. This trait of his had once Gwilherm suspected endeared the Ogre to the local legions, though in the subsequent era the Princeps’ Ogrish nature had hardly done so. Though the scholars always spake highly of the formidable Romalian builder, evidently believing his reign as ruler of the known world, to have been an impressive and golden era.
Whether it was as awe-inspiring as the reign of Éluan over in Neustria, or Aemiliemagne during his brief Empire remained to be proven. It was doubtful though, he told himself, for in Gwilherm’s mind, as he suspected that no heretic could build something as magnificent as a good and proper Quirinian believer. Even if in general the works of wonder that they had accomplished, had yet to measure up to those of the ancient state of Roma, a state that might well have been partly built by the gods, or so went certain ancient tales and songs.
The road hardly registered in his mind, where it seemed to fascinate Vladin who eyed it speculatively; evidently he had hardly ever been outside of Auldchester. The idea of paved roads this far from the capital city, was a subject that might interest him, in spite of his ill-temperament and how he felt at present. His eyes remained upon it for some time, even after they had left the miles and miles of forests, in favour of countryside farmlands once more.
There were hardly any towns or cities in this small corner of Brittia, the next town was Fyrdthorpe. A town that was upon one side (the southern one) of a branch of the river Rhiaulwyd that separated the lands of Morwyn from those of Rhiaulwynd, and that had been the scene of countless events in the long, long history of Brittia. It was said that it was near the mouth of the river, where the Dark Elves had once landed an army in the ancient days of the First Wars of Darkness. Wars that had lasted for thirty years, on the lordly-isle and that had seen unnumbered tragedies and victories, until at last all the tribes of the people south of the Lion River, had rallied behind Cormac Unicorn-Horned the most valiant ancient hero, to have ever lived. It is said that upon the defeat of the Dark Elves, Cormac had journeyed north of the Glacial Sea, to help those lands. Gwilherm did not know the rest of the tale, but he had heard that the valiant hero had fathered a kingdom, far to the east and died there fighting alongside the Dwarves in their great strongholds. This was the tale that many Brittians knew, and the same location that had seen the arrival of the Dark Elves, and the first massacres at their hands had likewise been the sight of the great victory, Cormac had won over the forces of evil.
This bit of lore had always impressed and awed Gwilherm, especially when he and his elder sister had fled when they were nine and six from Réalwaldr and across the river in question. “You see,” his old nanny had told him, an elderly nun dedicated to the worship of the goddess Saga, the lady of history, as she held him on the horse carrying them to safety. “This is both the place of greatest defeat, for three of the great wars of conquest that have come to Brittia’s shores; the first was in the age of Darkness, the second to the Romalians and the third was in the last wars of Darkness. And all three times, we in time arose behind the banner of one lord or another, to chase them out and hound them into the Channel! This is the place of greatest shame and highest victories. So do not shed tears young Gwilherm, for the next time you come to cross this river, it will be in triumph!”
Her words seemed so distant, so naïve now. Old seventy year old Hilda had passed away ten years ago, with Elena holding her hand and weeping, brokenly before her. Whilst Gwilherm had stood numb, and struck dumb so that he did not utter a word for a month, until he was kicked physically for not singing by one of the king’s men.
This was hardly the glorious, and highly triumphant return of which Hilda had spake almost twenty years prior, thought the legitimate heir of the Réalwaldr family. His grief for her, returning afresh as though she were his actual grandmother, rather than a lady hired to care for and educate him and his sister, on behalf of his father. Who he but remembered dimly, in comparison to the shining and near gargantuan figure, of his brother, noble Eadwin. A man he still dreamt of when he slumbered, and whom he could hardly compare with despite the fact that he had gone up, to face the terrible drake only to never return.
“We shall camp near here, I wish for but a few minutes to stretch my legs, for they are cramping.” Roparzh decided with a sniff, visibly pleased with the sea air that permeated the region near the river. As he spoke he leapt down from his horse’s back only to kneel and stand back up, stretching and shaking his legs as he did so. Only to burst out when Remus made his sudden arrival, only to drop a bloody partridge at his feet when he descended to stretch his legs after hours on horse-back, “Ugh, what are you doing you filthy dog?”
The only wagged his tail in response, and smiled only to glance up at Gwilherm, as though in search of approval from him. Much as he was displeased by the idea of the carcass being anywhere near him, he could not resist patting the dog on the head and praising him. It came so naturally whenever he saw those big browns glance up at him, a toothy grin of his own threatening to burst despise his lack of desire for it. They soon climbed back up onto their horses after picking up the dead-bird to put it away in one of their many satchels, this caused the half-wild dog to tear off down the path once more. This was not the end of the subject of where they were to stay, as stubborn old Galen complained, rather more loudly than they would have otherwise preferred.
“Why do you get to decide where we stay, for the night?” Galen demanded of him, as always the one who had to question all that they did.
“Simple; because you intend to sulk, and I am the only one present who is not ill from too much drinking,” the blonder of the two knights argued back, with more than a hint of anger in his own voice. Usually a genial man, it appeared that the foul mood of his comrade had resulted in his mood souring a little more than what any of them had otherwise expected.
Not exactly familiar with either man personally, especially as he tended to be relegated to eating with lesser nobles, and the huscarls. Where they tended to be given a separate table with Léon and the mercenaries, under the infrequent employ of Æthelwulf, with Gwilherm having always preferred to keep his distance, out of genuine fear of the knights technically sworn not to his liege-lord, but to Éluan, and thus who had little formal loyalty to their Brittian comrades-in-arms.
For this reason, he was not anymore familiar with them, than Vladin was. The Dwarf for his own part shrugged in response, to his questioning stare as weary as he was after almost twelve hours of travel on horseback and pony-back. This after days of trotting along through the forest of Auldwoods, days which had been spent with nary a fire to cook their food upon, as Roparzh was highly suspicious that there might be brigands hiding about there. This against the wishes of Galen and Vladin, who had both hoped to also hunt down a deer and eat it, with the other knight stopping them. Only for him to permit them, to drink their sorrows away with the large flagons of beer that they had brought with them, for beer was better for drinking than water. Drink that tended to be dirty and rarely conducive, for the betterment of the health of the men of Brittia, with both men eagerly partaking of their rationed alcohol, much to the disapproval and irritation of their two travel-companions. One because he had hoped to ration it, the other because they soon began to sing and laugh so loudly that all within the area was unlikely to not have heard their drunken cheers and songs.
The woods opened up to the outside world, as said as a door might to the courtyard that led the way to the stony-interior. With the river in the distant a gem upon the earth, with Gwilherm feeling tears of sorrow come to his eyes, at the thought that Hilda had never lost faith, yet she was not alive to witness his portentous return journey homeward.
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‘If only, she could have lived to see this day, though it might be for the best given how crushed she might truly be given my inevitable failure.’ He thought to himself, as he opened his mouth to speak to his companions only to shut his mouth and for a question to escape his lips instead. “Where shall we stay for the night?”
“Mayhap in one of the nearby farm-houses,” Galen said without too much interest.
“I would not stay in any of these homes, for all the gold in the world,” Vladin grunted disdainfully, with a hint of scorn one that won him, the curiosity of his travel-mates.
“Why is that?” Gwilherm inquired, bewildered by the caution and fear that were intermingled in the voice and upon the bearded-face of the Dwarf who rode to the right of Roparzh.
“Because these people, are said to be little better than the bandits who always haunt the woods,” The Dwarf grumbled into his grey beard, shaking his head at them. “I repeat, we must not entrust ourselves to these terrible people.”
“How could you possibly know what you claim, to know?” Roparzh queried in a tone that made him sound suddenly akin, to his peer. A challenge in his voice, as he raised a brow at the shortest member of their company of travellers, who now shared tart looks, each and every one of them shaken by his dark murmurings.
“I pay attention to those merchants, who cross into Auldchester, by the Winged-Pig tavern near where the port is.” Vladin informed him, with another dark eye across the suns swept fields that lay before them, looking every bit as inviting as a tasty morsel of meat.
His words might not have worried either of his traveling companions, and most certainly did Gwilherm with the Estrian keen to demonstrate, his courage by snorting also. He huffed at his old friend for his statement, as he doubted the murmurings and complaints of those from the Rhiaulwyd region. Those particular merchants had a tendency to complain, about almost anything and everything ranging from tariff-fees, to their wives, to the lack of safe travel across the Channel to Norléans.
Merchants were an incredibly fickle lot; to Gwilherm’s mind and ones that he hardly had much patience for, preferring the company of artisans and fellow warriors, this in spite of the fact that most warriors were not exactly charmed by him.
“What do those merchants know?” He grumbled haughtily, earning for himself a nasty scowl from the Dwarf.
“A little respect, for the most well-traveled men of the realm Gwilherm,” He remonstrated him, adding for good measure, “If I wished for Æthelwulf’s views on them, I would have addressed my statement solely to Galen… or returned for Auldchester, to ask the fool himself.”
“Mind your words, Dwarf, for he is still your king,” Roparzh warned gently, with an exasperated sigh that drew another frown from both the Estrian and the non-human.
Both of them fell silent as Galen complained endlessly, about Vladin treating him as unable to conjure hither his own thoughts and words. It was a testament, to just how poorly they thought of him that they ignored him. Days of travel having long since, worn at their patience towards him (as well as one another!), with the Dwarf in time as they traveled past one warm inviting hut or wooden-house made from local oak and timber, after another beginning to look as though he were reconsidering his earlier pronouncements against staying amongst the locals.
The weather above their heads became increasingly clouded to the consternation of all of them involved so that they began to murmur amongst themselves, about it. The moment he felt a few raindrops, patter against his cloak, and wet a few of the strands of hair on the top of his head, a part of him refused to there and then continue traveling for the day.
“I say we stay in that house!” He decided turning his pony about, resolutely setting forth for one of the houses with a barn next to it, which sat by the road.
The house was no more inviting than the rest around it, especially when one considered how warm some of the others appeared in comparison to it. The decision was based almost entirely in the fact that the royal-harpist had not spent a day outside in the rain, in quite some time. This meant that he was ill-accustomed to living more rudely in some ways, as he was one of the more blessed members of the court, by virtue of his ability with songs and music.
Exasperated, Galen complained loudly, “I am certain that there is a temple somewhere further ahead, a little patience might serve you well, ‘Sieur’ Gwilherm!”
The sarcastic manner, in which he uttered the word ‘sieur’ in his native Neustrian, left Gwilherm feeling cold. It also made him feel as though he were little more than a particularly stupid infant, and served only to embitter him against his traveling companion who for his own part earned for himself a similar reaction, from Roparzh.
“You truly do not see the irony, between your earlier request to stop for the night and Gwilherm’s desire to do so?” He asked laconically of his old comrade in arms, who scowled back at him with such disgust that a lesser man might have shrunk back. But not one as battle-hardened or wise as the younger knight was.
Quite how the older man had made it to such an advanced age as his fifties, without having garnered over that time the necessary wisdom, to survive was beyond his younger traveling companion. For there never failed to be a moment, where he did not wish to strike Galen with all of his strength.
The house they chose was a well-put together one with a farmer who poked his head out upon the first shout by Gwilherm, only to take him up in one sweeping, nervous glance. Unfortunately for all involved, he had no shelter to offer simply pointing down the road, to some point on the horizon. “I have naught to offer thee for comfort, my apologies my lords but we have nary enough food to feed ourselves in the days to come! Might I suggest that, ye stay at the local temple of Fufluns it is shabby and with but one druid but he is a hospitable man of considerable generosity.”
The three more impatient members of their band, might have liked to hassle the farmer, Gwilherm included (much to his shame later, when he had had more time to think about his behaviour), but thankfully Roparzh intervened out of pity for the peasant. “Wait my friends, I can see the place he points to, if we gallop it should be but a few minutes away, therefore let us be away from here.” Once he saw that they were after a bit more cajoling, prepared to cease their harassment of the defenceless plebeian and fully prepared, to gallop slightly farther north, he thanked the man. Who for his own part, frightened by the four heavily armed men, withdrew his head back into his hut, and would have no more words with them.
This might have led them to delaying a bit longer, if only to scream and holler after the poor peasant, and to resort to some form of physical violence or other, were it not for Roparzh. Who encouraged them to continue along on the journey, his eyes ever on the horizon rather than upon past squabbles, being the highest-minded of all of them, with the four of them treading hither through the rain, each of them more miserable than the last.
Or so Gwilherm told himself, as he journeyed through the miserable shadows, wishing for fresh cheese rather than moulded cheese, for venison and beer. His thirst and hunger made all the worst, by his forlorn awareness that he had fallen far, from his previous noble station. If only, he told himself every few seconds that he had kept his mouth closed, rather than taunted Æthelwulf. Cursing his own ill-luck, as well he trailed after the others, eyes upon the soaked ground as his mood descended, into the dark netherworld where it was said that Orcus resided. It was also said that Ziu did also, though only at times with the war-god living in the underworld amongst all the great heroes of history, who lived in his great-halls and were catered after and fed by his servants. With his half-sisters and female servants going out to select the finest of the heroes to join him there, with heroes such as Aemiliemagne and his Paladins certainly there, and with Gwilherm’s older brother Eadwin, .certainly there he told himself.
The trouble was that, he was himself destined to never see the older man again. Not if he had truly gone down to the Morhallion, as Gwilherm had certainly forfeited that right. What might his ancestors think, he wondered to himself, of his cowardice and of the manner in which he was living? Hardly a lord, he was more akin to a pauper than any true respectable gentleman.
These dark thoughts plagued him, far worse than the sneezes and cold that began to send his body aquiver, as he was positively wet to the bone. Miserable, whilst Vladin pounded upon the door with the eager support of Roparzh, he glanced about the small temple. It lacked any encircling walls, which was something that made him uneasy. As all knew that most temples in this area, had to have an encircling wall, as who knew if or when Norsemen might strike from the river barely a mile away from where they stood. The wooden building was nine meters high, and at least three times that length and twelve meters wide.
Atop the building, was the symbol of Fufluns of an ash tree, one that had been carved into the highest point of the temple’s singular tower, an image that all of them were well accustomed to. The temples of Fufluns decorated the whole of the countryside of each and every single one of the baronies and counties, of the kingdom. The most popular god along with Turan, the goddess of love and marriage it was only through Fufluns that the crops were said to be able to grow. With the plant-god, said to be the only god who could temper Tempestas’s rainstorms, less she might wash away the whole of the lordly-isle out of simple thoughtlessness.
Whilst the knights and Dwarf were fixated upon the door of the temple, Remus who had raced along closely to them throughout their journey, and never failed in his cheery mien, let slip a whine. Trembling behind Gwilherm, he whined and yelped from behind the newly knight Brittian, who glanced at him a little surprised. Ordinarily a large dog, with an eternally gay spirit, to find him shaking and crying, from fright was a truly bewildering experience.
“Wait, shhhh um, I think that Remus has taken a dislike to this place-” Gwilherm began anxiously, feeling some of the dog’s own nervousness begin to bleed into him. His hesitance though was ignored as Galen shushed him, only to glower furiously as he chewed upon his lower lip.
“Hail, high-brother let us in! I beg of you!” Vladin begged by now, his previous concerns regarding the locals long since forgotten, due entirely to the storm that poured down upon them. Doing so with enough force, to make even the strongest of knees buckle, beneath its weight let alone those of the Dwarf, who had also forgotten his pony, whose reins were handed over to the harpist, in as dismissive a manner as was humanly possible.
Taking the horses to the stable, which was a shoddy rundown collection of wood barely nailed together to the left side of the temple. Gwilherm left the four of them, tied to the back of the stable; where there was strangely fresh if wet hay already in place there. Confused by this discovery, he told himself that though there were no other horses, it was likely that the local druid simply took proper care of his stable, in case of the arrival of weary travelers. What truly gave him pause though, was the sight of lights inside of the temple something which he noticed, from a brief glance inside via one of the openings that acted as a makeshift window of sorts for the building. So fixated upon the peculiar blue lights inside of the building was he that he hardly heard Remus barking and whining next to him, the dog having followed him all the way to the stables.
The lights seemed faint and barely made the interior of the building at all visible, as he glanced briefly inside, in passing. Hardly curious, he could hardly see into the temple, and this annoyed him as he determined to light several more once inside. One for each of his sister’s sons, in prayer for them, as much as for his own comfort, the thought shaken from him as he sneezed uncontrollably for a moment, returning to find his companions missing he scowled to himself.
‘Oh great, they have all gone inside, leaving me here to rot in the rain,’ He thought morosely to himself, as furious now as he was soaked, the dog next to him sneezed also, and shot him an irritated look. One that made him feel a little bad for the poor dog, who glanced at the stables, then at him with a significant glance, one that he shook his head at. “It will hardly offer any cover, we must go inside, at least there will be a fire there to warm us.”
No longer eager to enter simply for the sake of satisfying his passing curiosity, about why the druid had failed to properly light enough candles inside, but for the sake of warming himself, Gwilherm giving no thought to the proper order of things and politeness, simply threw open the door. In previous days he might have worried more about his dignity and propriety, but as the saying goes ‘storms make desperate men of once polite ones’.
Calling out to his traveling companions, as he entered into the temple, his voice echoing a little as it bounced off the walls of the temple, in a manner that was rather reminiscent of the rain as it fell off the roof of the temple onto the ground below. It was as though the very walls and candles heard him, with the lights that had seemed to float up from some deep crevice or corner when he last glanced inside, by the stables, lit up all of a sudden.
Frightened, Gwilherm did not know where to look or what to think. In the light cast off by the newly lit candles that bedecked the wooden columns of the building which had a low ceiling (for a temple) that reached thrice the height of the Brittian, the altar was visible at the end of the short hall that was the principal room of the building. Doubtlessly, the others were already seated and by a warm fire with mulled wine in hand, in the druid’s chambers, he thought to himself resentfully despite his fear.
The light he had mistaken for almost being blue when he stood outside, was a warm red and yellow though it did not seem as warm as he had the nervous impression that, some of them did not sit on small jutting pedestals, or that the torches that lined the actual walls were seated either. Quite to the contrary, for a few minutes it seemed to his untrained and rather tired eye, as though the candles and torches simply floated of their own volition in the air.
It had to be his imagination, he told himself it simply had to be, for all knew that candles and torches did not simply float up by themselves. Not without some sort of devilry and he was fairly certain that there were no devils or sorcerers, who would or could, dare to step into a temple. Most especially, as such sights were holy in the eyes of the gods with this one being so in the eyes of likely more than one, given the manner in which both Fufluns and Tempestas worked.
Stepping thither to the altar to stare at the small statue atop it of the god of the harvest, who was carved from ashen wood with what appeared to be a tree in one hand and flowers growing from his feet. The mastery of the carver gave the flowers the appearance, of truly growing from the god’s feet despite them being carved from the same hunk of wood.
Amazed by this, as it was completely at odds with the rest of the building’s fairly uncouth appearance and the lack of true sophistication about the manner in which the columns were cut. Even the ceiling had a unrefined look to it, with the floor mud-splattered for its own part, as to the altar it was all but simply a large slab of wood. One that was as unappealing in how it was cut, as the green cloth cast over it was pretty despite being made from rough local wool. Lacking the beauty and grace of the wool from Norençia, which had a refined and skilled air about it, as those cloth-merchants had a tendency to favour beauty above almost all other virtues in the cloth they wove.
In all the shabby appearance was as close to home as he was going to get, given the circumstances not that this thought did much more than merit a shrug from him. He was too tired, cold and hungry to truly care about appearances or the idea of facing a dragon as that danger still seemed far-off for him. Behind him, Remus barked furiously from where he sat by the entrance, an air of terror about him that Gwilherm hardly noticed, so distracted was he by the decrepit air and frustration with the lack of warmth provided by all the candles.
“Where did those fools fly to in such a hurry? If they simply sent me away, to keep more of the soup and wine to themselves, I shall have to see to it that I spit in the next meal they ask of me.” Gwilherm growled working himself into a fury as he at last tore away his gaze from the altar before him in order to head for the secondary source of light in the hall; the closed door at the back of the building.
The faint glow of torch-light was visible through the bottom crack of the door, this along with the sound of voices echoing from farther inside. Confused and befuddled by weariness, Gwilherm should have taken more precautions than what he had, with the warrior opening the door rather than simply listening in. As things were though, he once again did not comport himself with the wisdom he would later, in this tale.
Opening the door he called out in a clear, ringing voice just as he heard three of them squabbling from down the hallway which the door opened up to. “Hullo! Roparzh, Galen, Vladin! You lot better not be keeping all the cheese, soup and wine to yourselves! I daresay I have earned my own share, of today’s meals!”
“Really now, Ealhstan ye worry too much!” A female voice was hissing at someone called Ealhstan, with her voice as raspy as it was unpleasant to listen to. It rather recalled the scratching of one’s nails upon a piece of metal of some sort, so disagreeable was it.
“I assure you, lady Wulfrun that I most certainly did hear them claim that they had another companion, a ‘Gwilherm’ if you will,” Ealhstan insisted stubbornly, from just around the corner with the noble’s ears perking a little at the sound of his name.
Certain now that they spoke of his companions, Gwilherm turned the corner in a hurry to find another door, this one even thinner in appearance than the last, as the wood appeared to have rotted almost entirely through. Hardly bemused by this apparent neglect of clerical property, on the part of the locals, with the pious youth grumbling that he would never allowed for such a thing.
“Quiet both of ye, I think I hear someone,” A third voice grunted at the other two in a brutish voice- one that made Gwilherm pause and rethink his advance through the hallway towards the door at last.
“Oh stop imagining things again Ceolmund-” Wulfrun started up again, only for her to be interrupted by Ealhstan.
“No, wait I heard it also,” Ealhstan cried out, with this the only warning that the good-brother of King Æthelwulf received before the door burst open, with Vladin crying out to him to ‘fly you fool! Fly fool!’ and he was beset by Ealhstan and Ceolmund. However by this time, the temple had begun to be filled with a great many lights as the candles floated along past the hero, only to float upwards, so that it appeared as though the ceiling were covered in stars up above his head, amazed by this sight Gwilherm gaped up at them. Hardly noticing the sudden arrival of Ceolmund until it was too late. Later he learnt that this was Eahlstan’s work, as the old man had enchanted all those who entered into the temple to see dancing-candles and flames, so as to distract them from fleeing. Quite why, was also discovered later, after his capture much to his humiliation and fury.
The latter of whom was a large brutish man with dark hair and eyes, a fat belly that protruded out from in front of him, flabby arms and at least two inches taller than Gwilherm. Dressed in a dark tunic and hose, he was a terrible figure to behold and had Gwilherm well in hand, and kicked in the stomach long before he could properly react in time. Knocked off his feet, so terrible did the older man smite him that he was bound, and soon dragged before haggard, hideous old Wulfrun before he could regain his sense properly.
A hideous old woman with boils and warts not just on her nose but all over her face, she had thinning white hair, a short four-foot ten build and was fatter than Ceolmund if that was possible. Scowling down at him with beady eyes, she remarked with a mouth that was missing half of its yellow rotted teeth, her hands on her hips that like the rest of her was covered by a ragged old brown heavily stained dress as worn as she was that fell well below her knees. “Well ain’t ye a pretty one, tie ‘em up and leave ‘em with the rest! We will cook ‘em tomorrow we ‘ill! HAHA!”
“What?!” Gwilherm shrieked in terror at the thought of being eaten alive, just as the man behind him heaved him up onto his feet, to start dragging him towards the cage in the left-hand corner of the large room they were in. Suddenly, he wished he were back in the rain-swept cold, rather than in the cold, wooden well-roofed temple, as he had a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that, he had made the most foolish (of many) mistake of his life by coming hither to this temple!
As to Remus, he had already escaped as enchantments hardly work upon animals, with the dog slipping out through the crack in one of the walls, the doors having been closed by Gwilherm. Doing so late into the night, he had been unable to follow the hero of our tale, by virtue of the man also closing the door to the one hallway past the hallway behind him. The dog escaped to follow after the bungling enchanters trailing after them for a time. Their one great hope for freedom.