Weard discovered he’d been ‘volunteered’ to stay with Hoff, and his wife, Mésia Tessel. The couple sat, hunched and scowling in the main room of their windowless, two room, wattle and daub shack.

Woven grass mats covered the mud floor. A drop spindle hung from the corner of a vertical loom along the edge of the wall. A central fire fed smoke into the air, filling the room with a viscous, smoggy gloom.

Weard pulled off most of his armour so he wouldn’t stand out so much and joined the couple on the mats, “Why did you move to Éaggemeare?”

The pair jumped at the sound of his voice.

“Hope, a new start?” said Mésia, recovering her poise. Her clothes were clean and higher quality than her husband’s. Her long, black hair was tied back with a linen band, dyed yellow from nettle roots. “I can’t remember anymore. Me and Hoff have lived here for ten years, right from the founding of the village.”

“Any children?”

“Aye, a few,” said Mésia. She hugged her knees, “but they left as soon as they could. There was no way for them to make a living here.”

“What about you?”

Mésia flicked her hands towards the walls, “You can see how we live. Éaggemeare has little, but we made it our home, and that’s no easy thing to leave behind. It’s our only achievement.”

“You must be here for a reason,” said Weard.

Hoff rubbed his knuckles, he was in his mid fifties, with a dark tan, and soot-streaked, brown hair. “This area didn’t belong to anyone legally. Bourdekin gave a few residents of Éabrycg enough supplies to come out here and found a new village so he could claim the land. I think he hoped we’d discover iron, or good pasture. We found dirt and disappointment.”

“There are a few old ruins,” said Mésia.

“We should’ve taken the hint,” Hoff said. “The ground’s too stony and dry to grow a decent crop. We can graze livestock on the plains, but the grass is poor. What few animals we do raise here match their feed. We get some wool, hides, and a little meat and cheese, but that’s it.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad,” said Weard.

“There’s occasional treasure hunter,” said Mésia, “and every now and then new prospectors comb the plains thinking they are better than the last lot and will spot something new, but whoever lived here before took everything.”

Hoff’s perpetual scowl softened, “The Síðian stop by with their goats a few times a year too - we have the only well for miles around.”

“The nomadic herdsmen? What are they like?” said Weard.

“You’d think they’d be pissed we’ve settled in their ancestral grazing lands, but they’re polite,” said Mésia. “They buy our goods and bring gifts.”

“’Bout the only interesting thing that happens around here. We always have a little party when they show up,” said Hoff.

“I’ve always wanted to meet them,” said Weard.

“Why?” said Mésia.

“I’d like to travel with them. Except for Éaggemeare, they live where no one else does, can, or cares to. I’d like to know why and how they live here.”

Hoff rubbed his chin, “They’re good people.”

Weard nodded, “If it’s so bleak out here, why aren’t you closer to the Wúduwésten?”

The couple tensed.

Hoff crossed his arms, “You ask a lot of questions lad.”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Mésia. “The right roots and flowers make the most wonderful tea.”

“Anything you can tell me would be a great help,” said Weard.

“We don’t talk about it here,” said Hoff, “But you’ve been right respectful, so I’ll tell you a little, like as not you’ll find out from someone anyway and I’d hate it if someone gave you the wrong message.”

Mésia hefted a gleaming bronze kettle over the fire. Esteny was stamped into the metal on one side. It was an extravagant utensil and most likely the only thing of significant worth in the whole hut.

“The Wúduwésten was the first place we checked for useful resources,” said Hoff, “but everyone who stayed close for too long became sick and died. A few weeks won’t kill you, but a year might, so we stay well away, you should too.”

“I’ll try,” said Weard. “Are you sure you can spare the fuel for tea?”

“If you tie grass tight enough, or shove it through a sheep first, it burns well enough,” said Mésia.

“Thank you,” said Weard. He rubbed his arms, “It’s summer yet it's freezing at night. I’m not sure I could’ve stuck out ten winters here.”

“Shows you how determined we are,” said Mésia.

Weard nodded.

“We cram into the pub when it’s cold,” said Hoff. “Not sure who’s going to pay for a new one.” He glared at the kettle as it simmered and seethed as if it were an apothecary’s apparatus containing foul medicine, “Been awhile since I last had a beer.”

A strange smell, similar to the residue of a lightning strike, melded with the smoke. Weard coughed.

With an almighty clang and hiss, the room plunged into darkness. Timber splintered as a multitude of small sharp objects shredded the surrounding walls. Weard toppled onto his back as a handful of shards needled into his chest and limbs.

With his cheek pressed against the cold earth, Weard groaned as his muddled mind tried to work out what had hit him. Blood ran down his arms and seeped into his clothing. He gasped through clenched teeth.

The kettle over the fire was transparent.

It flared brighter and brighter, flashed, then disappeared with a shattering crack, leaving Weard’s ears ringing.

Sparks sprayed as Hoff tried to light a tallow candle.

Weard passed out.

He woke staring into the lined face of Sir Wulfslæd while someone dabbed his arms with a cloth.

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“How long was I out?” said Weard.

“Five minutes,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “As strange as it sounds, you were hit by an exploding kettle. Péton and Letholdus are about to extract the metal.” Sir Wulfslæd lifted Weard’s head a little and fed him a generous measure of strong spirit.

“Wasn’t me who blew it up either,” said Leth.

“A kettle?” said Weard. He spluttered as the burning liquid slipped down his throat.

“Yes. Your hosts say they’ve no idea how it happened. However, I get the impression this is not the first time something odd has happened in this village.”

Weard winced as Leth pulled a shard from his shoulder. Péton placed a roll of leather in Weard’s mouth. He wiped the puncture with a spirit-soaked rag, pinched the wound, and pushed a needle through.

Weard bit as hard as he could.

Péton removed another shard, smeared something on the wound, and bandaged Weard’s shoulder.

“Give me a moment before you start the next one,” said Weard.

“Only a minute,” said Péton. “Waiting won’t make it any easier.”

“Can’t you wave your hand and put me back together?” said Weard.

Leth chuckled, “I’m not that good. I have a concoction that could heal your wounds over a couple of days, but that won’t help you now and is for emergencies only; you’ll have to stick with brandy and stitches.”

“I don’t mind being an experimental subject,” said Weard.

“You really should,” said Leth.

“Here,” said Sir Wulfslæd, feeding Weard another sip of numbing alcohol.

“Has anyone else been hurt?” said Weard.

“No, we’re fine,” Mésia said from the corner of the room.

Péton pulled a jagged shard from Weard’s chest.

“Ow!” said Weard.

“Sorry,” said Péton.

“Tell me what happened. It should help distract you,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Like that has ever worked,” said Weard, struggling to talk with a leather stick in his mouth.

“Humour me.”

“There was a bizarre smell, a very loud noise, then a lot of pain. After that, there was a mirage of the kettle, hanging where the original had been. The mirage kettle exploded soon after with an even louder bang. I still have spots in my eyes, the flash was so bright. Ow! Easy with those needles.”

“The kettle was transparent?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I don’t know how else to put it.”

Sir Wulfslæd faced Hoff and Mésia, “Well?”

“I’ve had an awful fright, my house is a mess, and I’ve lost my best kettle,” said Mésia. “Don’t think you’re the only one who wants an explanation.”

Hoff snorted, “It was our only kettle. If we knew what was going on, we’d tell you. You’ve been here half a single evening; we’ve been putting up with this shit for weeks.”

“The fires?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Same as tonight,” said Mésia. “Random fires and explosions with no explanation. If this isn’t over before winter, we’ll freeze under the sky.”

Sir Wulfslæd held his right hand to his face and tapped his cheek, “Has the village been attacked, or threatened by anyone, or anything?”

“Only by misery, misfortune, and improbable events at an unlikely frequency,” said Hoff.

“Did anything unusual happen before your troubles began?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“A trapper came by a couple of months ago,” Hoff said. “He walked onto the plains and never came back.”

“You have nothing then.” Sir Wulfslæd sighed. “Letholdus?”

“I’ve never read of a similar phenomenon. I’ll examine the area with magic tomorrow.”

“Please do. Also, I’d like you and Péton to stay here and take it in turns to keep an eye on Weard for tonight. I am sure his hosts won’t object.”

“We won’t,” said Mésia.

“I’ll send Tadhgán and Arnwald back to Éabrycg tomorrow morning to have some food and medicine delivered. I doubt Edern will send much, as he rarely does anything for free, but it will be better than nothing.”

“We haven’t seen a tax collector in years,” said Hoff. “Aid is great and all, but I like the hands-off approach we have.”

“Can’t do anything if we’re dead, Hoff,” said Mésia, “and I expect Sir Wulfslæd didn’t come all this way unaware of our trouble.”

“I’m afraid so, Mr Tessel. Burning homes make a lot of smoke.”

“There’s nothin’ I can do to stop you,” said Hoff, “don’t have to like it though.”

“Very well,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “Bardolf, Tigern, I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight Letholdus.”

“Goodnight, Sir.”

Sir Wulfslæd left.

“What a stiff!” said Mésia.

“He wasn’t trying to be rude,” said Leth.

“We know that lad,” said Hoff. “But we can’t afford to have this attention. Other settlers might be sent here. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“If anyone is wondering, I’m fine,” said Weard.

“Ah! Sorry Weard,” said Péton. “How’s that last shard?”

“Gleefully abusing my left thigh.”

“I might be able to help,” said Leth. He scribbled a shape in the air with his index finger. A ball of light appeared above Weard’s bandaged chest, illuminating the room. Five different colours swirled within, muddying the otherwise pure white light: blue, black, silver, green, and yellow, “I really should have thought of this earlier, but better late than never, I suppose.”

“That’s pretty,” said Hoff. “Do those five colours have a special meaning?”

Leth flushed red, “They’re there because the spell isn’t perfect. It’s really six colours, the white is supposed to be one too. One for each of the elements.”

“I thought there were four,” said Mésia.

Leth shook his head, “They represent the three Dryhten (gods) and the three Gyden (goddesses): Síþ, Heorþ, Áspringan, Þéon, Ficolu, Feorhlíf.”

Péton removed the final piece of kettle from Weard’s leg.

Weard relaxed, “Didn’t know you were religious, Leth.”

“I’m not, not especially anyway. I think Drýmenn named the six elements after the Gods so they can sound more sophisticated when they talk about Drýcræft (the practice of magic). Some argue each coloured strand is the very essence of its Dryhten or Gyden, shaping the world wherever the strands touch our plane. You can imagine the arguments between the devout and the Drýmenn when the former believe they are manipulating the Gods.”

“Sounds messy,” said Hoff.

“They’re a stuffy lot,” said Leth. “I prefer to teach myself and stay out of it.”

“Where does your magic come from?” said Mésia. “Your father doesn’t seem the type.”

Leth shrugged, “Could be my mother, but I’ve never met her. Probably just luck.”

“My dad always said magic appears wherever enough Wóddréamas blood mixes with humankind,” said Weard. “Although he tended to explain his theory with a lot of pumping motions and thigh slapping.”

“I don’t want to think about that,” said Leth.

“Your father sounds like a wise man, Weard,” said Péton. He pulled a bandage tight, “All done. If you have to move, do it slowly. I doubt you want me to sew you up again. I’ll change your bandages every evening and take the stitches out at the end of the week.”

“Thanks, Péton.”

“Are you both going to let that one swing by?” said Hoff. “Never met his mother? The lad clearly wants to talk about it.”

“That’s enough, Hoff! Not everyone’s life is up for gossip,” said Mésia.

Leth laughed, “At least not while they’re in the room. Truth is, I’ve no idea. My father is very secretive about it. All I know is he was disowned over it. After grandfather died, the land passed back to the King. I expect the crown favour he’s hoping for is to get it back.”

“You mean I was dragged on an adventure and peppered by a kettle because your father was once a horny teen?” said Weard.

Leth’s light flickered and died.

“I think I’ll get some sleep,” said Leth. He rushed from the hut.

“I guess I’ll stay up by myself,” said Péton.

“Sleep well, lads,” said Hoff.