Over the following four days, Cempa endured a barrage of giggles, and whispered insults about his ‘performance’ with Ellen. Every time he heard an unflattering comment, he’d not so subtly increased their pace, hoping the exertion would silence the troop’s chatter.

Sir Wulfslæd had been pleased with the extra speed and not intervened. After that, it had been a matter of willpower, until Péton demanded a slower pace for the injured Hrolf. As they neared their destination, the mood was finally returning to normal, until Weard opened his mouth.

“So, you’re a Drýmann, Leth,” said Weard.

Cempa clenched his fists, struggling to contain his irritation at Weard’s inept conversation starter.

“Barely,” said Leth. “Father insisted I learn after I showed a talent for exploding stuff whenever I lost my temper. He places great importance on self-control. After running low on personal possessions, I agreed.”

Weard smirked, “What did you blow up?”

Hrolf and Milde edged closer to the chatting pair.

Leth peered towards the front of the troop where Sir Wulfslæd led the way. “I was about ten when my father asked one of his old friends, Earl Edern Bourdekin, the chap we stayed with in Éabrycg, to take me on as a squire.

“Lord Bourdekin has a son too, Edwin. He and I are good friends. While I was under their care, Edwin and I spent all our time outside lessons sprinting around his father’s holdings and were likely an utter menace.

“On Edwin’s twelfth birthday, his father gave him a new horse. The selfish little bugger never let me ride it. I waited and waited for my own birthday, hoping I would get a horse of my own.

“Father isn’t wealthy and I didn’t receive a horse for my birthday. It seems silly now, but I was really jealous.”

Weard patted Leth’s shoulder.

“A week after my birthday, we visited the paddock where Edwin kept his horse. Edwin was telling me how fun it was to ride his stupid horse, and if I liked, I could watch him.

“I was so mad. I poured all my emotions into one wish, that the horse would disappear into thin air - anything to wipe that smug expression off Edwin’s face. As we approached, the horse trembled, as if it could sense my wrath. I was triumphant. I stared at it and thought, ‘be gone, foul beast!’ To my surprise, horror, and no small measure of delight, it did; the horse exploded.”

Cempa scowled as Weard, Hrolf, and Milde laughed.

Leth gave a sheepish shrug.

“Father collected me ten days later. I spent the next seven years being fostered to other families with a Drýmann under their care.”

Milde patted the neck of Leth’s horse, “What’s she called?”

The horse blew a lungful of air through loose lips, wafting hot pungent air over Cempa’s neck.

“The stable called her Yemenia Sæsteorra the XVII.”

“Bloody pretentious,” said Cempa.

“Such extreme attachment to your lineage can be a burden in life,” said Milde.

“I thought so too,” said Leth. “I call her Anggret.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“What about Sir Wulfslæd’s horse?” said Milde.

“Lemon.”

Cempa yawned and jogged up the line.

“Everything in order back there Cempa?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have a given name, Cempa? Everyone uses your rank like it’s your name. You even introduced yourself as ‘Cempa’.”

Gods, I hate it when people ask this question. “Don’t you think it’s a fine title? Warrior champion, leader of five-hundred men.”

Sir Wulfslæd blinked, “It certainly is, but what will you do if you’re promoted?”

“The only remaining ranks are Þúsendealdor and Herewísa,” said Cempa. “Leading five-hundred people is more than enough responsibility, let alone a thousand, or the whole army. As I have been ‘dismissed’, I don’t think I need to worry about it.”

A small smile ghosted across Sir Wulfslæd’s weathered face.

Warm afternoon sun beat down on the troop. A dark green smudge marred the view to the west, Sir Wulfslæd pointed at it. “The Wúduwésten. It sounds delightful and mysterious, but is, by all accounts, an unpleasant place. I hope to avoid it.”

“Shame, I’d like the shade,” said Cempa.

They reached the crest of a rise. A small village squatted below, drowning amid the monotonous, coarse landscape, “The locals have been busy, sir.”

Sir Wulfslæd nodded, “The new earthworks are quite formidable. I hope enough people remain to tell us what happened.”

Cempa shrugged, “Somebody had to sharpen all those stakes.”

As they closed on the village, nervous men and women rushed over and assembled behind a heavy barricade of charred, interlocking wooden stakes.

“Who goes there?” said a haggard man, leaning on his homemade spear. He had neither shoes or hose, only a coarse wool tunic and a straw hat.

What’s wrong with hello?

“I am Sir Thorold Wulfslæd. Your patron, Earl Edern Bourdekin, requested we help you.”

“Can you prove it?” a woman shouted.

“You are all still alive, are you not?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Cempa examined the villagers’ expressions - a spectacular example of group intelligence.

“If we wanted to harm you, we’d have done so,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “Remove the barricade and let us in.”

The villagers scuffed their feet and glanced at each other. Sir Wulfslæd waved Leth towards the barricade.

Leth dismounted and took a deep, calming breath. He pressed a few symbols on his staff. The wind picked up and his staff glowed. Leth pointed his staff at the barricade. A howling gust descended.

Cempa braced himself against the fierce wind. The barricade’s ropes and joints clacked and rattled as it was sucked four feet into the air. The barricade floated to one side, then dropped. Several of the stakes cracked on impact.

The villagers jumped back.

Sir Wulfslæd rode forward and the troop followed, but the residents closed ranks, obstructing them again.

“We’ve seen much worse than that,” said the haggard man. “You’ll not scare us so easily.”

“Is that so?” said Sir Wulfslæd. “We’re finally getting somewhere. If the threat of ten armed soldiers, including a Drýmann, does not deter you from protecting your crumbling homes, what did you see?”

“They don’t seem to be out to kill us, Hoff,” a woman called from the back.

“Fine, fine,” said the haggard man. “Suppose they’ve made their point. Welcome to Éaggemeare and all that bullshit.”

“Thank you, Hoff,” said Sir Wulfslæd, “Most kind of you.”

Hoff spat onto the earthworks, “The only inn we had is ashes. If you want somewhere to stay, you’ll have to ask around, maybe someone will take you in for the night. You’ll see what’s been going on for yourselves soon enough.”

Cempa tried, and failed, not to recall several tales of remote villages, cannibalism, and wild rituals as Sir Wulfslæd negotiated the troop’s bed and board among the nervous villagers. None of them ended well for the visitors.