Bear & Cub Ch 3: To Choose the Tempest

Or the time our heroes' made the wrong choice

The fluttering wind swept through the whole of the land, along the mountains and down into the valleys and fields which covered much of the land from which Hroðgar had sprung. These fields were ordinarily green as an emerald, and that had in recent days turned yellow and orange, with the gathered leaves that had fallen from the nearby trees that dotted the landscape. The trees and forests had begun to lose all as said, in preparation for the winter that was inevitable as the rising suns. Haunting every brook, every corner of the forests at this time was a murder of crows and ravens that hungered after the flesh of every unwary travelling who journeyed across the land.

Amongst these travelers they lusted after, were Hroðgar and his son Sigewulf. Both of whom, were in danger of becoming corpses themselves.

The two of them taking flight towards one of the nearby houses that dominated the eastern-part of the village. Entering the building, they were to cross the interior in a few steps, heading thither towards the rear part of it in search of another door shortly after barricading the other door.

The bellows and cries that echoed from behind them, past the door were hint enough to whether Ælfred had noticed them.

The sound of squawking and shrieking voices were all that he needed to inform him, to the fact that there were women and children present within the house. Paying them no mind, Hroðgar passed them in his search for another door, only to concede defeat after a few minutes.

“Is there some other door, or window from which we can escape?” His query was one that they took well to, with one of the women pointing to another of the doors, one of those he had discovered to be locked from the other side. “There is a window within my eldest daughter’s chambers.”

Thanking her, ere he advanced upon the door in question which he gave a great blow to with his left foot. Shattering the lock to the door, with the scream that echoed from within the moment the door was knocked down ignored by Hroðgar.

The warrior ignoring the screams, had his son outside of the window ere she could do aught more, and was outside himself also in the next moment.

“What now father?” Sigewulf asked of him.

“Run!” Cried his father, urging him along refusing to tarry a moment longer, for fear that they might be caught up by the men of Ælfred.

Moving past one house, then another they searched about urgently for a new hiding place, desperate and afraid of the new Jarl and his vengeance. It was only at this time that Hroðgar thought to head for the quay, where he had already taken notice of a number of boats that had not yet set out. Several of them were quite large, built to house more than forty or fifty men, so that they were larger than any other boats he or his son had ever seen in all their lives.

As they raced in that direction, they bustled and knocked aside several people between there and them, so that a great many took offence at their actions, and by their presence.

“Who do you think you are, to knock over my wife so rudely?” Demanded one man, only to be followed by another who called out much the same.

“Apologies, I must reach the boats,” Retorted Hroðgar desperately, apprehensive and hardly allowing himself to slow his pace for a single moment in spite of his apologies.

By way of apology in another time and place, he might have helped the woman he had knocked over in his haste, yet at present such a thought never occurred to him. Neither did it really occur to the ordinarily courteous Sigewulf, who was no less distressed by the thought of being caught by the Jarl and his men.

The locals went on grumbling and complaining, some few of their number also wished to threaten them not that Hroðgar paid them much mind. One of their numbers was to even go so far as to draw his sword, in order to menace the warrior who was not immediately aware of the encroaching danger that loomed behind him.

The warning of what may soon befall him, came from Sigewulf who having been glancing behind and about them nervous because of the glares they were receiving. So that the child let slip a cry a warning to his father, “Father! Look out!”

Alarmed Hroðgar who had not been prepared for any attack, seeing as how he was fixated on the path before them, towards the quay and had thought the matter settled glanced behind him. At first it was only to see what the matter with his sole remaining child was, but it was when he saw the flash of steel he realized what it was that had the boy so distressed.

Gathering his son in his arms, he leapt away with all the agility of a fox, just as the blade flashed through the air. Silver and blue it was and scarlet was the colour it’s wielder might well have wished to paint with it, and he might well have succeeded were it not for Hroðgar’s sudden loss of balance.

Tripping over the outstretched leg of another man, he was to fall backwards with his son in his arms, just as the blade arced through the empty air.

“Galgair you fool!” Shouted one woman.

“Erm, pardon, did not think it might help him.” Galgair muttered sheepish at his own error.

It was to prove itself the last of the great multitude of errors he had made over the course of his life, as Hroðgar’s dagger slipped from sheath to hand and into his leg in one smooth gesture. From there the blade cut upwards, as the warrior regained his feet, wherefore he slit the throat of the other man spraying his blood throughout the earth all about them.

The opposing blades-man swept his weapon in a long arc once more, and this time Hroðgar once more chose the path of retreat. Preferring to draw back, and lure his enemy away from the small crowd that had begun to gather all about them.

It was at this time that though the crows had faded away into the distance, lacking proper interest in trailing after the warriors headed north, so that only the gulls took notice of them up in the skies. They it were who crowed and belched out loud cries as though they sought to announce their knowledge of all that turned about, if rather more obnoxiously than any raven might have. Their irritating cry one that captured the attention of several of the warriors onboard several of the dozen ships or so, who had been dozing in the afternoon air.

Most were wearied from having floated about the sea with nary any rest, and had chosen to rest aboard their ships if only because there lacked room at the local inn. Theirs was however a group glad to be on firm land, after too much time at sea.

If many might have been too happy for a new recruit into their ranks, they might not have been particularly pleased to see bloodshed in their homeland. The shedding of blood there could only mean a blood-feud, as they well knew better than anyone else could know. Or so they might assume were they to see the conflict between the man wielding the sword Hroðgar.

It was as the other man over-extended his next sword stroke, one that carried him forward even as he straightened his arm as a sword-strike must that he miscalculated. This miscalculation which had its roots as mentioned in over-extending his forward movement, was one that Hroðgar was more than happy to see. Slipping forward beneath the horizontal slash that had done so much harm, to his foe he was to with his dagger stab between the man’s rib-cage.

In the next second as steel slashed through bone, flesh and organs bringing with them death, the wielder’s face came within inches of the other man’s. They both knew and grasped what it was that had just happened, and what law he had applied to the taller man; that of steel. The Law of Steel and Death as you may call it dear reader, is one that has had many names but that none in that time knew better than the people to whom Hroðgar belonged to (none save for perhaps the Neustrians and Caleds both a Celtic people with all the savagery inherent in that breed of folk).

Though, there was much condemnation in those dark eyes that glared into his soul, others did not judge the newcomer too harshly. Considering what had just happened, to be a masterful showing of manly capability as a warrior they cheered for Hroðgar as they might have, one of their own.

The gulls for their part continued to bellow obnoxiously.

It was as he panted and his heart slowed back down to what might be considered normal, after so much exertion and the heated nature of battle, Hroðgar turned now to his son Sigewulf.

“Sigewulf hurry, do not tarry!” Cried the warrior, keen to escape the scene of his dual murders aware that the anger of the locality, would soon awaken.

It was as he backed away and sought to escape with Sigewulf that the warrior soon found his way blocked by the other urban dwellers. Most of the men reaching themselves at present, made visible efforts to reach for their swords, the desire to feed the ravens the flesh of the father and son who had invaded their city painted onto every face.

Fearful, for he well knew the punishment for his crimes and that he could not fight all of them, Hroðgar searched about in his mind for the means by which to escape them. All he could find was a name, and it was one that he threw out to them, “I am here on the behest of Glædwine.”

This caused them to hesitate, which was all the aid that the warrior had need of. Pleased to have slowed the flood of their bloodlust even if only for a moment, he was to persist in his demand for someone to go call upon Glædwine.

It was at this time that the warriors sworn to the Jarl from the south, had caught up with the outlaws. It was to these men that his fear turned, as most of the locals of the city might well have preferred to turn him over to Ælfred if only to be rid of him.

“Hroðgar is my enemy and a criminal of my lands, therefore turn him over to me,” the Jarl demanded of them as he arrived breathlessly.

The people hesitated, glancing at one another uncertain of what to do or who should lay claim to the criminal.

Little knowing that someone had by this time hurried whither to find Glædwine to call upon him, to discover if he truly knew of a Hroðgar, Ælfred and most of the crowd were thus stunned by his arrival. Their shock was little in comparison to the relief that was felt by Hroðgar who had wished to present himself in rather better circumstances to his old friend.

“What has happened?” Demanded Glædwine bewildered by the twin mobs braying for the blood of a man once revered by most present, for his heroics in several of Eadwald’s blood-feuds with his neighbours. “Why do you all stand here, blades in hand calling for the death of Hroðgar?”

“It is that he slew Galgair and Yng,” Explained one woman in a plaintive tone, her voice high pointing at the corpses that lay at the feet of the man of whom they spoke.

“They came at me,” Said Hroðgar, defending himself. “What I did was done in defense of not only myself but my son, Sigewulf.”

Glædwine looked from the crone, to him to the corpses then to Ælfred who glared with foul hatred at them all. It was with a weary sigh that the man, whom most deferred to in this hour turned to the Jarl, expectant of his own version of events.

Ælfred did not disappoint, as he explained his position, and what had befallen him and why he gave chase after the warrior. It was with an incredulous exhale that he demanded of the other man who was about his own age, “You give chase after he showed mercy to thee, and thy wife?”

“I give chase because he pointed a sword at me, and my wife,” Ælfred defended sharply, in no mood for the implications against him. “He had no right to break into my estate, and to menace us in such a manner.”

“In that regard, I shan’t disagree,” Replied Glædwine at once, speaking hurriedly when he noticed how most looked to him impatiently. Though in command of the situation, or so it seemed to his old friend, he was nonetheless subject to their whims, and as all know crowds are a fickle lot. “Yet if you will, I must ask for what reason you have chosen to abandon your lands, to hunt down a single fool?”

“I did not abandon them,” Said the Jarl a hint of apprehension discernable, in his voice and somewhere in his eyes.

“Yet what of thy neighbours?” Glædwine asked of him curiously, quirking a single brow at him. “I should gamble that he might well like, to invade the lands he has always felt to be his yet without you or thy brother present there to defend them, he may well succeed.”

One of the Jarl’s men snapped, stepping forward to confront him even as the noble’s face had become ashen, “You lie! He would not dare attack us, not after the previous massacre that had been inflicted upon him.”

As they all stood in the looming shadow of one of the largest of long-houses, the suns’ so prominent in the heavens seemed to disappear as far as each man present was concerned. The women who had gathered, all hid from those outsiders who had their swords out and ready, behind their men-folk who bristled at these interlopers into their beloved village.

“Why would I lie? It is a legitimate concern as during the previous invasions, Hroðgar was present to serve as Eadwald’s champion.” the merchant-captain answered calmly, with a hint of mockery in his voice, wherefore he turned next to Hroðgar. “And you Hroðgar, why have you come north?”

“I came to hunt Ealdwald,” Confessed the man who though not formally on trial, knew his life to be weighing on a knife’s edge. It was for this reason that even the gulls’ cries and bellows sounded suddenly akin to his ears, to those of the ravens that had been so persistent in following them north. Apprehensive he broke into a nervous sweat, as he looked from one man to the next, hating that they had him surrounded.

This revelation troubled Glædwine, who was visibly mystified by the question of how it had come to be that Ealdwald’s champion had turned upon him.

It was however not something that he chose to pursue, with the captain of the small fleet of ships that came and went ever so frequently from the lands in the west, studied every other man. Consulting with two of his men, both of them heavily bearded and looking no less uneasy than he himself, with all gathered eyeing him uneasily. Unsure of which way he might turn, whether he might come to the assistance of his old friend, or those who wished for the man’s head.

At this time Sigewulf exhaled and complained, “Father I must pee!”

His whine however carried, with some laughing jeeringly, while several of the women whispered amongst themselves, ill-impressed by this ‘uncouth boy’.

Where a wolf could intimidate a man to death, with a single glance, and baring of his fangs; it was as naught in comparison to the glare that Hroðgar gave those who murmured behind their hands against his son. Hardly blind to the hostility directed against him, the child did not withdraw to behind his father, preferring to glare back at some of those assembled around them. Imitating his father

Aware as any other man might be that distance from his son might well result in either of their deaths, it happened that Hroðgar once he had returned his look to his friend asked of him. “My son needs to pee, if one of your men might guide him to attend to himself, by the quay while you decide my fate.”

There was a measure of hesitancy on their parts, in particular some of the vipers that had spoken or railed against Hroðgar.

Glædwine considered this proposal wherefore he suggested, “I think you ought to do so yourself, my friend.”

“What but you shan’t decide such a thing!” Yelled one man.

“And what of the slightest against my honour and the threat against those under my protection?” Ælfred demanded of the sea-man.

“I shall compensate you both, for your losses,” Decided Glædwine firmly speaking over all those who shouted alongside the two man in question. His voice becoming a little impatient, when he made the offer to those still objecting to his offer, “I shall offer forty silver coins per wergild.”

This generous offer was one that quieted most, with the ship-captain approaching the Jarl to offer him twenty coins more if he should leave at once. The offer was one that made the nobleman hesitate so that he consulted once more with his men.

Everyone waited with bated breath. None more so than Hroðgar himself, to hear of what he had in mind for his own fate and that of his son, with the outcast man resolved to give up his life dearly should it come to it.

“What is it to be?” Demanded Glædwine impatient.

“There must be a punishment,” Replied Ælfred at once, “He must be made to pay for his sins against my house and people.”

“On that we are agreed, what say you and all others here if I were to take Hroðgar, his son with me to the isle of Bretwealda forever? He is to be exiled forevermore, with nary a single hope to ever return. And so the same shall be done for the whole of his line who are to be declared beyond all redemption, all forgiveness herein the north,” Proposed Glædwine loudly.

This suggestion was one that stunned his friend who though he had little in the way of desire to remain, so long as Eadwald was out there. Some small part of him, still attached to the tombs of his wife and children rebelled at the thought.

Seeing him pale, ever so slightly and hearing the charming captain’s voice boom throughout the village with enthusiasm, captured the hearts and minds of all present. So that all cheered, even Ælfred seemed pleased at the notion.

“This notion pleases me, and I shall gladly take the sixty pieces of silver, you have offered me! And I shall disperse forty of the coins among those who have lost kin to Hroðgar,” Said the Jarl with sincere joy and passion.

Lo and behold dear reader that Hroðgar and Sigewulf found themselves exiled from the lands that birthed them. This was to be the second of the great sacrifices that they made, in their pursuit of vengeance against the Jarl, who they once revered and happily followed.

This was how the two soon found themselves, four days after their arrival in the village en route for the distant island in the west. Father and son given different duties onboard the ship Glædwine had a tendency to refer to as his ‘child’. The former was put to an oar, duty he found wearisome and that pushed him to his utter limits physically as it meant rowing for sixteen hours nigh on without end.

His son in turn was made cabin-boy, to help the cook where necessary especially in the cutting of carrots, onions and the preparation of meals. It was work that he performed without too much complaint, save for when he accidentally cut himself with the sharp knife.

The whimper of pain and accident earned him a rough slap to the head, by the cook who reprimanded him, “Caution you little fool! Less you hew off your own thumb, hold the blade away from your fingers, like so…” And he showed him the proper way to hold it and cut, “You never cut in air but with the blade and food on the table here.”

“But the boat rocks too much and oft’ shakes the cut I am making,” Sigewulf disagreed at once, only to regret his words.

“Then learn to survive and feud with Eadwald without thumbs, fool,” Replied the cook.

The incident was made worst, hours later when his dozing father was awoken for the morning meal and caught sight of the dried blood on his hands.

Wishing to hide it from him, apprehensive due to the change that had in recent weeks overtaken the once faithful and occasionally wry-humoured father he had once known. Sigewulf was unsuccessful in doing so, as Hroðgar caught him by the hands, swifter than he.

“Father, it was simply that I was pealing onions,” Explained the youth all in one breath, hopeful that he would not turn upon the cook.

Even as he spoke, he winced as his father felt and pressed his small hand, in the larger ones that he had observed all but squeeze the life, out of countless other men. The man studied him with a frown, wherefore he shrugged and showed little to no sympathy, towards him (to his surprise).

“If such be the case, you ought to heed the cook’s commands better,” The stinging rebuke hurt, and left him stunned.

He had thought that his father might fly into a protective rage, yet to hear him show so little sympathy left him flabbergasted. Unable to do aught more than stutter an affirmative response, he slunk back to work on his father’s orders, feeling as though he had never before been more lonely.

In a sudden burst of emotion, he hated the man his father had become, hated the sea that left him hardly able to walk and hated the work he had been set. It was easier than that which he had been given, since he could walk on the farm, and yet it was utterly thankless. The cook smelt, and was crude paying little attention to him, the crew though at times kind was disinterested in him and he was usually left in the cabin to work and sleep.

Attending to his duties provided little in the way of solace to his positive feelings, and was to serve only to accentuate his feelings of alienation that day.

It was later, only when lunch had been served and he was bringing about the announcement that one of them for the first time, since his arrival aboard offered him thanks. It was Glædwine. “Well done lad, now off to work with you,” Said he with sincere gratitude to the surprise of Sigewulf.

Heartened he did so, but not without one or two glances towards his father, who continued to work at his oar with unbridled determination and ongoing focus. So that though he was happy to have a friend, he still felt somehow alienated from the only family he had left.

Sigewulf did as bidden his burden a little more alleviated, ere he devoted himself to his duties in the kitchens of the ship.

Over the course of the rest of the journey, it was Glædwine who always looked after him, who saw to his needs and who ensured that he was well-rested. Kindly and warm, even funny he was the first reminder of normality or a semblance of it that Sigewulf saw in weeks. His affection for his father’s friend was one that proved itself, reciprocal with the man confiding in him.

“I must tell you,” Said the sailor late one night weeks after their departure from the north, “I miss my wife and sons, and daughter, though you are smaller than they you remind me of Eadwulf. He is my second boy, who always trails after my eldest.”

There was a longing in his voice, even as he drank from his mug of stale ale, eyes on the heavens above them, the stars that so fascinated him. All about them some of the men who had celebrated the passing, of the isles of Fresiala as they were dubbed by Glædwine, outlying low-land isles, for they knew this to mean that they were one week away from Bretwealda.

There was little in the way to stop them from advancing upon the isle of Bretwealda. The locals of the region of Fresiala who were a series of northern islets and some proper land-based locality were more than happy to see the back of them. Given that there were more than three dozens of large boats with about thirty men at each of the oars.

In total there were more than several tens of thousands, crossing from the lands from whence they came from, in favour of the ‘Lordly-Isle’.

The question of how the isle would receive them was one that Hroðgar asked of Glædwine while Sigewulf was bringing everyone their lunch, so that he overheard this conversation. “How is it that the locals react to so many men and our kinswomen and children?”

Glædwine grinned in amusement, “There is little reason for worry my friend, Vyrtigyrn and his court will receive us as his men at arms.”

“Men at arms? But surely his barons and the Romalian people still there put limits to his imposing so many troops upon them?” Hroðgar said with such wonder that Sigewulf paused in his work, as he stared in wonder at the two men.

“Oh some have objected, mostly in the north but a great many of the cities are enthusiastic to receive us, with the barons either suffering fines, or executions at the hands of their King or receiving us happily.” Glædwine replied amusedly, adding when he saw the incredulous stare his friend sent in his direction. “You will not believe me regardless what I say, but all I could tell you is that Ælle and Vengrist have come to dominate the realm, along with parts of the realm such as Morwyn.”

The mention of the names meant nothing to Sigewulf, or at least those that were not Ælle and Vengrist. Those two he knew of, for he had been introduced to their names over the past several weeks, so that he knew now what it was that they were up to on the Lordly-Isle.

Still Hroðgar remained convinced that it could not be so simple as all that, “What of the men in the fields, in the villages? I have heard that the people there are tribal by their very nature. They will not if they are anything at all akin to those in the lands being conquered by Claudius to the west of our homeland accept our colonization of their lands.”

“You will see their character, soon enough my friend,” Answered loyal Glædwine a hint of some sort of melancholia and sadness intermingled within his voice. “It is… a thing to be noticed, doubtless you will find it more amusing than I.”

“How so?”

“It must be beheld, to be understood,” Insisted Glædwine with a sigh of exasperation, “I would prefer not to speak of it, for as a father and warrior it brings naught but sorrow to me. I shan’t imagine any other sentiment to feel, for them.”

“I see,” It was evident that the father of Sigewulf did not, so that he asked cautiously, “I understand that Vyrtigyrn usurped the throne, therefore I must ask what of Roparzh’s line? That which has the most ancient of claims to the throne of the southerly kingdoms?”

‘Roparzh?’ Sigewulf wondered about the name, bewildered by the reference to this particular name, it inspired familiarity within him though he knew not where this sentiment stemmed from.

“Roparzh? Why mention the old lineage of kings?” There was genuine bewilderment, “And how did you come to hear of them?”

“It was my mother who used to tell me tales of them,” Admitted Hroðgar, who frowned as he struggled to remember, “I used to know a song or other but have since forgotten it. Roparzh though is the only name of the distant isle that I know of.”

“The current heirs are scattered.” Glædwine explained to him, eyeing him intently, “There must be only three or so of them left I am not certain. Roparzh’s line has not ruled over the whole of the lands of the Brittians, in many centuries. Not since the Romalians arrived, to establish their rule if not a little before that, when the mad Queen Alana sacked the principal city in the south at the time, Llynnenium.”

“A Queen burnt the city?” Hroðgar asked disconcerted, having never heard of a woman capable of such an accomplishment. “Do the women rule the isle, as they do among the Amazons to the distant south?”

“No, not at all,” Glædwine answered him with a snicker, “She was the exception I am told, though I do not know all the details regarding her tale, doubtless you might find a minstrel or other who will tell you the tale when we arrive.”

Hroðgar did not answer at once, as always he preferred to keep his judgement to himself. Sigewulf would have liked it if he would only speak up, once more and was thoroughly disappointed when his father remained silent.

Having paused momentarily, to listen to their discussion Sigewulf was thus surprised when another of the mariners, a large wild-cat by the name of Hengest suddenly stood up and swept him off his feet. “I have waited long enough for my lunch! Give me my plate, or I will use you as bait for a proper meal!”

The boy’s blood chilled as he looked at Hengest straight into the feline’s savage eyes. The wild-cat growled at him, catching the attention of all those present. All looked up from their work or their meals, to stare at the situation with great interest. Some, who had family also aboard the ship were compelled either to push their own kindred behind them whereas others moved to interfere.

Fast as the Tigrun himself, Hroðgar made his way over to the warrior’s side. “Put him down. Else I hew you down, and feed your carcass, piece by piece to the seas.” The two looked each other straight in the eye.

“He needs to pass the food along, not idle his time away, while we starve like some little mouse, waiting for his death dumbly unaware of his surroundings.” Hengest growled infuriated, the two men gazed into each other’s eyes, a challenge passed between them.

Not a soul dared to so much as breathe.

Sizing up his opponent, Hroðgar did not move. Hengest on the other hand held up a large knife, used more often for carving up meat but in this situation it could easily hew apart the flesh of a man with no less efficiency.

One could hear the winds all about them howl, as there was none present who dared speak, as the two came ever nearer to a clash. It was a conflict that none were interested in stopping, and some were already in the midst of betting on the likely outcome of.

Glædwine it was who came between the two with a bowl of food, offering it to Hengest. “It is time to eat, not brawl. Let us sit, eat and share some songs, less the two of you prefer to become the subject of songs yourselves?”

The two of them exchanged a glance, they might have been more than keen to vent their frustrations upon one another, but Glædwine was an entirely different matter. All knew his reputation, and all knew that

The man looked back and forth, as the wild-cat grabbed the bowl aggressively, growled at Hroðgar, gave Sigewulf a dark look and returned back to his spot.

Glædwine let slip a heavy sigh, already wearied by the fractiousness of those on his ship, as he ordered sharply, “Back to work the lot of you, soon as you finish eating get back to the oars, especially you Hroðgar, you have loitered long enough.”

Hroðgar hardly amused, turned away to do just that. Grateful to him for rescuing him, Sigewulf was to thank him, only for his father to grunt back. “If you are truly grateful, do as you are told rather than causing trouble.”

Sigewulf studied his father, hurt by his brusque tone and disparaging words. If he could, he would have wept but to do so was weak and he would not allow himself that luxury, especially since it would only win him more disdain from his father. Only Glædwine looked on, noticing the boy’s wounded stare and only he regarded him with pity.

The sea continued to prove herself a harsh mistress, so harsh was she that Glædwine had the whole of his small flotilla of ships move towards the shore three days after the quarrel. His reasoning was simple; storm-clouds were gathering and he did not want his ships out at sea, when the storm finally struck.

“We shan’t well carry on into a storm; we must make for land and offer a proper sacrifice to appease Aegir.” Glædwine cried out to all the ships, directing them towards the shore south-east of their present positions.

“But we cannot land there!” The captain of the Greywing shrieked recoiling at the thought of doing so.

“Why is that?”

“Because, those lands are those of the Neustrian Kings!” The other captain yelled back at him, “They are all mad! I daresay that it is not a sea-god they are descended from as they claim, but rather some sort of demon!”

“What is this nonsense of Kings and sea-gods?” Hroðgar asked of his friend, startled by this exchange just as much as many of the newer crewmembers were.

Gritting his teeth, Glædwine hissed at him, “Not now Hroðgar.”

“Explain what he means.”

“All he means is that he is daft enough to run afoul of a storm, and fears some petty rulers of these lands more,” Another crew-member snorted, this man was Wealdhere one of Glædwine’s closest kinsmen. Hardly familiar with him, as he had never met him before the boat-trip, Hroðgar regarded him coldly. It was a look the blue-eyed man returned with blazing eyes, his blonde beard trembling as he ran sausage-like fingers through the individual tresses. “My cousin is right to say it is folly to defy a storm.”

“Which storm do you speak of? The storm destined to strike on-land or that of the seas?” Another man asked his voice scratchy and hoarse, with Hroðgar unable to place the voice as he searched about the crew with his eyes.

He was not the only one to do so, as all struggled to find the source of the voice. It happened that none were quite able to place the voice, so that Hroðgar was to return his attention to lending his support to his friend’s arguments. “It happens that all present would prefer to weigh anchor near land, whoever these kings are, it is doubtful that they will even know that we are present.”

“It is said that some of them have sorcerers’ in their service,” One of the women from another of the ships shouted, from over her husband the first mate’s shoulder.

“Bah, superstitious nonsense, none of their sort trusts sorcerers’ for those of the Quirinian faith are well-known to despise the magi.” Glædwine sneered scornfully, having no toleration for the woman’s fear or those of his other crew-members.

It happened that a large number of people, still continued to resist the persistent caution of their captain for reasons that escaped those of the same opinion as he. The ships weighed anchor as said, with the men of the distant north-east grateful to find that the locality was warm in marked contrast to their own homeland and the northern seas men called the Glacial Sea.

Hroðgar was among the firsts that was summoned before the captain when the ship swept up the north-western beach of the lands of Neustria. “Hroðgar my friend, I must beg thee to forage through the local forest away from the coasts, for wood and any food you and those with thee may find.”

“Yes, Glædwine,” the warrior agreed at once, more than eager to stretch his legs as he leapt down the plank that had been lowered onto the beach.

The land of Neustria as he was to discover was a land, rife with woodlands and quite different from those of the Vaxians of the north-east. It was in this place that they discovered far more deer, than they had seen in days. Arriving in the darkness of night, with torches in hand the warrior might have given his left-hand for a hunting-dog to assist in the ferreting out of woodland creatures.

“Spread out,” He ordered his scouts sharply, “But not too far, we have received too many warnings to risk our lives needlessly.”

The moon tinkled down at them, shedding not light it seemed as it innately was supposed to. Oppressive and unpleasant it seemed as though it were sneering down at those far below it, quite why it should adopt such a mien was beyond the ken of mortals. Most might have tried to rationalize it in the elder days, those of the long forgotten Elves such as Féalandvil and his wondrous, dreadful father who conquered his twelve elder brothers. Or even those men of more Dorian leanings might also have at one time rationalized the ill-mood that loomed over the woodlands.

It was the view of Hroðgar that some was not aright with the forest true, but that duty came before doubt and uncertainty. It was not for them to turn back now, not when there were thousands who depended on his fifty or so scouts to return with knowledge and food.

Still though, the creaking and hooting of the woods, and the far, upwards reaching arms of the forest was as a looming set of towers. Towers upon which a flock of owls, bats and other birds were perched so that Hroðgar felt as though he were tiny in comparison.

In this hour of twilight and dusk, he treaded a path whither into the unknown. It had never quite frightened him before, and why should it have? He it was who held the axe, who had mastered the sword and had carved his name and his legend into the flesh of many men, transfiguring them into corpses. Never in all his life, had he felt such an ominous sense of doom than in that forest so that he did not blame some of his men for flinching when they heard an owl suddenly hoot and flutter off from its branch.

“This is madness,” One man muttered, hardly able to bear the darkness, “I have heard that not even the Romalians dared to enter this place, we must be north from the lands they conquered centuries ago.”

“Bah, the men of Roma might well have fled from their own shadows,” Hroðgar retorted uneasily, not believing his own words.

“Then you have heard little of their legends, I heard it said that they conquered all of South-Agenor and nigh on half of North-Agenor.” The other man replied firmly, with a shiver that soon spread to more than one man. “If they took flight before an enemy, I say that there was good reason for that.”

Hroðgar did not speak again. He did not know how to answer, for he in truth did not know very much about the men and women of Roma. The few legends he had heard, seemed difficult to believe and others about the extent of their empire, seemed more a tale his father had used to tell him to frighten him back to bed late at night.

Yet here he was, far from home and deep within lands that might once have been claimed by them. The notion sent a shiver up his spine, as he thought about how far the Romalian world had expanded to, and how mighty their armies must have been to march so far from their marble-city. But as ephemeral as Roma now was, what were not so vague were the shadows that haunted the dusky forest.

It was as they journeyed ever deeper into the thicket and foliage of shadows that Hroðgar was to grow suspicious that there was someone watching them. It was a suspicion that did not at first appear more than the vaguest of instincts, but it soon transformed into certainty as he called for one of his scouts to go recollect another of the groups of scouts.

“I want them brought back hither, lest they become lost and are never found again,” Hroðgar commanded, attempting to master and suppress his own unease.

“They have been gone only two hours,” Cuthberht argued with him, unaware of the same oppressive sense of danger that the warrior was.

“And I do not like it,” Hroðgar complained, scratching at his beard chin, “There is something amiss in this forest. I do not like it.”

No one spoke up against him, and no one dared to do more than whisper when they did speak. It was with a sense of apprehension now that Hroðgar determined to inform his men. “We will leave behind the greater proportion of our numbers here, but I will take a small group further into the forest if only to search for deer.”

“And if you find none?”

“I will return within the day, never fear,” Hroðgar promised with sincere resolve, selecting his men with care and assigning the command of those left behind to, Cuthberht. Cuthberht was a man of formidable character, one who had taken to his own command with ill-grace. The selection of the man for the position was made on the basis that if the man disliked the remotest contradiction to Glædwine’s orders, he was unlikely to compromise those of Hroðgar either.

“Why entrust command to him?” One of his men asked, Godric who was amongst those who had followed after him unquestionably since first placed before an oar.

“Because he will not break from any orders, once he has received them.” Hroðgar retorted evenly, turning away from the younger man to throw himself deeper into the shadows of the forest.

What it was that he expected, he did not know but the slowly freezing air was not it. At first few of his men shivered, and yet within a few hours the air seemed to stiffen as it grew all the icier. Until it was that more than one complained harshly of this hunt, and stamped their feet with a little more force than before. Their unhappiness such that Hroðgar began to feel certain, it was a mistake to have pushed them towards the forest.

“We must either find an end to this endless nightmare, or we must find a deer,” He grumbled only to add as an afterthought, “Or we must turn back.”

“My torch is going out, Hroðgar,” One man complained as his flame flickered.

It was at that moment that a third possibility entered into Hroðgar’s spirit, so that he contemplated his friend’s torch for one long minute.

With a burst of laughter he praised Godric, “Godric you mad dog! You might well have helped me figure out, how to frighten out our prey!”
“How is that?”

“Why should we shrink from this forest, when we have fire?” Hroðgar asked of them, overtaken by his own good mood.

Bending down to re-ignite the torch by starting a new fire, he was to narrowly be saved by this very gesture. A single deadly thread cut through the darkness or so it seemed, not unlike how one might cut through bread with a knife.

In that moment death came on speedy wings to Godric, who succumbed at once as his throat was pierced and his life-blood poured out. The men were mortified by this, they leapt back in response, just as another half a dozen arrows cut through the nocturnal air with no less ease that the first arrow had Godric’s flesh.

Never before had he borne witness to the ruthlessness of archery such as this, so that Hroðgar was mesmerized by the skill of those who inhabited the shadows. This state though was intermingled with a fury that might have otherwise pushed him to stamp along furiously at the cause of his men’s woe. But just as he was a bear to his enemies, hirsute and brutal he was in matters of strategy something of a sage so that he at once ordered his men to form a shield-wall.

“Together! Together we shall live!” He yelled at the top of his lungs as he brought up his own round shield.

The other men did as bidden, if with considerable trepidation. None knew what it was that they had stumbled upon, in that forest. Backing away ever so slightly, they were relieved to find that at first their shields caught the arrows and that after the initial six deaths there was not a single one of them who dropped to the ground. It was when several of them made to drop their flaming torches to the ground in favour of swords. Some made to grab their spare shields, which some had had the foresight to bring along.

Hroðgar had not.

Several of the arrows that arched now through the midnight air hewed their way not only through the flesh and lives of another several men but through the hopes they had. It was with a start that Hroðgar called to his remaining men to hold the line and continue to back away.

His efforts were in vain, as his men had decided then to break and take flight, rather than heed his commands. Stricken with panic, and rage he cursed them then just before he followed their example, fearful of being overwhelmed by the force arrayed against him.

What was it that lay hidden in those shadows? He did not know. He knew only that whoever it was, was a damn fine archer or set of archers and that they had been stalking him and his men for quite some time.

This latter suspicion was borne, from the certainty that the sensation of being watched since some time ago. His heart pounding against his chest walls, he could not get away fast enough, racing about from one side to the other, he hid behind one tree after another. Certain that whoever the archers behind him were, could not get him if he did so.

How wrong he was, when he tripped over one root just as an arrow lurched down from above directly where he had intended to throw himself.

“What?” Hroðgar asked himself, startled by the direction from which the arrow had fallen down from. It was thence that he began to understand, just where the enemy had stationed themselves, thinking back rather rapidly on the fact that every shot fired had seemed to come from slightly above them.

It was only when he had menaced the trees, the arrows had flurried down upon him and his men, so that now Hroðgar grasped that those who attacked him now, were protective of the trees.

What he did next was as much an attack against them, as it was an act of pure spite as he took up the torch he had picked up earlier and pressed it now against the tree next to him. Rolling away to dodge another arrow, he threw himself back against it with the flames beginning to climb up the length and breadth of the tree.

The smoke provided cover, and the light of the fire blinded those above him, even as the licking and lapping flames arched their way up, slower and yet with more finality than the arrows did. It was a terrible choice that Hroðgar offered to his enemy above him; death by smoke, or death by fire. The third choice would be to reveal himself, with the warrior hardly content to contain himself to the one archer, he moved to the next large oak that was thick at the waist and hardly billowed in the wind.

Torching it also, he set fire to the thousand year old tree, ruthlessly squashing down the pity that surged naturally in his breast for it. It was either it or him, and he had made his choice, from the moment he had entered the forest.

It was with a great deal of reluctance that at long last, the first of his attackers set foot upon the ground proper. He fell down some way, at which time he slowed his descent into a much more steady thing, thereupon the ground near where Hroðgar stood. His descent was performed through some means and a length of rope that seemed otherworldly and not of the craft of men, for it was steady and firm to the touch yet seemed to wrap itself about a higher branch with little difficulty.

Torch and axe in hand, it was when he set eyes on his attacker that Hroðgar sprung into action; blade in hand hewing apart the bow of his foe and torch swinging wildly. His attempt to set his enemy ablaze was evaded, and thus ended in failure not that the man was to halt his advance therewith that swing. His next blow was a feint as he proceeded to then kick his foe in the gut, with force enough to send him toppling onto his back, with his head hitting the large oak behind him with enough force to leave him dazed.

“Now, to put an end to this- wait you are no man,” Hroðgar muttered as he took a moment, a mere second to study his foe.

The foe in question was lithe, yet strongly built as he himself was with a muscular, manly frame that was encased in leather armour and with his eyes ablaze with a vivid green colour. His hair was the same colouration, with his mane long and unfettered in spite of the bronze-coloured helm he wore on his brow. It was intricately made, with symbols carved that flowed along in the seeming shape of floral-leaves along its side just around his face. What was more was that there was atop it the shape of a duo of unicorns’ on the top of the helm. The other great hint from his strange hair-colour and eyes were the long pointed ears that seemed a short distance past the back of his skull.

The defiant thrust of his chin, he was to say to the man at first in a language that he did not understand with the long-eared figure adjusting his speech, to speak in a broken version of Hroðgar’s tongue. “What are you thinking, you are doing? You who have violated the forest!”

“Violated?” Hroðgar wondered confused, not understanding what it was that the Elf was on about, for he knew him to be an Elf.

It was with a start that Hroðgar was to raise his sword near to the other male’s face, having noticed how the Elf’s hand had strayed to a nearby arrow. The green eyes glowed without ever waning, as they glowered suspiciously at the bearded man’s blade, “What do you mean by violated the forest?”

The Elf did not answer him, rather his gaze went to the flames that had begun to consume the entirety of the nearby tree.

“You have violated it.”

Before he could ask how the Elf knew his language, or why he and his ilk were so protective of the forest, Hroðgar was to remember just what sort of situation he was in. Casting aside his torch that he might grab the Elf so that he might take him prisoner, the large bear of a man was to begin the long backwards journey back thither to the shore.

It is at this time that it must be explained just how Hroðgar was saved, how it was that he came to be rescued from deep within the Wilder-Elf haunted forest. It was not a man, nor a warrior who strangely rescued him from the greatest harm he had ever placed himself in, but rather Sigewulf. The boy had slipped away from the boats in order to follow after his father. He had done so, while Glædwine had been preoccupied with securing the boats, and giving the different captains their orders. The one reluctant to set foot on land had done so, if with a reluctant expression on his face, so that the man had been mocked and jeered at by Glædwine for this.

But the man held true to his beliefs that the land of the Faramondian Kings was cursed, or that they would find a way to ride out of the forest to strike them all dead. “It would be better to risk the storm than to risk the wrath of those thrice cursed monsters! I have heard dark legends of how they treat their own, and if half of them are true, we are fools to even consider bringing our boats within a kilometer of their shores.”

“You speak as though they are demons, rather than men,” Glædwine snorted irritably.

“And maybe that is because they have more devil blood in their veins, than they do that of mortal men,” The other man hissed almost more to himself, but his voice carried so that all heard him.

“Oh never you mind your demons, you are but a fool,” Glædwine snapped impatiently, “Only cowards wait aboard their ships, whilst their women and children set about to put their feet on land.”

This insult was what convinced the man to defiantly do as bidden. He did so reluctantly, and with a great deal of displeasure, at the insistence of his wife and children who had likewise tired of his reluctance. At this time, noticing that there was no one to hold him back, and that his father was nowhere near there, Sigewulf began to grow bored.

What was more was that he was tired of waiting. Waiting during a hunt, or when in a situation of life and death was different, from that of simply waiting for supper. It was an unpleasant feeling, and one that he held off for some time before he at last decided to leave for the forest, when no one was looking.

This desire to find his father, and to join in the hunt, was in many ways the fault of the likes of Glædwine and Hroðgar themselves. They had felt so protective of the boy that they would not place him, in the boat with the other children, but rather had kept him aboard that of the men. So that in this way, he felt wholly alienated from the other children, and had little interest in becoming familiar with the women, and they him. In this way, he was interested only in keeping to his father’s side.

Once apart, from the encampment on the beach-shore, he set about following after the loud cries and tramping scouts into the forest. Where others had felt a sense of trepidation upon entering it, Sigewulf felt none of that. To him, the forest was not a place of hostility but rather one of quiet fascination. It was an intriguing place, one which held mysteries both good and ill, yet somehow it did not seem menacing and he never had the impression that there were eyes on him at all times. To the contrary, he felt entirely alone in the universe and set about playing a little, pretending that he was hewing down Ealdwald and his wicked sons, with a stick he picked up, and then he had set about laying down his stick near one particular large tree.

The trunk of this great oak was so thick that not even his father could have encircled it entirely with his arms, with Sigewulf watching it in awe for several minutes. Eventually, he was to lay down his stick before it, as though in offering. What he said to the tree then, was this, “I lay this weapon of childhood before you, O Oak of Elder-Days. I lay it in full knowledge, and in the tradition passed to me by my brother, and sister, with the following oath; next I shall take up the sword. I shall never again play at being a warrior, because I will be a warrior and shall wield only an axe or a sword, and that in vengeance for my lost kinsmen. I thus offer to thee, this stick of mine along with my childhood and what remains of it, so that I might make father proud!”

The words were selected with the utmost care, and might well have melted the heart of even the proudest and coldest of men. Hroðgar though, was not present to bear witness to this weighty promise and had he been, he might well have been proud of his son and how he bore himself then. At present he was deeper in the forest, still searching about so that Sigewulf determined to prove himself was to venture deeper whither into the woodlands.

It was in this spirit that the previously frightened, Sigewulf resolved to never again be scared, to prove to his father that he could be no less brave and fearless as he. Setting out foolishly, to defy shadows of a past this forest had little more than the barest connection to. Unaware as he was of the darkness that lay within the forest or of the wickedness that had been wrought against, the men who had journeyed into the dark of the woods.

In this spirit of defiance, he stumbled upon the corpses of a great many of those who had stayed behind, on the orders of Hroðgar.

His will was at once tested by the vision of more than a dozen men, dead in the middle of the forest all adorned with a single or where some were concerned two arrows apiece. Each dart had carried with them death, and had left the men with expressions of surprise and pain, or even fear. Looking about, Sigewulf at once became filled with fear, and might have hidden himself were it not for the memory of his father.

“Father? Father!” He called out, determined to be brave and so stumbled further into the forest, after the shadow of his father.

It was thus that, he stumbled upon the man himself who as though summoned from the ether or from some dream, stumbled backwards into him, his hostage still held tightly within his grasp. Very nearly losing his grasp on the warrior he had pulled along in his arms, he was to turn about to discover his son behind him, Hroðgar was to gape at him for some time. “Sigewulf what in the Woden’s name, are you doing here?”

“I had thought to come aid you,” Sigewulf stuttered only to set eyes at last upon the man with the long ears, strange hair and even stranger glowing and glimmering eyes before him. “Father, who is that?”

“Never you mind, return at once my son to the ships lest we are all to be felled within this forest,” Hroðgar bellowed at him, desperately thrusting his hostage away from him to seize his son into his arms.

“Is this your son?” The Wilder-Elf queried quietly.

“Be quiet!” Hroðgar growled at the other male, striking him in the side so hard that his breath was stricken from his lungs.

Ordered back, past the corpses in the direction of the shore, Sigewulf did not question his father when battle-lust was upon him. Dreading what was sure to come, if Hroðgar was truly so frightened as to behave so irresolutely and irrationally as he had.

The two of them fled then from the forest, leaving behind them the wild-man with the strange markings on his face, and the strange glimmering gaze. Staring over his father’s shoulder at the distant figure, Sigewulf was to stare in fascination as the Elf was to turn away agitating his brothers at the distant trees. Calling out to his people, he was to speak to them, so that Sigewulf had the certainty that he was dissuading his kin from giving chase after them.

It was to prove a lasting influence over him, in the years to come as he learnt then what it was to have mercy for an enemy. Because it could not be mistaken, for aught else than mercy what that Elf had done for them.

Even the child could discern that though his father, had taken the other male hostage the truly vulnerable one in this situation, and was never the archer from deep within the forest. It was also at this time that he was to develop a fascination for the long-eared Elves, and their mysterious ways.

The return to the boats heralded a great many cries, as several of the people there reacted to them with exclamations of alarm when they saw the members of Hroðgar’s scouts returning one by one. Eventually it became rather more three by three, or nine at a time where the last few to flee the forest were concerned. It was as they fled, that those thereupon the shore and by the boats took in the sight of them and their cries of monsters in the dark that most began to hurry back onto the long-ships.

Ever a cautious fellow, the consternated Glædwine was to somehow by sheer force of will and personal authority, turn the desperate scramble into an organized one. Yelling at everyone to allow women and children aboard first, then men might follow, once this was done he was to turn next to Hroðgar, to ask of him. “What has happened? You are never a man to panic, yet here you are stricken with fear and desperation to regain the boats.”

“Yes, and let it be known that it is not out of some newly discovered cowardice for my part,” Hroðgar told him with many a worried glances over his shoulders.

“What possible reason could you have, for wishing me to test the seas once more, just as a storm is on the horizon?” Glædwine demanded of him waspishly, not at all happy with his pressing now the same counsel that the captain of the secondary ship had, not long ago.

“There are too many numbers in that forest,” Said the chief-scout reluctantly, adding for good measure, “I suspect they are all Elves there, and it seems that they blame us for the burning of several of their trees.”

“And did you burn any of their trees?” Glædwine asked impassively, a hint of disapproval in his voice.

“I had little choice, I needed a distraction Glædwine,” was Hroðgar’s justification, ere he added impatiently, “Yet even before that they were stricken with hatred for us. We both know the tales of such creatures that, when dislike enters the hearts of the forest-folk that they are unlikely to leave any survivors be they full-grown, or no.”

“You are right of course,” Glædwine conceded with a heavy sigh, “I dislike storms for they are risky affairs that are unlikely to leave even half the ships still above water, should we attempt to sail through them. But better less than half, than none.”

Hroðgar might have responded, as might have a number of others were it not for a hail of arrows that flew from the beach, high into the air only to land a short distance from where the encampment was to be found. Alarmed at this, the people were to pile onto the boats all the faster, with ever increasing flashes of worry and exclamations.

Disconcerted Hroðgar exchanged a glance with his friend, they both understood better than anyone what the hail of arrows were; a warning.

They set sail once more, within the hour and try as they might to avoid the storm they could not quite succeed. It was the view of Glædwine that they must find themselves another place to pull their boats up and to wait for the storm to pass over. This he was open about, with the whole of his crew and his other ships as he joined the other men behind an oar.

The crew threw their backs into their work. Desperation stoked by the hard winds and heavy waters that raged against their ships already.

Though the storm had yet to hit, and the boom of thunder was distant there was nonetheless a great deal of panic to every single one of the rowers’ movements. The wind was against them, and the storm was threatening each of them and they could barely see one another’s ships. It was for this reason that Hroðgar had ordered his son to sleep in the captain’s cabin, the only interior part of the ship, and was questioning his own decision to push to leave the Elf-lands.

“Look-out! Look-out! You bloody oaf, Fathmir what in the name of the gods are you doing? Do you see anything?” Glædwine was to demand furiously cursing at the only man not behind an oar, as he pulled his friend from his thoughts. “Is there land or no?”

“No- Oh wait there! There seems to be a speck of it, far to the north-west!” Fathmir the rat-faced and long-tailed Ratvian pointed out, finger extended as he turned to the captain excitedly. “There seems to be an island!”

“Good! Row! Row! Harder you curs, lest we be trapped in this storm and meet the dread-king of the waves far below!” Hroðgar yelled over the worsening wind at them all, as he bent forward even more than before.

The islet in question, was hoped to be Bretwealda, the ‘Lordly-Isle’, but as was soon pointed out to them soon enough by a perplexed Fathmir, this could not be. “Bretwealda is even further west, so what possible isle could that be? It was not there the last time, we voyaged past these parts captain.”

“What difference should such a fact make? We must reach it, ere the storm!” There was more that Glædwine said, but it was lost in the sea-spray that swept on deck from the side.

It was quite some time before anyone said aught else, panicked and stricken by fear of the waves and by the wrath of the gods they threw their backs into the oars all the more fiercely than before. Scared, they knew themselves to be peons in the face of the universe, specks bare worth remembering in comparison to the vastness of the sea. It was with many a tears and curses that the women aboard the other vessels prayed for pity and mercy, from Njord the sea-father, and his twin-children. The children clung to their skirts and wept bitterly for fear, with the men every single one of them proving his worth by bending his back, grunting and throwing himself into rowing with all his might.

Grudges were forgotten and rivalries left by the stern of the ship, as she threw herself into the storm. Rowing with all their might, they were utterly ignorant of the fact that they may well have been better with the Elves, than thereupon the islet where they were to seek refuge from Elf and storm alike.

It was as they rowed, and threw all that they had in them, to combat the storm that the booming thunder neared, and the storm struck.