Hondscioh

Régnwald blinked rapidly as the dim light, broken only by the two large fire pits at the hall's center, took over from light. At his first step, he gazed into the heavy gloom above the rafters. Carved Mearas reared, nostrils wide, their hooves kicking the open air and as they looked down on the Eorling, with a deeply-drawn breath, he advanced onward.

''I will show you the way.'' spoke then the watchman.

Son of Régn, and Breca's bastard son named Hondscioh, loaded with their weaponry — shield, sword and spear, rode slowly across the even ground, led by Thorkel, the watchman of Harwick with his horse.

As they drew nigh to Harwick, moss-ridden rock would rise on either side, boulders and irregular ridges suggesting menacing shapes.

The wild west wind blew fiercely once more in the Mark. Upon the hills, two tiny figures on horses were seen racing with great haste southward, to the meadows of the Wold, dwarfed by the towering snow-capped mountains. The horses were large with sweat, their breath a white cloud in the chilly air as they stretched under their heavy riders adorned in war-nets.

''The hour grows late, Régnwald, if we want to head on.''

''An ambush?'' the word escaped Langhund's mouth.

Somewhere up ahead, the cry of an owl pierced the leaden silence and woke the Eorling from his musings. Régnwald turned his head, his eyes gliding over the grey sky and he advanced forth, the hair was long, straw in hue and tangled as the shrugs he often found himself clambering through. Adorning him were a tattered mess of skins patched around his byrnie, stitched together with as much skill as he could manage on his own. The snow drenching everything.

Darkness fell in the winter forest. Mist lying beyond the small band of Eorlings, among the trees low. Régnwald slowed the company to a halt. He instructed, "We shall camp here in the woods for the night. Let a fire be built and a guard posted." As the order was sealed with a firm nod, he dismounted his horse and his feet found the ground, leaving a hard song of clinking battered war-nets as he paced onward. Régnwald finally took off his helmet, and he would be at least equally fast to shed the iron-welded gauntlets he was wearing.

The snow was falling in frightening masses from the starless sky. Régnwald furrowed his brow as he looked back the way they had come earlier, his fingers subconsciously working the collar of the heavy leather cloak with the cape of wolf-fur over his shoulders, tightening it around his neck. It was cold, and the wind was further picking up. It was no storm yet, but it would soon become one. No weather to make for the narrow pathway to the hills, least of all by night.

THE PAST...

''A mighty man in byrnie are you, of proven bravery, bold in battle. Into my war-band will you come, to serve as warrior and counsel wise words?''

Warrior: Aye!

Régnwald opened his eyes after what seemed like winters to him. A grim, worried expression growing in his lined features as he turned to gaze upon the maiden. What has she said, he thought. A hand finding the moisted rag embracing his chest, and he once attempted to study his wound, a deep sigh of pain following, which would mayhap be enough for Faerhild to wake up if she had not.