Dunland

♦

Early Autumn. Year 3013 of the Third Age.

Somewhere in Dunland.

♦

Night has fallen and on the hilltop among thick trees the camp lies in conniving silence. Watchmen walk the perimeter of the grounds, unseen, while the wounded lie in well earned rest. There is a thick cloth covering around the woman’s hip, a shimmer of light red in the dark, as her breast heaves in troubled feverish dream. Tuilinneth in her hand clutches the arrowhead, removed from her flesh mere hours earlier.

The pledge-raid had been, as Cerrynt heard it, equal parts force and stealth. They had avoided notice, and bloodshed, as much as possible, but had also terrorized a farm-family and killed their guard dog. Cerrynt had been meant to be part of it, though she had never learned what her part would be; at that time, she'd hardly ever seen a horse, had never been near one. Had never seen a forgoil, either. But due to a misunderstanding about days and times, she hadn't been there.

When the stars were first coming out and the bonfire at the overlook was just being built, the wind had been keen, a hungry voice in the rocks like the world itself longing for something it could never have. The air was calm now, but for Cerrynt it felt no less turbulent, for while the air might be at rest, her feet, light as clouds, flung her through it as keenly as if the wind still raced heedlessly towards the horizon.

Soaked and stinking of Isen-marsh, Gryffudd climbed the high hill west of Tros Hynt. He paid his feet no heed except when he stumbled, which was often. Looking up, he watched the clouds as they grazed their gentle fingers across the moon. The crescent was a sliver in the sky—a wink. Swaying, the man pushed an upright pointer finger against his lips, shushed, and winked back.

After his perilous journey from Enedwaith and month into living amidst the Avanc-lûth, Iofan meets the princeling of the Eryr-lûth,