A Wicked Winter: A Medieval Adventure

By Richard Watkins

In the medieval country of Noediem, Francois Cassel is squire to the knight Lauchant, who, with a company of the King’s Guard, sets off to rid the southern regions of a raiding band from neighbouring Ballenrue. Lauchant is injured in an encounter with the Ballenrue, but Francois Cassel strikes terror into the raiders and they flee.

King Rochfer of Noediem knights Francois for his deeds, but sends him to study with the high priest, Yulhara, so that he might learn about the strange powers he has exhibited.

Yulhara banishes Francois from Noediem for an alleged misdemeanor and Francois wanders westward into Wuntegrun, only to find that country and the walled town of Kapul gripped with terror by bands of marauding wolves.

Convinced the wolves are being organized by a greater power, Francois seeks out the wizard, Dreah-Gleig, the only one evil enough to concoct such a plan.

As Francois fights to rid Kapul and Wuntegrun of an invasion of wolves and Northmen, he finds the Ballenrue raiders are also seeking to exact revenge upon him.

On the battle-field with wolves, Northmen and Ballenure, Francois comes face to face with Dreah-Gleig - and the battle of their powers begins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jul 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664103757

Richard Watkins

Richard Watkins is an avid reader of military history. During fifty years as professional tax consultant, traveller, rally driver and navigator, and medieval re-enactor, Richard has developed a strong love of wild, desolate places and circumstances demanding immense human endurance. A member of the Historical Novel Society of Australia, Richard has been writing since early childhood, including a medieval trilogy. The Dead Mrs McIntyre is his first book in the gothic/mystery genre. Richard has two adult daughters and lives in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales, Australia, where he and his artist wife have converted a 138-year-old stone church into their private library and art gallery.

Book preview

A

Wicked

WINTER

A Medieval Adventure

Richard Watkins

Copyright © 2021 by Richard Watkins.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover design and photography by Jared Lyons

Rev. date: 06/07/2021

Xlibris

AU TFN: 1 800 844 927 (Toll Free inside Australia)

AU Local: 0283 108 187 ([phone] from outside Australia)

www.Xlibris.com.au

814744

Contents

Chapter 1    The Rout of The Ballenrue

Chapter 2    The Meeting in The Marshes

Chapter 3    Departure in Darkness

Chapter 4    The Castle on The Col Du Regir

Chapter 5    Yulhara’s Mountain

Chapter 6    The Gold Flowers

Chapter 7    Strange Lands

Chapter 8    The Death of Lord Kerlew

Chapter 9    Eyrie

Chapter 10    The Pact

Chapter 11    Treks to The Northern Stronghold

Chapter 12    Castle to Coast

Chapter 13    Confrontations

Chapter 14    Cold Kapul

Chapter 15    Gathering Strength

Chapter 16    The Battle of Rosdury Plain

Chapter 17    Hobgoblins O’r The Snow

Chapter 18    The Seething, Snarling Mass

Chapter 19    Kapul Cries

Chapter 20    Out of Exile

For David and Cathe

rine

I am not Eagle ey’d to face the Sun,

My mind is low, and so my Verse doth run.

I do not write of Stars to make men wonder.

Or Planets now remote they move asunder.

My shallow River thou may’st foord with ease,

Ways, which are fair, and plain can nere displease.

– Rowland Watkins, vicar of Llanfrynach, 1635–1664

CHAPTER 1

The Rout of The Ballenrue

O ver the crest of the hill, the figure of a boy appeared, running with his back against the late afternoon sky. He was panting, desperate to outrun his pursuer. He followed the rutted cart track down the slope, careful even in his haste not to twist an ankle in a horse-hoof hole. A second darkened figure appeared on the crest. ‘Francois!’ he cried.

Francois kept running. The second boy came after him, a furry mass dangling from his hand by a dark ropy tail. Francois kept his head down and ran.

The second boy stopped and began twirling his wrist till the furry body spun at the radius of a short sling. He released the tail from above his head, and the dead rat flew straight to Francois, hitting him in the back of the neck. Didi squealed with delight.

Francois dived, rolled, and came back to search for the rat in the grass. Didi slipped past, laughing. He was quickly at the bottom of the slope. Francois threw, but the rat fell short. He recovered it, but Didi was away along the track, running for his life.

Francois gained on his target with a heave of determined speed but flung the rat too wildly. It sailed over a wicker fence, deflected off the rough slate roof of a stable, and fell into the yard of the Tumeroh nunnery. Didi ran on, eventually slowing when he realised he was no longer threatened by the stinking missile.

Francois stopped at the gate in the wicker fence and hesitated before entering.

‘No!’ Didi cried, coming back. Francois pushed through the gate and walked slowly past the corner of the stable. Before him stretched the yard of the nunnery, the well, a stone bell tower, and the dormitory building.

Didi was at the gate. ‘No!’ he called in a harsh whisper. ‘Come back.’

Lady Eunice stood by the well, hauling on the windlass. She took the small bucket of water and poured the contents into a pewter bowl. Around her stood a semicircle of girls, none older than twelve, each one naked.

Didi was at Francois’s side, tugging at his arm. ‘You must not come in here when the nuns are washing the girls!’ Francois pulled his arm free. Lady Eunice raised the bowl to a girl’s head, soaking a cloth in the water. Didi scampered away out of the gate.

Francois stood in the open yard, in front of the stable. Lady Eunice was side-on to him, as was the girl facing her, and the others showed him their backs. The youth stepped forward. Lady Eunice wiped the body of the girl in front of her and then poured the spare water from the basin over the girl’s head. Water cascaded down the young skin like molten silver poured from a crucible.

When the lady turned to draw more water from the well, she saw Francois, and her mouth fell open in astonishment. The girls stood rigid in their discipline. Francois was enthralled by the scene, unable to move. Lady Eunice formed her lips to speak, but no words came forth. It was prohibited, unthinkable, and blasphemous for any male to witness the preparation of the girls for their first mass. This child should be hounded from their presence, nay, better still, caught and severely punished for this intrusion. At the very least, he should be remonstrated. Lady Eunice could do nothing.

Francois stared at the nun, held her eyes with his own, and felt that he could resist any effort to rebuke him or have him removed. He could stay for as long as he wished and yet projected no impression of audacity. His only reason for staying was because he had the power to do so, against Lady Eunice’s wishes.

The damp and brooding of the evening began to close in, and some of the girls began to shiver, though none turned to see the intruder. Francois waited until he was sure his presence controlled Lady Eunice’s silence, and then he turned and walked out of the gate in the wicker fence. His friend Didier had long since returned to his family’s dwelling in the city of Tumeroh, and Francois set off for his own. The dead rat remained forgotten in the grass in the nunnery yard.

It was an experience that Francois always remembered. The incident was not reported by Lady Eunice, and even Didier never mentioned the time his friend did the unthinkable. On several occasions, Francois felt he had the ability to impose his will over other people’s authority but never so strongly as that time in the yard of the nunnery. In the following year, his father, Turen Cassel, a merchant of Northern Tumeroh, applied to the Monks of the Predetian Order to have Francois admitted for schooling. Though not of high birth, Turen’s position in the community, and his work for the church, enabled him to secure a rudimentary education for his son, who seemed to be somewhat brooding and moody of late.

Francois’s sisters, Gaile and Kalan, remained at home to be tutored by their mother, which was no easy task for Madele because the girls, even at the at the ages of 6 and 3, were bright-eyed and lively, with flashing smiles, songs, and sudden laughter. Francois was just over 7 when he said farewell to his boyhood friend ‘Didi’ and set off for the monastery on the hill north of the city.

Francois made friends quickly with Alloi and Bruille, two of the monks who gave him lessons. He often thought of telling them of his incident in the nunnery, but the routine and disciplines kept by the monks allowed no time for fanciful discussions. No speaking was permitted amongst the novices during the daylight hours, and a curfew was imposed from dusk till two hours before sunrise. However, Francois’s friendship with the two monks, and his proven ability as a hunter in the nearby forests, allowed the youth the chance to escape his tutorial duties some days and roam the overgrown lanes and glens with Alloi or Bruille, which often resulted in fine game supplementing the otherwise puritanical fare which served to sustain the monks in their devotions.

On one such excursion, Bruille and Francois rested from the hunt on the trunk of a giant fallen tree. Francois asked his tutor if it was possible to stare a person into submission so that one could impose his will upon the other. Bruille, understandably, took the question in an academic context and gave Francois a long answer based on prayer, devotion and faith.

Francois succeeded in his studies at the monastery, so much so that Alloi and Bruille recommended his services to the king, and he was taken into the charge of the Knight Lauchant. Francois’s six years with the Predetian monks were thus compounded by a further seven years under the Knight Lauchant in Tumeroh castle. The monks, however, still took a keen interest in their protégé, and during spells in his training with Lauchant, they took him back and plied him with more naive studies in philosophy, astronomy, and ancient languages. Time and again, Francois attempted to question his mentors on the power he believed he could exert over others, but the intervening years since he had stunned Lady Eunice into silence had dulled his perception of the circumstances and the answers that he sought.

‘When it happens again’, Alloi told him calmly, ‘come to us, and we will do our best to explain this strange phenomenon.’

Since that afternoon in the yard of the nunnery, both of Francois’s sisters had been bathed by an ageing Lady Eunice and prepared for their masses of initiation. Francois returned to Tumeroh castle one evening, and while the young squires expounded their theories on combat and chivalry, Francois stared into the central fire in the cold barracks hall and said nothing. There were many things on which he could not make up his mind.

In the seventh year of Francois Cassel’s attendance as squire to the Knight Lauchant, reports reached Tumeroh castle of a Ballenrue raiding party that had crossed Noediem’s southern border and begun pillaging the border hamlets. After King Breden of Ballenrue had been murdered, presumably by his nephew, Kertec, that country was removed from the code of civilization enjoyed by the surrounding lands. Kertec assumed the throne but became too distracted with his devious court to be bothered with the deterioration of his country. Bands of Kertec’s soldiers took it upon themselves to tax the villagers and townsfolk, confiscating livestock and whatever meagre treasure they could find. If they met any resistance from the small groups of King Breden’s sympathisers, determined to avenge their true monarch’s death, blood was spilled. This state of civil war provided a natural breeding ground for robbers, and the countryside became lawless and wild.

In Noediem, King Rochfer was determined not to involve his people with a country that had reverted to clan fighting and barbarism. But when he heard that raiders had crossed the River Elgn and ransacked his own villages, he despatched the Knight Lauchant, squire Cassel and fifty horsemen of the king’s guard to herd the marauders back across the border into their own wretched territory.

For three days, Lauchant and Cassel rode southwards, taking the hospitality that the vassals were obliged to give, while the guardsmen bivouacked outside the villages. On the fourth morning, as Lauchant and Francois were mounting their stallions, a peasant boy galloped his scavenged horse into the village. The mare’s flanks were foamed and heaving, and the breathless boy told Lauchant that the Ballenrue raiders had attacked his village of Ruthan, fifteen kilometres to the south, in the first light of dawn.

‘They have come farther north than I expected,’ said Lauchant. ‘We leave at once!’ he called to the captain of the guards who had approached to investigate. At Lauchant’s words, Bramer reined his horse around and returned to where the guards were already assembled and mounted.

The boy from Ruthan wept. ‘The Ballenrue, they have burnt the village and killed most of the menfolk. They are barbarians!’

Lauchant had not heard. He was already cantering away, the king’s guards falling in behind him. Francois tarried though, transfixed by the terror in the boy’s pale eyes; flushed cheeks; straggly, wet blonde hair; feet hardly reaching the bottom of the tall roan’s belly. The boy watched the knight ride away to avenge the atrocities and then lowered his head till it rested on the horse’s neck. Francois galloped his own horse after that of his master.

They rode nearly ten kilometres south into the wooded hills before Lauchant halted. He beckoned to Francois, who still trailed behind, and to Bramer, and in the midmorning drizzle, Lauchant issued instructions.

‘If the Ballenrue were coming farther north, we would have met them by now. I believe after leaving Ruthan, they would have headed east towards Yelthowin. It is an isolated town, with richer pickings than Ruthan, or the way we have come.’

He looked to the sky, but the low heavy clouds hid the height of the sun. He then looked upon the battle-worn face of Bramer.

‘Ride fast, and we can catch them,’ Lauchant cried. He reined his horse around and started moving away. ‘Keep to the high ground!’ he shouted over his shoulder as he urged his stallion to a gallop.

Lachaunt led Francois and the guardsmen south-eastward, working their way higher into the hill country, following wooded trails and cattle tracks through grassy sloping fields as he came upon them. Much of their ride was through the high forest, and Lachaunt plotted their path by instinct, never slowing to deliberate the way. Not knowing the length of the ride ahead of them but realising that the Ballenrue would not have stayed at the scene of their early morning plunder for long, he kept his horsemen at an urgent pace.

Morning had gone when the company of horsemen cleared the last northern-facing forest and reached the top of the Gelgin Range, the highest land formation between the Guhldar River in the north and Elgn River in the south. Here, the company paused for a moment and viewed the landscape before them.

Bank after bank of folding hills fell away southwards, to the narrow lowland of the Melga River, a minor tributary of the Elgn. On the far side of the Melga, the hills rose again. This vast scene was clothed in forest in the valley and grasslands on the upper slopes of the hills. Far to the right of the horsemen’s vantage point, hidden amongst the folds of the southern skirts of the Gelgin Range, lay the ravaged village of Ruthan. The larger town of Yelthowin, more than a day’s ride to the east, also stood between the Gelgin Range and the Melga River.

After a brief rest for the horses, the company was off again, riding hard along the top of the range. A full stretch across the roof of the world as he knew it, Francois was charged with exhilaration. There was no rain now, but a cold wind tautened the skin across his cheekbones as he pulled his cloak further across his chest and let the spirit and strength of his horse surge through his body.

For three leagues, they galloped eastward, before Lauchant sighted a spring gurgling out through the ferns a short distance down the slope and called a halt. Circling back, Lauchant was the first to descend to the spring to let his horse drink, followed by the guardsmen. Francois stayed atop the ridge, gazing out over the Melga valley. His horse refreshed, Lauchant climbed back to join him.

‘What do you look to, Cassel?’

‘The valley, my lord. The Ballenrue are down there.’

‘Yes, Cassel. Somewhere down there. We must . . .’

‘Not somewhere, my lord. At the base of that far hill to the left, closest to the stream. The Ballenrue are moving through the forest.’

Lauchant stared at Cassel in disbelief for a moment and then checked himself. He dropped his eyes and looked out over the hills, seeing nothing but faraway rain falling on shapeless trees in the distant valley.

‘Are they many?’ he asked quietly.

‘They outnumber us. Half as many again, I think.’

‘Do they move quickly?’

‘No, they move slowly. They carry some wounded, I would say. And carts of plunder.’

The Knight Lauchant called to Bramer, who stood with his horsemen by the spring, and ordered him to ready his troops and lead them down from the range into the valley.

‘But, my lord!’ the captain protested. ‘We travel quickest by staying on the ridge.’

Lauchant was not perturbed by this questioning of his orders. Through the many long and bitter campaigns he had shared with Bramer against Noediem’s enemies, he had learnt that Bramer was never disloyal but always kept the best interests of the particular assignment foremost in his mind and feared no man when he spoke.

‘That is true, Captain. But if we descend into the valley now, we may find our enemies close at hand.’

Though Bramer was a fierce and gruesome warrior, he did not trust that which he could not understand. Above him on the ridge now, he saw the knight on horseback beside the squire Cassel, about whom he knew very little. He served Cassel a distrustful frown before bidding his men to begin the descent.

Hill by hill, the company moved down from the range, always working towards the east, until they entered the forest that covered the lower regions of the valley. When they reached the valley lowland, their pace quickened again, soon meeting the river and following its flow.

Lauchant led through oaks and elms, his mighty dark stallion finding an easy path over the low forest undergrowth. Francois followed at a short distance, concentrating entirely on the trees ahead, ready to sense the slightest movement of a Ballenrue rearguard. Bramer kept his guardsmen in close formation, favouring a fighting unit over a ragged pursuit team.

The afternoon had grown old, and dusk threatened when Francois caught the shimmer of branches that he sought. For a moment, he drew level with Lauchant, pointed ahead, and shouted his find. Lauchant’s reaction was immediate. He signalled to Bramer, some forty metres behind, and only briefly visible through the trees, and then commanded his cantering horse to gallop, lifting his shield and drawing his sword as he did so.

Francois Cassel, mildly astonished by this reaction, was left behind. Grasping the severity of the situation, the closeness of the Ballenrue after so long a pursuit, he quickly gave chase.

* * * * *

Four weeks north of the Elgn weighed heavily on the Ballenrue raiders. They had moved ceaselessly from village to village, slaying without resistance and stealing without pleasure, for the pickings were poor. Now many of the Ballenrue became disgruntled with the tiresome traipsing, with no real spoils to gloat over. These men were cold-blooded murderers, and one worthwhile battle, spear to spear and sword against helm, was what they wanted. No more pitiful villages; only the ravaging of a larger town or city would satisfy their hunger now.

Gertag, the Ballenrue leader, was a giant of a man. He cloaked himself in the skin of a bear and hung at his side a huge double-handed sword which few men could lift, let alone wield, and he was well aware of his raiders’ grumblings. Ruthan, he told them, had a church, which will yield gold and precious stones. After that, new plans would be made. But the raid on Ruthan proved to be nearly disastrous for the Ballenrue.

After riding non-stop for a day and a night, they had come to the edge of the forest surrounding the village, an hour before dawn. In a hurried council, Gertag had overruled his captains who had wanted to rest during the day and attack at night. Gertag had feared their presence would be detected during the day and had ordered his weary raiders to attack at once.

Two peasants of Ruthan, tilling their meagre field in the first light of dawn, saw the Ballenrue emerge from the woods, and ran into the village to raise the alarm. Rumours of raided villages had the folk of Ruthan prepared as best they could, and there ensued a desperate, bloody battle. Some of the weary barbarians fell victim to the peasants’ scythes, before the sheer weight of numbers, and the terrible blade of Gertag’s sword brought eventual ruin to Ruthan. But there was no church.

A scanty chapel in one of the elders’ huts yielded some coins and poor silver chattels, and in the woods beside the burning village, another council was held.

‘No more these pigsties!’ Zolde demanded, holding cloth to a gash down his cheek. Gertag stared down from his horse, his bloodstained bearskin bulking at his hunched shoulders, accentuating his huge form. Weary eyes brooded beneath the sweaty black hair that escaped from the tight metal helmet.

‘We have fought for nothing – all these weeks,’ Zolde ranted. ‘We have collected three cart loads of rubbish to return with to our homes. We will be jeered.’

Gertag stared at Zolde. Rebellion in his own barbarous horde had to be quashed, but he could not fight them all.

‘Gertag, you are a great warrior,’ Zolde appealed. He did not want rebellion; he did not want to kill Gertag. But he spoke for the raiders, and they wanted a change of course and no compromise now after Ruthan. If Gertag could not be convinced, then he would contest the leadership.

‘Those filthy peasants have killed ten of our warriors’, he said, ‘for which they have paid. And those of us that are left are more than eager for a proper battle. You, Gertag, can lead us to that.’

Gertag looked across at Habish the Slayer, whom he knew would support him in any battle – against their enemies or his own marauders. Habish sat astride a dirty white horse and gripped a spear that reached from the ground to its cruel point, half a metre above his helmet. Habish returned the gaze. Whatever Gertag decided, he would back up. Gertag turned to Zolde again.

‘Yelthowin, in three days’ time,’ he said. ‘We will move slowly so that the men can rest on their horses.’

Zolde was satisfied, and the horde gathered itself and moved away through the woods, leaving Ruthan to smoulder.

Strung out through the forests along the northern bank of the Melga, the Ballenrue rode wearily while stolen horses drew their carts of worthless plunder.

Habish followed the main body of raiders, happy enough with their present course. Gertag would have attacked Yelthowin eventually but not in the manner that Zolde planned. Habish knew what Zolde was telling the raiders now – an open attack. A day or two would be spent preparing ladders, honing weapons, gathering strength. Zolde might even construct a battering ram. Then, when all was ready, he and Gertag would lead the raiders to the main gate of the walled town and force their way in. Zolde was courageous but a fool, Habish mused.

When Gertag decided to raid Yelthowin, Habish knew it would be with stealth and cunning. At night, Gertag would enter the wall through one of the lesser-known gates, destroy a section of the town, kill any resistance, gather treasure, and retreat before a proper force of defenders could be raised. The profits would be less than if the entire town was plundered, but the chances of Zolde’s plan of attack being successful were, to Habish’s mind, virtually nil.

As he followed the carts across a wide clearing in the woods in the late afternoon, Habish envisaged another confrontation between Zolde and Gertag in the woods outside Yelthowin, more intense than that held in the woods outside Ruthan that morning.

Still, thought Habish, as he watched the carts ahead of him approach the trees on the far side of the clearing, Zolde’s talk at present had its advantages. These young foolish raiders, weary with travel and fleeting skirmish, would be heartened by Zolde’s schemes and plans of grand siege.

The sound of a horse behind him broke Habish from his musings, and he spun his horse around. A knight on horseback, sword drawn and shield gleaming, was charging at him across the clearing. A Noedieman, he thought, instinctively shouldering his heavy spear. I can take him alone, but how many more are following? Our strongest warriors are too far ahead to summon. Gertag should have expected a counter raid by now. Habish’s mind shuffled these thoughts quickly while gauging the diminishing distance between himself and the attacker.

Lauchant checked his horse’s charge momentarily as he neared the huge mass of the Ballenrue raider and saw the spear. He knew he had committed himself and must complete the action while he still had some momentum and the slightest edge of surprise. His horse resumed its charge, and he brought his shield up to cover his left shoulder against the spear held in his foe’s right hand. His right arm ached as he lifted his sword over his head, and the distance closed to ten metres.

Habish kept his horse quite still and left the spear weighing on his shoulder until the moment and target were just right. Then in an instant of immense strength, he raised the shaft back and threw with carefully judged force, not at the shield but across to the knight’s unprotected right shoulder, following through with all the weight of his upper body, till his chin touched his horse’s mane.

The impact broke Lauchant’s shoulder, catapulting him backwards over his horse’s rump, and he fell heavily to the ground, sword and shield crashing about him. While Lauchant’s stallion cantered on for some moments, Habish swung his horse around to the direction whence the raiders had disappeared, put a horn to his lips, and blew three long notes.

Francois Cassel broke through the undergrowth of the woods and onto the edge of the clearing and at once learnt the fate of his master. On hearing the horn blasts, he halted. The huge Ballenrue raider, away across the clearing, had not seen him yet but would as soon as he turned. Francois waited to see what other forces those strident notes might summon.

Francois ignored his master lying motionless on the ground and concentrated on the farthest edge of the clearing, sensing the approach of enemy warriors. The Ballenrue in the clearing turned and saw Francois. He dropped the horn from his hand and was about to draw his sword, when Francois shifted his gaze to stare at him. Something stopped Habish. His horse shied and stamped the turf with uneasiness. Francois stared as the Ballenrue raider made no attempt to stop his horse stepping backwards several paces.

Francois then saw two Ballenrue horsemen gallop from the far woods, but when they saw Francois, they checked their steeds immediately. Francois saw them scrutinise him as best they could from the distance across the clearing and in the failing light. He watched as Gertag and Zolde advanced cautiously to where Habish now held his ground, and the three gruesome barbarians, astride seventeen-hand horses, stood together.

Francois let his horse walk forward slowly as his eyes sought the eyes of his enemies – to take their gaze, all three, and hold it.

When Bramer reached the edge of the forest clearing, he motioned his guards to advance no further. While the guards fanned out along the tree line, Bramer took stock of the scene before him. The armoured figure on the ground must be the Knight Lauchant, for there was his horse, wandering. The young squire Cassel was in front of him, in the clearing, and moving towards three barbarians who did not seem to challenge but who sat on their horses as if unable to advance or retreat.

Bramer was at first intrigued, and then concerned, and finally horrified as he saw the squire Cassel draw his sword and hold it away from his body so that the blade became an extension of his outstretched arm.

Francois’s back straightened, his head attaining its greatest possible height, and his muscles tautened. It appeared to Bramer that the squire was about to charge the barbarian warriors. A foolhardy act, but Cassel did not appear foolish. Though Bramer viewed Francois from behind, he felt that the squire held great confidence and command. He wondered whether the squire was about to hail the Ballenrue, but Francois uttered no sound. He held his poise, with sword outstretched, while complete silence descended upon the clearing, and the chill of the gathering evening started to bite the faces of the Noediem guards as they watched from beneath the trees.

There was no wind, no movement, and no sound, but distress inevitably took hold of the three raiders. They had not advanced from where Habish the Slayer had halted but walked their horses in small circles in an attempt to keep them calm, muttering amongst themselves, questioning the flight of their courage, demanding the return of their strength to enable them to cut down this solitary