The host of Gruen plodded southward in a long, mournful procession that stretched near a mile on the old Fywater road. To their left brooded the murky forest, her shadows alive with birdcalls and the faint rustling of creatures meek and monstrous. To their right flowed the Fywater, no longer wide and shallow, coursing gently in the open sward of Briganta, but a stony, swirling torrent, an ever-narrowing fermentation tumbling from the highlands. Veiled by the towering wall of evergreens, the foothills unfolded, climbing southwards into the great white peaks beyond.
Near the head of the column creaked the wagon bearing the remains of Ceryd Rex, tightly bound in canvas and wrapped in the banner of Gruen. Cerenid rode behind, silent and grim while those who rode beside him spoke in hushed laments of “Such a brief rein” and “What a fine rex he would have made.”
Upon the third eve of their slow march, they came upon the village of Wargsdale, which was an arrangement of humble huts and a longhouse that served alike as great hall and temple. Within the longhouse they placed the remains of Ceryd and pitched their tents upon the green to take their rest for the evening. Ceryd’s remains were ever guarded, and his face was uncovered so that villagers were permitted to gather to look upon it and mourn as custom bade.
Ceryd, once radiant with youthful command, had become pale and blue about the lips and hollow at the eyes. The villagers filed past to view him with bowed heads, murmuring prayers and fragments of old chants.
O One whose spirit fills each soul,
Guide the dead to River Thol.
Before they drink to cleanse their past…
…The die of fate be fairly cast.
Cerenid took no meal, nor did he remain long in vigil of his beloved brother. With naught but a nod to his guard, he retired early to the solitude of his tent. But deep in the night he was awoken by the clamor of shouting and the pounding of frantic footfalls. Bursting into the chill air, he beheld flames flickering through the windows of the long house and smoke wisping through its thatch roof against the backdrop of the fire glow. His first thought was of his brother, who lay in state within and townsfolk attempting to brave the flames to retrieve his remains.
Villagers swarmed about, rushing to and from the well with sloshing buckets, crying out in despair and dread lest their hall be consumed. Cerenid remained at the threshold of his tent, transfixed by the roar and whirl of flame, the glow upon the sweating faces, the heat that rolled across the village green like a boiling wave.
As his gaze followed the figures darting to the well, their path caused him to notice his guard was not at his post and had joined in the desperate commotion. A heartbeat later, he spotted Una emerging from the flames’ glow, approaching, treading with haste, two Blodwins of arms on either side, their flowing cloaks scorched by flame, both drawing their blades.
Fearing their purpose, he stepped back by instinct. But just as he did, a hand clamped hard upon his neck. A dark figure loomed at his flank with a blade already poised to plunge between his ribs.
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“Put down your dagger, fool!” Una shouted, her crisp pitch cutting through the din of chaos.
Startled by Una’s command, the would-be assassin twisted to flee, but instead, his face met the weight of a hammer blow, crushing his nose and knocking him to the dirt, blinded and gasping. The Blodwin guards pounced, beating him soundly with mailed fists and booted heels until he lay bloodied and groaning.
“Stand him up,” Una commanded. The assassin was hauled upright between them, swaying like a broken reed. Cerenid watched, frozen by confusion as Una peered into the assassin’s broken face, searching through her memory. Frowning, she took his hand and examined his ring.
“I know thee,” she observed. “Thou art Kaldwin Fy, seventh son of Reik Korbin…” Her voice twisted into scorn. “Are there so few men of talent left in Fywold that your father must must hazard his own brood upon murder?”
Kaldwin answered not, feigning the stupor of a man half-senseless though his eyes flickered with panicked wit.
From behind came pounding hoofbeats. Three riders approached, each clad in the deep blue capes in the custom of House Fy.
“Unhand him,” barked the foremost. “Deliver unto us the rex, and ye shall live.”
Una laughed with mocking disdain. “Ye shall let me live? Know ye not who I am?”
“We heed no wenches nor weavers,” the rider spat. “Stand aside, woman.”
“Una’s voice dropped to a cool, deadly calm. “Take heed of thy tongue. I am Una, daughter of Mendo, Reik of Dregrove.”
The riders stiffened, though their weapons did not lower. “It matters not,” another snarled. “We came for Cleon’s son, not for thee.” Then another rider spoke, “You should rejoice in our finishing the job your brother started. Hand him over or be cut down.”
Una stepped forward, eyes as ruthless as a dragon’s reflecting the flames. “Perhaps thou wilt cut me down ere thy blade find the rex. But hear this: should aught befall either of us, House Fy shall have enemies on two”
She gestured to the groaning Kaldwin. “If this witless whelp is the best thy house can muster, I would not wager a single copper that ye last beyond the coming winter. My brother Madrot, hardened like steel by lies, is soon to be the reik to your west. If I fail to return, he shall know the hand that felled me. And my sister, left without a son or heir, would become rikia to your east. Together, they will come upon Fywold, cut down your house root and branch, fire your town, and salt your fields so nothing living returns.”
A silence followed, broken only by the roar of flames and the cries of villagers dousing the longhouse roof which had caught fire. The riders remained in their saddles, staring, silent.
“Choose thy fate!” Una demanded, drawing her knife.
The Fy riders conferred in harsh whispers, their faces like wights in the glow. At last, the leader jerked his chin. “Kaldwin, Come!” The wounded assassin stumbled forward, and a rider hauled him up behind his saddle. And with a final glare of thwarted malice, they wheeled their mounts and vanished into the night.
Una sheathed her blade with a weary exhale. “Nephew,” she said softly, “thou must take greater care. The shadow of your father’s deeds follow thee still.”
The River Thol is the theological waterway in the afterlife where, once souls have chosen their next life, they must drink of its waters to forget their past lives before entering the mortal realm again.
