They came before dawn, the men from the ring-fort; their lights were like fireflies in the distance, darting and bobbing, harmless as insects. I was fortunate enough to have taken a watch upon the palisade, and I shouted an alarm as soon as the first distant spear point reflected its bearer’s torch, gleaming sharp and wicked. Fog lay on the ground like a heavy blanket, turning the trees into soft shadows and hiding the undergrowth. The path through the forest was a treacherous one, and more than one torch fell into the mist and went out.
Ansgard led them from the back of a black horse—Bran, wearing a different saddle and flicking his ears in agitation, coming out of the trees like a specter. The rest of the men were on foot.
My hand tightened around my harpoon. How dare this obsequious coward presume to ride my horse. Ansgard had never seen the steppe. He had never fought alongside the daughter of the stargazer to earn her respect, nor had he walked with Bran over the endless miles that had led us here. He had no right to lay a hand upon my horse, much less saddle him up to ride against me.
Continue reading “Journey to the Water Chapter LVIII: King Wulfric’s Frontier”
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