[piosenniel]

Archim slouched in his saddle, letting the reins sit idly on his horse’s neck. Korokoroch ambled along at the end of the line that Fréa led, as interested in the surrounding countryside as his master. Hama, for some reason, rode along at his side, and often they would both throw out comments toward the two older brothers that it was hardly likely the Hyldesons would be tromping along a public road. Archim had come to a grudging respect for the guard his brother had threatened into coming with them.

They were three days up the Old North Road when Fréa’s patience with the pointed comments from the rear guard came to an end. Archim watched with sly interest as his brother’s hand went to the hilt of his dagger. He was beyond caring what Fréa’s next action would be, and to be honest was in the mood for a fight. He picked up the reins with one hand and loosened the dagger at his own belt.

He was surprised as Fréa mastered his anger and agreed to head east in hopes of finding traces of Brytta and his troop. Archim’s hand left his dagger and he smiled crookedly at Hama. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, kicking his mount in the flanks.

Hama and Archim took the lead as they headed east, across the rolling hills and tall grass of the downs.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A day and a half later, they were within a few hours ride of the Weather Hills. Even Archim was beginning to grant the fact that this may have been a useless trip – they had seen signs of no one in the area with the exception of yesterday’s meeting with an elderly sheep farmer and his small flock. And he had no news for them, only a warning that they should avoid the area north of the Weather Hills.

‘Times have been hard,’ he told them, leaning on his staff, a stalk of grass in his teeth. ‘There be rough men in them parts since the war ended. A few bands of ‘em wiv nuffink to do ‘cept bother honest folk.’ He eyed them, wondering if these were another kind of ruffian bent on causing trouble. ‘Best you be sticking to the Old Road. Like honest men’d do.’ His voice trailed off as his gaze swept over the land seeking the whereabouts of his little flock.

‘Honest men, eh?!’ snorted Archim to himself. The old fellow wandered off after a straying lamb and the brothers and Hama gathered round for a quick conference. ‘These ruffians sound like an old man’s pipe dreams,’ Archim said, No one mentioned any ruffians to me while we were in Bree.’ Hama took Archim’s side saying that they’d seen no evidence of anything other than the old man and his sheep in these parts, and that they should press on toward the Hills.

Again the little alarm bell went off in Fréa’s head, but he was pressed hard by Archim and Hama, and even Graitwa said what could it hurt to just see what lay at the nearby northern end of the Hills. Reluctantly he let Archim and Hama take the lead again while he and Graitwa fell back at rear guard.

It was nearing evening as they road through the last of the tall swaying grass and approached the base of the hills. Archim and Hama had discovered they shared a broad knowledge of tavern songs and were in the midst of singing to each other the one about the Man in the Moon and his taste for ale. Their verses echoed off the sides of the hills and rang loud across the grasses.

Too late, Fréa hissed at the two of them to be quiet. They had just come to a small dip in the plain, in an area at the foot of the hills, speckled with rocky outcroppings.

From behind the tall grass and rocks on either side of them, stepped out four men. They had lain in wait for the horsed party, crouching down in position as the Forgoil’s and Hama drew near. Two of them held swords as they stood up, menacing the riders and their horses. Behind, were two ruffians bearing spears, and their long wicked points were pointed threateningly at Fréa and Graitwa.

‘Well, my little songbirds,’ said the tallest man with a sword. He was ragged and dirty, and his face bore the ill-healed scars of old battles. ‘What treasures have you brought for old Will, eh?’ He looked them over with his one good rheumy eye. ‘You look plump and well fed, and you ride some fine horses.’ His patchy eyebrows went up a little as he surveyed Fréa’s mount. ‘They’ll fetch a fair price, I’m thinking.’ ‘Nice clothes and boots, too. They’ll do nicely.’ He noted the saddlebags behind each man. ‘And what you got in there, laddies. Enough to get us through the winter, I’m thinking.’

‘Get down from your horses, boys! You won’t be needing them any more.’

The four ruffians closed in on the brothers and Hama. One of the men with a sword grabbed at Kokoroch’s reins. In a split second Archim’s left hand snatched out his dagger and threw it, sticking the man in the side of the neck with it. With his right hand he drew his short sword and slashed at the man’s arm, knocking his hand from the reins.

The others, mobilized by his action, dove into the fray . . .