[Undómë]

Bregoware

Rædwald


It was harder to see things in the distance he noted as he’d gotten older. Rædwald squinted his eyes toward the gutted, burnt out village, focusing on the central area. ‘Does look like Tryggr’s place. It had a nice, cozy little mead hall next to it as I recall. And there in that open square where the town would meet - well that was where Meghan saw the funeral pyre.’ He took a bite from the apple Sythric had given him and chewed on it thoughtfully.

‘You know, I doubt there was much left of the townspeople after the Orcs came through. I wonder who it was that took the time to honor the dead? Who else would have come through this way, do you think?’

Rædwald took the offered pipe and puffed on it contentedly for a few moments before handing it back to his companion. ‘Looks like the rest of them are beginning to wake up.’ He grinned, seeing Meghan rise from her blankets and give a mighty yawn, then rub her face in an effort to wake herself up fully.

He yelled over to her in a good natured way. ‘Bout time you got out of bed youngster! Us old soldiers be needing a cup or two of hot, strong tea, if you please. Been up early guarding you, you know . . . keeping you safe from dangers in the dark!’

She gave him an impudent look and stuck her tongue out in mock defiance; still, he noted, she picked up the kettle and took it along with her to the river. ‘Good natured little soul, that one. Smart, too. Good hand with her flock. Make some lucky fellow a good companion, I think . . . one of these days.’ He laughed out loud, thinking about how that arrangement might go. ‘Course, might be hard to tell who wears the pants in that family . . . has a mind of her own about things. Never knew her to be without an opinion on something.’

‘What say we go rustle up something to break our fast,’ he said standing up and brushing the dust from his breeches. ‘Don’t know if Osmod will want to poke around in the village or just ride by it. At any rate might be nice if we got on our way before midday.’

He saw Meghan carrying the full kettle back toward the fire. It was heavy and she carried it two handed. As she walked it banged against her shins, and even with his poorer vision he could see the look of exasperation on her face and that each step brought a muttered word or two. And he guessed that none of them would be the sort to say in polite company.

‘Good thing we don’t have milk for our tea,’ he laughed, walking along with Sythric. He raised his chin toward the struggling Meghan. ‘Else it would be curdled from the curses she’s let fly!’