[piosenniel]

‘There must be some clue. Some campfire or tracks or physical remains that will give us a hint as to when they were here and the direction they are heading in,’ said his brother. ‘You, Archim, look to the West.’

Letting his horse amble along at a slow pace, Archim kept his eyes fixed on the ground, sweeping his gaze from side to side. It was a fool’s job, or so he felt. The ground, it seemed, had split open and swallowed the golden boy, Brytta, and his companions, or so he hoped. No use telling Fréa that, though. Once he had an idea stuck in his mind, he would move earth and sky to see it done.

Archim, on the other hand, would be just as happy to head back to Edoras. Heldór stood accused of murder. Were he to set foot in the Mark, he would be a dead man. Better to go back to the tavern, and sit with the pretty girls there, roll the dice, drink ale. And tell stories of their glorious pursuit and slaying of the murderer and his accomplices. Who would know? Given enough wine, he thought to himself, he could forget that it was his actions that had started the whole downward spiral of events.

His thoughts drifted on in this fashion, and he slumped in his saddle, no longer paying attention to his search. His horse slowed even further and began picking at the clumps of grass that grew on the loose soil. The reins lay loose on his neck, and his steps turned south, following a rich line of succulent grass toward the promise of a lush verge just at the edge of the low lying hills.

The rider woke from his dark reverie when his mount jerked to a nervous halt and began backing up. Taking the reins firmly in hand, Archim brought the horse round, quieting him with soft-spoken words. A short distance, in a beat down ring of tall grass lay something that the horse would not approach. Archim dismounted and, tethering the horse securely to a nearby tree branch, approached the object carefully. The air grew heavier it seemed as he drew nearer, and a horrid stench assaulted his nose. Something dead, old blood stinking under the hot sun. He could hear the thick buzzing of flies as they swarmed about it.

There, on the crushed grass, lay the mangled hindquarters of a horse. And all about it the prints of several large animals. Wolves of some sort, he thought. Possibly WArgs from the size of the paw prints. They had dragged it here from a south east direction, he could see the trail of pressed down grass their efforts had made, and see the clots of blood drying along it where they had passed. It was a somewhat fresh kill, made earlier that day – the meat left on the bones was still red and fresh looking where he dug into it with his knife.

Kokoroch shied away from him as he returned. The stench of the dead horse clung to him, making the horse nervous. Archim calmed him and mounted up, marking the location of the remains in his mind as headed back toward his brothers and Hama.

‘With any luck, the wargs will have eaten the Hyldesons and their cursed companions,’ he thought to himself, spurring his mount on. ‘And then, we can turn back, the problem solved.’