to just observe and avoid antagonizing him. Truth be told, I was a little surprised he hadn’t abandoned me in the middle of the night. Had he done so, I’m sure I’d have woken up thinking he was only a dream. Albeit a dream that had rudely carried me to the middle of nowhere.
The morning skies were cloudy and gray, but not quite as fearsome as yesterday. The ground was dry, as were my clothes, which meant it hadn't rained overnight, but the cold stubbornly lingered. Leaves crackled under my feet, and acorns jabbed through the thin leather soles of my boots. Winter was taking hold in Wessex, and I hoped our destination would bring us to a place with a roof, sturdy walls and a hearth. All manner of towns and villages lay north of us but I had no idea which of them was the most likely stop for us. I'd heard of Viking raids in the northeast, and how they liked to specifically target churches. Perhaps that's where our journey would take us. I secretly relished the thought of seeing Arkael drive off a horde of Viking warriors.
Thankfully, Arkael kept a slower pace today, though not by much. My muscles protested constantly, but I managed to keep up with him. I even tried to make conversation, but he had little to say, so I spent most of our time together hoping he’d decide to talk to me without prodding. That didn’t happen, so instead I just convinced myself I would discover what I was looking for once we ended up wherever he was going.
We passed a village that morning. This part of the road, barely more than a wide trail, wove through another forest, and we found a cross path that led to a small collection of huts and awnings that sat a few dozen yards to our right. The awnings, nothing more than tightly wrapped branches strung together, covered a small market area that consisted of five large baskets of vegetables, another stand with salted meat, and an outdoor alehouse comprised of two long tables, some chairs and a barrel of ale served by the Briton couple who owned it. I tried to convince Arkael that we’d need to stop and pick up some food for the journey. In response, he flipped a silver penny at me and told me to get what I need and catch up. He kept walking, so I hurried to the market.
“What place is this?” I asked the smiling villager standing next to the meat.
“Calsey," he said. He was older, perhaps in his late thirties, with a long face, thin, stringy brown hair that fell to his shoulders and parts of a wispy beard scattered about his cheeks. His smile revealed a few missing teeth, and he stank pretty heavily of dung.
“Calsey,” I repeated, committing it to memory. I would write it down later when I found time to document this journey. I planned on capturing every detail, no matter how small. “I’ve heard of Calsey before. You have a man here who breeds hunting dogs, right?”
“Aye. His name’s Gabriel. He’s over past the smithy.” The man lowered his voice and leaned forward. “But between you and me, those dogs are a pest. Run around the place tearing everything up like the devil himself is after ‘em.” He looked at my clothes. “You a priest?”
“I am.”
“Coming from the shore?”
“Yes. Rogwallow,” I said, hoping he didn’t ask any questions. Talking about it would only make me feel guilty for leaving.
“I know that place,” he said, giving a courteous nod. “Knew a man who’d been there once. Coupla’ years ago. He was called Alfirth."
He looked at me expectantly, but I just shrugged and smiled politely. “Before my time, I think.” I requested a meager collection of items, a few strips of salted meat, some bread, and a radish. I handed him a penny and he smiled again.
“Safe travels, father.”
“Thank you.” I bundled the items into my satchel. “Before I leave, though, any word about any dangers ahead? Troubles on the road, perhaps?”
“Aye. Mercian bandits roaming about that way. Man named Brannic leads ‘em, about eight of ‘em. They come
The morning skies were cloudy and gray, but not quite as fearsome as yesterday. The ground was dry, as were my clothes, which meant it hadn't rained overnight, but the cold stubbornly lingered. Leaves crackled under my feet, and acorns jabbed through the thin leather soles of my boots. Winter was taking hold in Wessex, and I hoped our destination would bring us to a place with a roof, sturdy walls and a hearth. All manner of towns and villages lay north of us but I had no idea which of them was the most likely stop for us. I'd heard of Viking raids in the northeast, and how they liked to specifically target churches. Perhaps that's where our journey would take us. I secretly relished the thought of seeing Arkael drive off a horde of Viking warriors.
Thankfully, Arkael kept a slower pace today, though not by much. My muscles protested constantly, but I managed to keep up with him. I even tried to make conversation, but he had little to say, so I spent most of our time together hoping he’d decide to talk to me without prodding. That didn’t happen, so instead I just convinced myself I would discover what I was looking for once we ended up wherever he was going.
We passed a village that morning. This part of the road, barely more than a wide trail, wove through another forest, and we found a cross path that led to a small collection of huts and awnings that sat a few dozen yards to our right. The awnings, nothing more than tightly wrapped branches strung together, covered a small market area that consisted of five large baskets of vegetables, another stand with salted meat, and an outdoor alehouse comprised of two long tables, some chairs and a barrel of ale served by the Briton couple who owned it. I tried to convince Arkael that we’d need to stop and pick up some food for the journey. In response, he flipped a silver penny at me and told me to get what I need and catch up. He kept walking, so I hurried to the market.
“What place is this?” I asked the smiling villager standing next to the meat.
“Calsey," he said. He was older, perhaps in his late thirties, with a long face, thin, stringy brown hair that fell to his shoulders and parts of a wispy beard scattered about his cheeks. His smile revealed a few missing teeth, and he stank pretty heavily of dung.
“Calsey,” I repeated, committing it to memory. I would write it down later when I found time to document this journey. I planned on capturing every detail, no matter how small. “I’ve heard of Calsey before. You have a man here who breeds hunting dogs, right?”
“Aye. His name’s Gabriel. He’s over past the smithy.” The man lowered his voice and leaned forward. “But between you and me, those dogs are a pest. Run around the place tearing everything up like the devil himself is after ‘em.” He looked at my clothes. “You a priest?”
“I am.”
“Coming from the shore?”
“Yes. Rogwallow,” I said, hoping he didn’t ask any questions. Talking about it would only make me feel guilty for leaving.
“I know that place,” he said, giving a courteous nod. “Knew a man who’d been there once. Coupla’ years ago. He was called Alfirth."
He looked at me expectantly, but I just shrugged and smiled politely. “Before my time, I think.” I requested a meager collection of items, a few strips of salted meat, some bread, and a radish. I handed him a penny and he smiled again.
“Safe travels, father.”
“Thank you.” I bundled the items into my satchel. “Before I leave, though, any word about any dangers ahead? Troubles on the road, perhaps?”
“Aye. Mercian bandits roaming about that way. Man named Brannic leads ‘em, about eight of ‘em. They come
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