The Iron Hound

6.2 (Part One)

The road to Halcaston wasn't a long one, but it meandered with the river Althing, cutting through foothills and scrubland, edged on one side by sullen, brown forests. Idris had often contemplated having the Wintersmeet held somewhere closer, but the town was the only one of its size nearby and to house the merchants anywhere less significant would cause outcry. The journey itself took a little more than a day in good weather, meaning a night would need to be spent out in the comfort of the tutelary's wilderness. Sleeping rough was the least of the tutelar's problems at this juncture, but he knew at least one of his companions would be simmering at the prospect.

Morning had brightened into afternoon, skies clear and wind enthusiastic. Taking an old hunting trail to avoid Rhidmere, they'd met up with the Althing shortly before its intersection with the river Lydno and carried on a steady pace since then.

The further from The Dincroft they travelled, the less green the woodland became, and the gnarled and knotted trunks now sat in muted observance of their passing. To their left, the Althing bubbled and gurgled past a thick bed of stones, spraying the path whenever the debris piled too high.

Taran followed in the wake of the black stallion, treading the hoofprints, avoiding the slickness at the edge of the trail. Idris shifted in the saddle, standing in the stirrups and readjusting himself. Holding the reins in a loose grip, he peered over his shoulder. The varlet and his two instructors rode as a pack some distance down the path, conversing amongst themselves. He could make out the sound of voices, but no specifics. He frowned. If he could hear them, so could anyone nearby.

Turning back, eyes darting to the tree line, he settled into the saddle. His breath fogged the air in front of him as he huffed a sigh, restless despite the constant motion.

"Sergeant," he called, snatching the man's attention.

Einion peered over the bulk over his armour, pulling the reins to manoeuvre his horse beside Idris. He offered little more than an inquisitive look.

"Let's set camp soon."

The sergeant peered up at the sky, locating the sun. "Already?"

"The days are short," Idris said. "We break camp before dawn and arrive at Halcaston's gate before midday."

Einion nodded slowly, though it was obvious that he wasn't in agreement. There was nothing subtle about Sergeant Einion Elder. "I hate to waste the light, but as you say, lord tutelar."

"The next appropriate site," he ordered.

As the sergeant bowed stiffly and returned to acting vanguard, Idris stared towards the horizon, past the shallow dips and swells, into the haze of winter sun. When had the men under his command become so willing to question him? When had he begun to allow it? He licked dried, cracked lips and reached for the water flask in one of the small satchels by his right leg. Pulling off the cap, he let drops of the chill liquid dribble into his mouth. Swilling it about his tongue, he returned his gaze forwards.

Suitable camp sites appeared to be a rare commodity along the Althing, and it was a good trek later before the call came back from the sergeant that he'd located somewhere acceptable. The river took a long curving path towards the south for a good half a day's journey, and it was on this bend that the gentle hills and crooked trees opened up into yellowgrass plains all the way to Tirgodh's northern border, and beyond.

Idris wasn't the kind of man to let those under him do all the heavy lifting, particularly with such a small retinue, and so, with a few complaints from Einion, he set to erecting tents with the sergeant, the varlet and Ahn doing the same, while the old tutor watched, muttering of aching joints. A far cry from his campaign pavillion, the individual canvases would barely fit two hunched men inside, but in the midst of the colder seasons, it was important to keep the wind from the body. The benefit of the smaller tents were their ease and expedience to construct, and it wasn't long before three pale structures stood tall next to each other, steep sides straight, canvas rustling in the wind.