Eotheod

The chieftain’s son was groggy in the morning, but without fever.  His body was focusing its strength on repair, not wakefulness and conversation.  Still, it meant for his safety that Aranuir would once again tie him in the saddle.  This time he fashioned a makeshift brace from saplings to support Wulfric in a sitting position.  It would not do to arrive at the doorstep of the Eotheod with such a passenger strapped over his horse like so much game.

He estimated a league and a half from their campsite to the first farm.  Little more than an hour.

After half an hour he sensed they were being watched.  A flicker of movement perhaps well back into the trees, something that could have been a deer…or a man on horseback?  Naron gave little sign.  Perhaps he sensed the presence of many horses, his blood brothers, and welcomed what might come of it.  Despite their years together, much of Naron was inscrutable. 

It was beginning to brighten up ahead.  The first farm fields were not far off.  Aranuir glanced over at Wulfric.  His long blond hair was matted with blood.  He swayed in the saddle, snoring lightly, half awake.  The wolf carcass was prominently draped over the back of his horse, testament that the animal, not Aranuir, had caused the wounds.

They wove between the last few trees.  Ahead he could see three small fields, recently plowed and planted.  Beyond them a small thatched farm house watched cautiously, a wisp of smoke coming from the chimney.

But it was what stood in the fields that had his attention.  From left to right across the earthy expanse were a score of heavily armed horsemen.  They were motionless, quietly alert,  demonstrating the futility of either retreat or combat.  Aranuir drew Naron to a halt and turned in the saddle towards Wulfric.

“Wulfric.  You have a welcoming party”

“Mmph…wha”

“Your horsemen await you.  Give them a wave lest they become impatient and skewer us with their lances.”

Wulfric roused himself to muster a light wave.  One of the horsemen broke ranks and came forward at a trot.  Blond like Wulfric, he was also outfitted in field leathers with an added coat of chain mail. 

Aranuir suspected he would be somewhat baffled by the sight of the chieftain’s son, somewhat worse for wear, in the company of an old man dressed for survival in the wild. 

“You there, old man.  That’s the chieftain’s son.  Explain yourself!”

The rider edged his mount alongside Wulfric.  Aranuir responded.

“I found him far to the south of here.  He had slain a wolf but suffered grievous wounds.  I bound them, gave him food and broth and have brought him home.  He is yours now.”

Araniur made to turn Naron around to leave, but the rider would have none of it.

“You will come with us.  The wolf carcass proves your story. What it does not prove is where you come from and why you are here.  You can tell the chieftain yourself.”