Cathal's Journal - Day 3

We made good time yesterday. My men-at-arms are a hardy bunch; as tough as the huscarls of the Yngvi. We were caught in a downpour a few hours after mid-day, but they rode on without complaint, following their lord’s fool of an heir through the cold, sputtering hell. I could fight alongside these men and women.

We stopped early in the evening in a mile-house at the edge of a small village the locals called Geddern. Their few rooms were full, so we contented ourselves with the stable-loft. Most southern noblemen, I suspect, would balk at such ill-favoured lodgings, but it was warm and free of pests and the hay-bales made for snug sleeping. A warrior could content themselves with far less, on the road.

Before taking our rest I asked that one of the men-at-arms to regale me with a tale of their exploits in Wilder’s Gorge. It is customary in Rjurik to end each day with a story of some kind. These are meant to inspire future virtue in the listener, and curtail the repetition of past misdeeds. Ecgraf and Lucan taught me to value such things, each in his way, and to value knowledge even though I’ve never had much of a mind for facts or histories.

A man named Finn was the one who first broke his silence, and did so with confidence, for I had known him in my past life as a boy child of Taeghas and Anuire. He spoke, albeit briefly; of how he used to help me sneak sweets from the kitchens, and look the other way when I played pranks on Daffyd, the kennel master. He joked of how he had seen me take my first bruises from the quintain and had picked me up out of the dust to hoist me back into the saddle. I felt my eyes threaten to brim as he spoke, as I had quite forgotten the shadows of my childhood in favor of the chill-winds of the north. I thanked him for his words, for they bound him to me by more than simple oaths, and strengthened those bonds for the rest of the armsmen and women. I shall have to endeavour to teach these folk to tell a proper story, though. Finn seemed to lack the flair for honest embellishment that the skalds of the Yngvi had.

Today was a much brighter day, in juxtaposition of the weather. We rode through a stretch of almost empty countryside for a time, keeping an eye for outlaws, though their presence in so peaceful a place would have come as a surprise. I caught the occasional scent of orchards, and though tempted to depart the road for a taste of fresh picked apples, we continued on. The need for my presence in Castle Fulcairn is dire enough to brook no needless delay. I write this not from a grandiose sense, but from under the burden of my name and new position, and the strain of my brother’s loss. I write little of that, I know, but it is of little importance. Brothers and fathers and mothers and sisters die in this world every day. My grief is but a mote of brine in a dark and churning sea. Though I do love my brother, it is duty to which my mind must fold.

I called a halt to pitch our camp shortly after the day’s 18^th hour, and once our tents stood, I arranged the men to drill at the sword for two hours before retiring. I fell in among them and so came to gauge their skill at arms. They are none of them without ability, though most of them lack the technical command that only comes about with time and training. Finn stood out, and though he shares his peers’ workmanlike approach to fighting, he is a cagey veteran, and a deceitful swordsman. A man some few years older than myself named Dolan has a natural talent for the sword. He is probably the worst rider among them, however. Those two will make for good bodyguards I expect, should I need such.

I lie next to the fire now, scratching my mind onto this page, nursing a few new bruises. I am ready to enter Ruornil’s misty realm for the night, and suspect I’ll dream of apples.