“Why oh why, did the gods abandon me, in my greatest hour of need?” Vladin complained hiccupping and tottering on his pony, every bit as miserable as the knights.
At this time of year, they wished to be at court, hunting and swaggering about with drinks in hand, and possibly a lady or two on each arm and not off east, on a quest that could well end in all their deaths.
To turn back was unthinkable, this they knew as men of honour and in spite of how they had not been tasked with fighting the drake themselves; both of them remained resolved to do just that.
“Turn back, flee, do anything save challenge Balthrorth, Gwilherm!” She had pleaded with him, gripping his shoulders, trembling as much as he had upon his departure.
The shock of his quest still sent feelings of nausea and made his hands shake and quiver, until he could hardly hold the reins of the grey-steed he had been given, by Aymon. Though, he had disapproved of the younger man’s knighting, he had nonetheless refused to allow him anything less than his own horse for this quest saying as he helped him onto it. “You will have need of it, if you truly expect to challenge Balthrorth, Sieur Gwilherm.”
His gift of a mount was a kind one considering how he had disdained him, since the younger man had fled during the battle in Cymru. If his offer was a kindly one, it was one that lacked any semblance of warmth or affection where Léon offered him a sword and a slap upon the back.
While he appreciated the warmth of the younger of the two princes, Gwilherm had little gratitude for his positive feelings, due to his unhappiness with the task given unto him. He was for all intents leaving to meet his executioner. This might have depressed any man, and certainly cast a pall over all four of the travelers. The only source of relief came from the barking Remus, who raced on ahead, before doubling back. Only for him to race on ahead once more to chase either a local animal or person, his great black tail waving about in the air behind him.
As they traveled they rationed, what provisions they had, having to scare away Galen and Vladin from the rations, as both of them enjoyed their salted foods, which consisted of deer-meat hard bread and carrots. They hoped to stop to refill their rations, along the way at local estates of the king and monasteries, with Roparzh carrying on his person letters bearing the king’s wolf-wyvern seal. None of them knew how to read, however they knew what they said though, thanks to the king having dictated them in the knights’ presence.
The lands just north-east to Auldchester was covered by farms, with the Auldwoods to be found past the farms, with the old road, the Apia Rubrum or ‘Red Road’ as it was known in the Brittian tongue. It was said to have derived its name from the fact that it had been paved in blood that of the original inhabitant, upon the Romalians’ conquest of the isle. The original name being in the old Romalian language; which was now called the ‘scholar’s tongue’ or ‘monkish tongue’, due to the fact that only those, raised in monasteries of the Temple still taught the language.
Hardly of peasant birth, as he was a lesser gentry-man from Estria, Gwilherm, had only learnt a few words here and there in it, and had never really felt much interest in learning more. It was simply not useful to his mind, not like knowing to ride a horse, battle and play a harp. This last one though, was the least useful of his skills; still it had served him well when bartering for his life with ?thelwulf.
Every second that passed also filled him with melancholy. Sentiments that were shared by Galen and Vladin, the further along into the woods they trotted, with the latter two sinking into mumbling and glancing about themselves also. The woods were safe, unlike many in the north, where it was said that many of those Arns who had not fled with Arnór across the sea to Fialin in ériu, after ?thelwulf had seized the north-east of Brittia.
This was said to be where ?thelwulf’s great-uncle, Eadwin had fled to, in order to resist the invading Grand Northern Army, which had come from Arnrige and the far northern lands across the Glacial Sea, which had briefly destroyed all the kingdoms of Brittia, Gewisse included. Whilst his elder brother fled to the fens, Eadwin had turned to the forests and fought against the Arns, from the forests alongside the common-folks and warriors who had fled there also. This he did until the great battle of Auldfields just north-west of Auldchester, where he led the west-wing of the army and died in the aftermath of the battle, in the arms of ?eelric.
The bond of the brothers had become an important canon, in the collection of tales passed down from father to son, especially at the royal court. ?thelwulf and his brothers, ?eelric ?thelred and Eadmund had told those same tales all their lives. It was these tales that were responsible, Gwilherm suspected for why the king’s brothers had been sent to the Cymran and Norlion Marches, with near regal powers.
These forests were thus not as dark, or as nerve-racking to travel through as more distant ones were, despite the odd outlaw here and there in it. It stretched for miles, with the silence stretching for longer than the forest possibly could, doing so in all directions. All save Roparzh wished for this, as he whistled for a time only to with a glance, to his sullen companions break into song. A song that pleased Remus, who trotted about near his horse with nary a thought to danger, before he took off not unlike an arrow shot from a bow, thither into the middle of the forest. This was the last they saw of him for a time, until he came back with the bloodied carcass of a partridge. The song was part of the song of ?rgad the Tall, one of Gwilherm’s ancestors, whom was one of the most valiant men to have ever lived, on the Lordly-Isle.
“Tally-ho! Renwein a-shriek’d for she be stolen from her boar,
So unite must Hengist and he for war!
To the tower they must go to tear away his door,
Lo! Once ?rgad was a bore,
Sally-ho! He is now more boar than boor!””
It was not long before Gwilherm had joined in, if unconsciously at first. It was not that he particularly enjoyed the song, but that he was so accustomed to singing alongside others that to not do so seemed impossible to him.
“There you are! Song will chase away all our woes!” Roparzh cheered with visible relief.
“Must there always be noise, or song to amuse you Roparzh?” Galen complained bitterly, his dark features darkening, as he cast an irritated glance to his fellow warrior.
“Aye,” Replied the first man with a short laugh. “What is the matter Galen? Is it that you are leaving your wife and daughter, in Auldchester? Mayhap you could take them, on a tour of the countryside another time...”
This cavalier reply frazzled not only the foreigner, but the Brittian who was for his own part as dumb-struck as the oldest of his companions by it. Neither could quite manage to rediscover their words, in order to put the man trotting along between them, in his proper place.
Thankfully, the still hung-over and quite ill Vladin who appeared as though he might break into tears. “Could ye lot keep silent, for a tad longer?”
The misery in his voice hardly moved a single one of the three, with Roparzh retorting. “Mayhap if you were to sing, your mood might improve itself Vladin.”
“Doubtful.” He grunted with a snort from Gwilherm, who earned himself the Dwarf’s ire next, “And what is so humorous Master Gwilherm? Were you not, every bit as miserable and as fearful as I of the dragon that, awaits you on Mt-Sorg? If so, why do you sing?”
“It is habitual I suspect,” Galen grumbled his stare returning to the forest that hung all about them.
It was dark, with foliage that seemed to blot out the landscape past it, with the Red-Road stretching behind and ahead of them. The once perfectly paved marble route had now in the past half a millennia since the Principate had fallen become cracked and broken in places. The roads once so carefully planned and paved, by the great Princeps Kadrianus the Ogre, begun in the fourth year of his reign had evidently eroded over the centuries. The Princeps may not have been the one to have originally conquered the isle for Roma, but it was he who took the most profound interest in the isle, in marked contrast to his predecessors. Scholars always spoke highly of the formidable Romalian builder, evidently believing his reign as ruler of the known world, to have been an impressive and golden era.
Whether it was as awe-inspiring as the reign of éluan over in Neustria, or Aemiliemagne during his brief Empire remained to be proven. To Gwilherm’s mind, no heretic could build something as magnificent as a good and proper Quirinian believer could.
The road hardly registered in his mind, where it seemed to fascinate Vladin who eyed it speculatively; as he had hardly ever been outside of Auldchester. The idea of paved roads this far from the capital city, was a subject that might interest him, in spite of his ill-temperament and how he felt at present. His eyes remained upon it for some time, even after they had left the miles and miles of forests, in favour of countryside farmlands once more.
There were hardly any towns or cities in this small corner of Brittia, the next town was Fyrdthorpe. A town that was upon one side (the southern one) of a branch of the river Rhiaulwyd that separated the lands of Morwyn from those of Rhiaulwynd, and that had been the scene of countless events in the long, long history of Brittia. It was said that it was near the mouth of the river, where the Dark Elves had once landed an army in the ancient days of the First Wars of Darkness. These wars had lasted for thirty years, on the Lordly-Isle and had seen unnumbered tragedies and victories, until at last all the tribes of the people south of the Lion River, had rallied behind Cormac Unicorn-Horned the most valiant ancient hero, to have ever lived. It is said that once he had defeated the Dark Elves, Cormac journeyed north of the Glacial Sea, to help those lands. Gwilherm did not know the rest of the tale, but he had heard that the valiant hero had fathered a kingdom, far to the east and died there fighting alongside the Dwarves in their great strongholds.
This tale had always impressed and awed Gwilherm, especially when he and his elder sister had fled when they were nine and six years of age from Réalwaldr.
“You see,” his old nanny had told him, an elderly nun dedicated to the worship of the goddess Saga, the lady of history, as she held him on the horse carrying them to safety. “This is both the place of greatest defeat, for three of the great wars of conquest that have come to Brittia’s shores; the first was in the age of Darkness, the second to the Romalians and the third was in the last wars of Darkness. This is the place of greatest shame and highest victories. So do not shed tears young Gwilherm, for the next time you come to cross this river, it will be in triumph!”
Her words seemed so distant now. Seventy year old Hilda had passed away ten years ago, with Elena holding her hand and weeping, brokenly by her side. Whilst Gwilherm had stood numb, next to his sister. So stricken was he could not utter a word for a month, until he was kicked physically for not singing by one of the king’s men.
This was hardly the glorious, and highly triumphant return of which Hilda had spake almost twenty years prior, thought the legitimate heir of the Réalwaldr family. In spite of his grief, he remembered her dimly, in comparison to the shining and near gargantuan figure, of his brother. Noble Eadwin was a man he still dreamt of, whom he could hardly compare with. A man so noble and ferocious none could have stood against him in honourable combat, and who had sought to face the terrible drake yet had never returned.
“We shall camp near here, I wish for but a few minutes to stretch my legs before then.” Roparzh decided with a sniff, visibly pleased with the sea air that permeated the region near the river. As he spoke he leapt down from his horse’s back only to kneel and stand back up, stretching and shaking his legs as he did so. Only to cry out when Remus made his sudden arrival, dropping a bloody partridge at his feet, “Filthy cur!”
The cur in question, smiled up at Gwilherm, in search of approval from him. Much as he was displeased by the idea of the carcass being anywhere near him, he could not resist patting the dog on the head and praising him. It came so naturally whenever he saw those big brown eyes glance up at him.
They soon climbed back onto their horses after picking up the dead-bird to put it away in one of their many satchels, something that caused the half-wild dog to tear off down the path once more.
“Why should it be you that decides where we stay, for the night?” Galen demanded irritably.
“Simple; because you wish only to sulk, and I am the only one present who is not ill from too much ale,” the blonder of the two knights argued back, with more than a hint of anger in his own voice.
Not exactly familiar with either man personally, especially as he tended to be relegated to eating with lesser nobles, and the huscarls. Where they were often given a separate table with Léon and the mercenaries, under the employ of ?thelwulf, with Gwilherm had always preferred to keep his distance from them out of a sense of disinterest in them.
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The woods opened up to the outside world, as might to a courtyard that led the way to the stony-interior. The river in the distance was a gem in the eyes of Gwilherm who felt tears of sorrow come to his eyes, at the thought that Hilda had never lost faith, that he would someday return home.
“Where shall we stay for the night?”
“Mayhap in one of the nearby farm-houses,” Galen said without any interest.
“I would not stay in any of these homes, for all the gold in the world,” Vladin grunted scornfully.
“Why is that?” Gwilherm inquired, bewildered by the fear in his voice.
“Because these people, are said to be little better than the bandits who haunt the woods,” The Dwarf grumbled into his grey beard, shaking his head at them. “I repeat, we must not entrust ourselves to these people.”
“How could you possibly know what you claim, to know?” Roparzh queried a challenge in his voice, as he raised a brow at the shortest member of their company of travellers.
“I pay attention to those merchants, who cross into Auldchester, by the Winged-Pig tavern by the port.” Vladin informed him, with another dark eye across the suns swept fields that lay before them.
His words might not have worried either of his traveling companions, and most certainly did Gwilherm with the Estrian keen to demonstrate, his courage by snorting also. He huffed at his old friend for his statement, for he doubted the many complaints of those from the Rhiaulwyd region. Those particular merchants had a tendency to complain, about almost everything ranging from tariff-fees, to their wives, to the lack of safe travel across the Channel.
Merchants were an incredibly fickle lot; to Gwilherm’s mind and ones that he did not have much patience for, preferring the company of artisans and fellow warriors.
“Bah what do those merchants know?” He grumbled haughtily, earning a nasty scowl from the Dwarf.
“A little respect, for the most well-traveled men of the realm Gwilherm,” He remonstrated him, adding for good measure, “If I wished for ?thelwulf’s views on them, I would have addressed my statement solely to Galen… or returned to Auldchester, to ask the fool himself.”
“Mind your words, Dwarf, for he is still thy king,” Roparzh warned gently, with an exasperated sigh that drew another frown from the Estrian and the non-human.
Both of them fell silent as Galen complained endlessly about Vladin. It was a testament, to just how poorly they thought of him that they ignored him. Days of travel having long since, worn at their patience towards him as well as one another so that they had, even less good things to say about him than they ordinarily did.
The weather above their heads became increasingly clouded to the consternation of all of them involved so that they began to murmur amongst themselves, about it. The moment he felt a few raindrops, patter against his cloak, and wet a few of the strands of hair on the top of his head.
“I say we stay in that house!” He decided turning his pony about, setting forth for one of the houses with a barn next to it, which sat by the road.
The house was no more inviting than those around it, especially when one considered how warm some of the others appeared in comparison to it. The decision was based almost entirely on how the royal-harpist had not spent a day outside in the rain, in quite some time. This meant that he was ill-accustomed to living more rudely in some ways, as he was one of the more blessed members of the court, by virtue of his ability with songs and music.
Exasperated, Galen complained loudly, “I am certain that there is a temple somewhere further ahead, a little patience might serve you well, ‘Sieur’ Gwilherm!”
The sarcastic manner, in which he uttered the word ‘sieur’ in his native Neustrian, left Gwilherm feeling cold.
“You truly do not see the irony, between thy earlier request to stop for the night and Gwilherm’s desire to do so?” Roparzh asked laconically of his old comrade in arms, who scowled back at him with such disgust that a lesser man might have shrunk back yet not one such as battle-hardened as the younger knight, who laughed in response to the other man’s hostility.
The house they chose was a well-put together one with a farmer who poked his head out at the first shout by Gwilherm, only to study him with one sweeping, nervous glance. Unfortunately for all involved, he had no shelter to offer simply pointing down the road, to some point on the horizon. “I have naught to offer thee for comfort, my apologies my lords but we have nary enough food to feed ourselves in the days to come! Might I suggest that, ye stay at the local temple of Fufluns it is shabby and with only one druid but he is a hospitable man of considerable generosity.”
The three more impatient members of their band might have liked to hassle the farmer, Gwilherm included but thankfully Roparzh intervened out of pity for the peasant. “Wait my friends, I can see the place he points to, if we gallop it should be but a few minutes away, therefore let us be away from here.”
Once he saw that they were after a bit more cajoling, prepared to cease their harassment of the defenceless plebeian and fully prepared, to gallop slightly farther north, he thanked the man. The old peasant for his own part, frightened by the four heavily armed men, withdrew his head back into his hut, and would share no more words with them.
This might have led them to delaying a bit longer, if only to scream and holler after the poor peasant, and to resort to some form of physical violence or other, were it not for Roparzh. He it was who encouraged them to continue along with their journey, with the four of them treading hither through the rain, each of them more miserable than the last.
Or so Gwilherm told himself, as he journeyed through the miserable shadows, longing for fresh cheese rather than moulded cheese, for venison and beer. His thirst and hunger made all the worst, by his forlorn awareness that he had fallen far, from his previous noble station. If only, he told himself every few seconds that he had kept his mouth closed, rather than taunted ?thelwulf. Cursing his own ill-luck, as well he trailed after the others, eyes upon the soaked ground as his mood descended, into the dark netherworld where it was said that Orcus resided. It was also said that Ziu did also, though only at times with the war-god living in the underworld amongst all the great heroes of history, who lived in his great-halls and were catered after and fed by his servants. It was said that Ziu often sent out his half-sisters and female servants to select the finest of heroes to join him in his halls, with heroes such as Aemiliemagne and his Paladins certainly there. Gwilherm was convinced that his older brother Eadwin was surely there also.
The trouble was that, he was himself destined to never see the older man again. Not if he had truly gone down to the Morhallion, as Gwilherm had certainly forfeited that right. What might his ancestors think, he wondered to himself, of his cowardice and of the manner in which he was living? Hardly a lord, he was more akin to a pauper than any true respectable gentleman.
Miserable, he watched as Vladin pounded upon the door with the eager support of Roparzh. The drenched harpist passed the time glancing all about the exterior of the temple which lacked any encircling walls. The wooden building was nine meters high, and at least three times that length and twelve meters wide.
It was atop the building, was the symbol of Fufluns of an ash tree, one that had been carved into the highest point of the temple’s singular tower. The temples of Fufluns decorated the whole of the countryside of each and every single one of the baronies and counties, of the kingdom. The most popular god along with Turan, the goddess of love and marriage it was only through Fufluns that the crops were said to grow.
Whilst the knights and Dwarf were fixated upon the door of the temple, Remus who had raced along closely to them throughout their journey, and never failed in his cheery mien, let slip a whine. Trembling behind Gwilherm, he whined and yelped so that the Brittian, glanced at him a little surprised. Ordinarily a large dog, with an eternally gay spirit, it was strange to find him shaking and crying, from fright.
“Wait, shhhh um, I think that Remus has taken a dislike to this place-” Gwilherm began anxiously he was ignored as Galen shushed him, only to glower furiously at the dog.
“Hail, high-brother let us in! I beg of you!” Vladin begged by now, his previous concerns regarding the locals long since forgotten, due entirely to the storm that poured down upon them. Taking the horses to the stable, which was a shoddy rundown collection of wood barely nailed together to the left side of the temple. Gwilherm left the four steeds, tied to the back of the stable; where there was strangely fresh if wet hay already in place there. Confused by this discovery, he told himself that though there were no other horses, it was likely that the local druid simply took proper care of his stable, in case of the arrival of weary travelers. What truly gave him pause though, was the sight of lights inside of the temple something which he noticed, from a brief glance inside via one of the openings that acted as a makeshift window of sorts for the building. So fixated upon the peculiar blue lights inside of the building was he that he hardly heard Remus barking and whining next to him, the dog having followed him all the way to the stables.
Hardly curious, he could hardly see into the temple, and this annoyed him as he determined to light several candles once inside. One for each of his sister’s sons, in prayer for them, as much as for his own comfort, as he sneezed uncontrollably for a moment, as he returned to find his companions missing he scowled to himself.
The dog next to him sneezed also, and shot him an irritated look. One that made him feel a little bad for the poor dog, who glanced at the stables, then at him with a significant glance, one that he shook his head at. “It will hardly offer any cover, we must go inside, where there will be a fire to warm us.”
Gwilherm giving no thought to the proper order of things and politeness, threw open the door. In previous days he might have worried more about his dignity and propriety, but as the saying goes ‘storms make desperate men of once polite ones’.
Calling out to his traveling companions, as he entered into the temple, his voice echoing a little as it bounced off the walls of the temple, in a manner that was rather reminiscent of the rain as it fell off the roof of the temple onto the ground below. It was as though the very walls and candles heard him, with the lights that had seemed to float up from some deep crevice or corner when he last glanced inside, by the stables, lit up all of a sudden.
Frightened, Gwilherm did not know where to look or what to think. In the light cast off by the newly lit candles that bedecked the wooden columns of the building which had a low ceiling (for a temple) that reached thrice the height of the Brittian, the altar was visible at the end of the short hall that was the principal room of the building. Doubtlessly, the others were already seated and by a warm fire with mulled wine in hand, in the druid’s chambers, he thought to himself resentfully despite his fear.
The light he had mistaken for almost being blue when he stood outside, was a warm red and yellow though it did not seem as warm as he had the nervous impression that, some of them did not sit on small jutting pedestals, or that the torches that lined the actual walls were seated either. Quite to the contrary, it seemed to his untrained and rather tired eye, as though the candles and torches simply floated of their own volition in the air.
Stepping thither to stand before the altar to stare at the small statue atop it of the god of the harvest, who was carved from ashen wood with what appeared to be a tree in one hand and flowers growing from his feet. The mastery of the carver gave the flowers the appearance, of truly growing from the god’s feet despite them being carved from the same hunk of wood.
Amazed by this, as it was completely at odds with the rest of the building’s fairly uncouth appearance and the lack of true sophistication about the manner in which the columns were cut. Even the ceiling had an unrefined look to it, with the floor mud-splattered for its own part, as to the altar it was all but simply a large slab of wood. One that was as unappealing in how it was cut, as the green cloth cast over it was pretty despite being made from rough local wool. Lacking the beauty and grace of the wool from Noren?ia, which had a refined and skilled air about it, as those cloth-merchants had a tendency to favour beauty above almost all other virtues in the cloth they wove.
Behind him, Remus barked furiously from where he sat by the entrance, an air of terror about him that Gwilherm hardly noticed, so distracted was he by the decrepit air and frustration with the lack of warmth provided by all the candles.
“Where did those fools fly to in such a hurry? If they simply sent me away, to keep more of the soup and wine to themselves, I shall have to see to it that I spit in the next meal they ask me to cook for them.” Gwilherm growled working himself into a fury as he at last tore away his gaze from the altar before him in order to head for the secondary source of light in the hall; the closed door at the back of the building.
Opening the door he called out in a clear, ringing voice just as he heard three of them squabbling from down the hallway which the door opened up to. “Hullo! Roparzh, Galen, Vladin! You lot I hope have not kept all the cheese, soup and wine to thyselves! I daresay I have earned my share, of to-day’s meals!”
“Really now, Ealhstan you worry far too much!” A female voice was hissing at someone called Ealhstan, with her voice as raspy as it was unpleasant to listen to. It rather recalled the scratching of one’s nails upon a piece of metal of some sort, so disagreeable was it.
“I assure you, lady Wulfrun that I most certainly did hear them claim that they had another companion, a ‘Gwilherm’ if you will,” Ealhstan insisted stubbornly, from just around the corner.
Certain now that they spoke of his companions, Gwilherm turned the corner in a hurry to find another door, this one even thinner in appearance than the last, as the wood appeared to have rotted almost entirely through. Hardly bemused by this apparent neglect of clerical property, on the part of the locals, with the pious youth grumbling that he would never allowed for such a thing.
“Quiet both of ye, I think I hear someone,” A third voice grunted at the other two in a brutish voice- one that made Gwilherm pause and rethink his advance through the hallway towards the door at last.
“Oh stop imagining things again Ceolmund-” Wulfrun started up again, only for her to be interrupted by Ealhstan.
“No, wait I heard it also,” Ealhstan cried out, with this the only warning that the good-brother of King ?thelwulf received before the door burst open, with Vladin crying out to him to ‘fly you fool! Fly fool!’ as he was beset by Ealhstan and Ceolmund. However by this time, the temple had begun to be filled with a great many lights as the candles floated along past the hero, only to float upwards, so that it appeared as though the ceiling were covered in stars up above his head, amazed by this sight Gwilherm gaped up at them. Hardly noticing the sudden arrival of Ceolmund until it was too late. Later he learnt that this was Eahlstan’s work, as the old man had enchanted all those who entered into the temple to see dancing-candles and flames, so as to distract them from fleeing. Quite why, was also discovered later, after his capture much to his humiliation and fury.
The latter of whom was a large brutish man with dark hair and eyes, a fat belly that protruded out from in front of him, flabby arms and at least two inches taller than Gwilherm. Dressed in a dark tunic and hose, he was a terrible figure to behold and had Gwilherm well in hand, and kicked in the stomach long before he could properly react in time. Knocked off his feet, so terrible did the older man smite him that he was bound, and soon dragged before haggard, hideous old Wulfrun before he could regain his sense properly.
A hideous old woman with boils and warts not just on her nose but all over her face, she had thinning white hair, a short four-foot ten build and was fatter than Ceolmund if that was possible. Scowling down at him with beady eyes, she remarked with a mouth that was missing half of its yellow rotted teeth, her hands on her hips that like the rest of her was covered by a ragged old brown heavily stained dress as worn as she was that fell well below her knees. “Well thou are a pretty one, tie ‘em up and leave ‘em with the rest! We will cook ‘em tomorrow we ‘ill! HAHA!”
“What?!” Gwilherm shrieked in terror at the thought of being eaten alive, just as the man behind him heaved him up onto his feet, and dragged him towards the cage in the left-hand corner of the large room they were in. Suddenly, he wished he were back in the rain-swept cold, rather than in the cold, wooden well-roofed temple, as he had a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that, he had made the most foolish (of many) mistake of his life by coming hither to this temple!
As to Remus, he had already escaped as enchantments hardly work upon animals, with the dog slipping out through the crack in one of the walls, the doors having been closed by Gwilherm. The dog thus escaped to follow after the bungling enchanters trailing them for quite some time. He was thus the heroes’ only hope for freedom.
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