The Riders Four make ready to depart Cliving just before dawn the next morning, bound for Hytbold to the south. Seregrían stands at the stables to bid them farewell, assuring each of her friends she would find them there within a day.
“Though we have no word or bond to hold you save friendship,” Burnoth says to her, “I bid you in that name, ride fast and without delay! I shall hold you to your word, Blodcwyn, for though we be the Riders Four, the fifth is part of our story now.”
“True words!” Hutha cries. “Tidings of the Lady and the Riders flies before us in each croft and town. You bring hope with your flames, Spitfire. Stray not long from our side.”
“You bring honor to yourself and to others,” Leofdag joins in, “along with hope for good folk across the Mark. We look for your coming when you can.”
“And no word from you, Reaver, gentle or otherwise?” Seregrían says with gentle chiding to Ulf, who looks at her sullen and silent.
“I like not this parting, as I said,” he finally says to her. “It is the part of a comrade to rebuke a friend’s foolishness, and this is what I call it. It is folly unbecoming you, Elf-lass. You yourself said there is uncertain treachery afoot, and surely we can do no good here; and the rest of the Mark must be fought for.”
“And that is where you go, Ulf; to continue the fight,” Seregrían replies. “But my part here remains, to ferret out that treachery and bring it to light.” She lays her right hand upon Ulf’s shoulder, a gesture more of kin than comrade. “This pact I make with you. When next we meet and raise a glass, you give me one answer to one question: you shall tell me the secret of the ‘red fog’ you spoke of. And I shall in turn answer one question of yours.”
Ulf lays his hand upon Seregrían’s shoulder in reply. “And you shall tell me, in your turn: what is the white fury that burns within you? This I shall learn, as you say, when next we drink.”
A cough from Hutha, “When you two are finished with your tender farewells…”, and the others chortle; they had mounted their horses unnoticed while the two talked. Even Seregrían smiles at the jest, though Ulf glowers as he mounts.
The company now rides through the gate of Cliving, the Riders Four and Seregrían with Warfrost next to her. At the crossroad outside the gates, Seregrían reins up and watches as the Four continue south toward Hytbold, hands raised in token of farewell. She watches the Riders as they fade into the distance and are soon lost to sight. Warfrost raises a shivering howl in the gathering dawn, giving her a feeling of both farewell and foreboding. Riding back into Cliving, she takes stock of what she and her friends have uncovered in the recent days, and she sets out to learn more. Nothing is as it first seems to the eye, and intrigue opens with each passing hour.
Reeve Athelward was indeed involved in the deadly duel with Pendulf, son of Pendrad of Elthengels. Tongues wag over Athelward bringing Pendrad’s daughter, Siflád, to Cliving as a ward; and how the Reeve presses his suit upon Mildrith, the widowed thane of Elthengels.
The Reeve forsakes the defense of the open lands and the folk of the Norcrofts, and the enemies of Men ride unchecked across the plains. Everywhere they strike with fire and death, save Cliving; for it is told that among the Uruks are orders to avoid the town. And over the course of the day, another rumor stirs: for the Reeve has departed Cliving, and rides himself with his daughter, Ides!
“There are tidings of great events afoot, Blodcwyn,” Siflád confides to Seregrían as they speak in private. “Aldor Harding has called for the Witan, the gathering of the thanes and reeves, a great council. I overheard Athelward speak of it: all the leaders of all the towns of the Eastfold shall meet tomorrow, to debate and decide if they shall defend their lands in defiance of the word from Edoras!”
“All the leaders in one place,” Seregrían mutters, “and treachery on the wind. Siflád, where is this Witan to take place?”
“Why, that is the strange thing. By right, Harding should be calling it to Harwick; but Athelward persuaded him to hold it in Hytbold.”
And Seregrían has a sudden flash of insight, and her mind races to and fro. Of course! It all falls together! But would he be so bold – no, he’d strike from a position of strength – but he has one, Cliving is his – and all the thanes in one place, like the townsfolk, herded into one pen – and the orcs spare Cliving, why? – a stronghold from which to – Burnoth! Leofdag! Hutha! Ulf! They ride into a trap!!
Seregrían turns without a word and rushes for the stables. She finds Dagorlach, saddling and mounting with a speed unmatched by the Rohirrim. She pounds down the paved lanes of town, exploding through the gate and nearly bowling over the guards. A high piercing whistle brings Warfrost flying to her side, and they now thunder across the plains, headed south along the road.
Seregrían does not know the way she is to ride, but reasons that the next town visible should provide her direction and tidings of the unfolding trap. She reins up near the gate of Faldham and demands to speak to the thane. The guards, amazed at the sight of the Blood-queen and her wolf, explain that their thane Elfhelm is abroad in service to Edoras; his son Elfmar, who stands in his stead, was summoned away to Hytbold. She demands to know which way she must ride; the guards point the way along the south road. Without a word she digs her heels and Dagorlach springs away, Warfrost following hard behind.
The race is on.
