Time to kill...

[Wayland]

Slowly Wayland drew the sword from its sheath, the oiled blade sliding silently, naught but a whisper in the gloomy evening light. As the shadows walked by beneath he readied himself, waiting for the last of the four figures to pass by. The first three walked under, careless in their passage, the last more cautious, 20 yards behind the rest, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, eyes scanning the darkness of the woods.

A flash of silver draws his attention, the final rays of the days light flicking off the coin Wayland drops from the branches above. With a soft thlump it impacts in the mud drawing the man's eyes down. As soon as he is so distracted Wayland drops, feet landing on his back smashing him to the dirt as the sword point crashes into the man's neck, erupting through his larynx into the mud below.

The noise attracts the men in front who turn in time to see him wrench his sword from the flailing body and disappear into the thick growth either side of the trail. Their shouts barrel after him as first they check their colleague then start loosing arrows randomly into the dark. 'Three down.' Wayland mutters as he cleans the blade on his jacket tails. Cursing the damp cold he pulls his cloak tight and jogs along the game trail parrallel to the main path, ready for the next ambush.

That Morning

Dawn had come late, the heavy rain clouds blocking the sun's light. BY the time the first rays fell on his workshop Wayland had the fires stoked and was preparing the first bar of iron for reshaping, the genesis of some new horsehoes at hand. A commotion outside had barely even distracted him, his thoughts with his love, her arrival imminent.

Work at Bryn Madn was complete and he was looking forward to whatever schemes his friends and colleagues came up with for the traditional Bridal Hunt. It had been too long since he had shared nis loves warm breath and his heart pounded at the hope of seeing her soon. Strange messages back from his colleagues seemed to imply that they had found volunteers to join the Black Company.

Volunteers, his eyes rolled in disbelief.

It had been 10 months since the Company had ridden together and months before that that all had been well. But he had taken on the trust he had been given and even if his own attempts to raise new glories had been rather lax then at least someone was doing something to keep the old traditions alive. The same messages brought news of the wolves and their leader, and their current debaucheries, nopthing of their old ways seemed to remain. Honour had fallen to the wayside along with many of his old partners it seemed.

A rough hand grabs his arm shaking him from his reverie. 'Way - you better come out' one of the ostlers says as his thick hands pull his body. Wondering what could cause such a thing, the hands knew better than to disturb a smith setting his forge, he paces outside.

The belated dawns soft fingers grimly illuminate the yard, the sign outside lia's standing out with its new lettering. Sadly the rest of the yard is not so lovely, the dim light making a grim scene even grimmer. A farm girl holds the body of a young child close, the dresses on both ripped and torn, the very rips telling of horrific deeds done in the recent past. Every time one of the men goes near them she swipes at him with her fimgers backing away, madness in her eyes. 'Aw shi….I know her' mutters one of the men to Wayland. 'Its Kaly, from down towards t'ford.' 'Aye,' replies another 'but wheres her family?'.

As they talk one of the ostlers steps in close to the girl and plants a firm punch on her jaw, knocking her out cold. As she falls back, hands grab her and the child before they can hit the floor. Quickly they are rushed to the Inn, the tavern tables cleared to support their bodies. Outside Wayland confers with some of the others. 'get a rider out, follow her trail and fast. See if you can find her family, I don't hold much hope but try'. The men nod and one goes to grab one of the ponies. 'Take mine' yells Wayland, 'She's faster than any of the others, besides she's still mostly tacked up.'

Minutes later heavy hooves pound over the cobbled yard down and out through Smithy's Gate. Behind Wayland pushes his way through the crowd in the Hawthorne. The Ostlers wife, Bronwyn, is stood between the girls cleaning them down. Kaly, the elder looks about 14, the other her sister, not more than 10. Pushing his way through his look asks the question every parent dreads hearing the answer too. Bron looks down and away her eyes wet with tears. Carefully he reaches out lifting her chin seeing the truth in her eyes and hugging her tight. Ragged breaths come from the child, blood stained around her throat where someone has done a half hearted slice across her throat. His own past flooding in to haunt him Wayland turns to leave, passing Bronwyn to her husband as they await the village healer.

Outside he sits on the well, hiding his own tears and frustration as he runs a stone along the blade of his dagger. Soon many of the other men are also there, dark threats and curses on their lips as they await the return of the rider. Sure enough John soon returns, Wayland's horse showing signs of being ridden hard and fast. 'About 7 miles that way' John points away towards Chester, on the ford trail. Theres a waggon on its side with bodies around it. I didn't get too close, theres still people drinking and yelling along by it,' The men exchnaged looks and without a word horses were saddled and bows and swords collected.

'Has she any family here in town?' Wayland asks the men.

'Aye an aunt, over by the docks'

'Get her here, send one of the boys. Give the girls a friendly face to wake up to.' Wayland pulls himself up onto his horse calling for the dog that lay by the forge. Slowly the jet black muzzle peers round the door and the lollopping great shape pads outwards drawing alongside his feet. Tugging th ereins he turns his mount and sets the horse at a trot, leading the small posse east.

The track soon nears and they slow their horses, nearing the place John had described. Stopping below the final rise the men approach the crest on foot, keeping to the trees as they break the horizon. Down below in the valley two men sit by a broken wagon, the bodies of a man and woman and several children lay on the ground. Tied to the wheels a sagging body looks to have been used for target practise while the others bear wounds of one form or another. Wine casks lie broken and cast asunder around the site. Occasionally one of the men gets up and kicks at the bodies, his curses carrying over the air up the hillside.

'I told you to count them before we started drinking. Now we've got ta stopp[ here case they come back while t'others get to spend their money afore us. We'll be lucky to even get a cut'

'Pttah, seems you got plenty of your cut from that girl. You hadn't been so busy with getting her ta scream her sisters mightn't have got away'

Upon the hill each man nocks an arrow and as one they let fly. The whistling of the flights is music to Waylands ears as they each nock and loose twice more.

The bodies of the two men are punched sideways as the arrows hit, several pounding into each. Taking their time they ride down, watching the forests to eithe rside, most keeping a bared blade in hand. At a signal they fan out, as Wayland and a few others drop down to investigate the area. No more of the family are alive, the sons killed defending their sisters, following the path taken by their mother and father. One of the attackers draws breathe and his body is subjected to vicious kicks and punches before Wayland calls a halt and has him dragged before him.

'Where are you colleagues' he asks.

A thick goblet of bloody phlegm is spat back at him. Nonchalantly he reaches out and grabs the mans ear, cutting half way through then ripping it the rest of the way. Blood stained screams do not phase him as he asks the question again to the samae reply. Shaking his head, he lays his dagger on the fire, watching the blade heat up as he starts to whisper dire threats in the man's ear

[Wayland]

Deep in the woods, Wayland nears where the others wait. Slowing to a walk he whistles softly, making sure they know who is coming down the path. The other men wait hidden in the gathering dusk, pressed to trees and under foliage. All that is visible of the hunting party is the dog sat in the track, blood smeared over its face. 'That dog like blood way too much' he mutters to himself before pressing against a large oak tree. Sinking to his knees he pulls the cloak around him, his eyes peering from beneath the hood. As darkness closes the men disappear, soon little is visible in the trees, just the path highlighted with a silvery glaze from the moon. Still sat alert, the dog waits, like one of the black hounds of welsh legend, some hellish guardian sent to recover the souls of sinners.

It is not long before the remaining three bandits appear. Their companions fate unforgotten, they seem alert, swords drawn, advancing slowly in a v pattern. As they spy the dog they draw to a halt. Muttered words can be heard on the breeze and Grendell raises his haunches, standing to face the men, a mix of drool and blood dripping from his mouth.

That Afternoon

The haggard shape weeps tears through eyes with no lids as Wayland wipes the dagger on its shirt, a difficult job finding a piece with no blood. 'I've told you what I know' it sobs.

'Oh I know' says Wayland, 'This is purely for the pleasure of revenge, making you suffer how that family must have suffered, knowing there is no mercy, no escape, no way past the torture you have coming to you.'

Holding the knife to the bandit's stomach he smiles as he pushes the tip along, slitting it open alowing the intestines to slide out. 'Meet my dog, he likes warm meat. Grendell - dinner'

The other men stand off to one side, there backs to Wayland. More than one pool of vomit decorates the ground. 'They went south through the woods, four more of them. Ready to play catch?'

'Aye Way, but that? Thats not right. You.can't do that to a man and then leave him for a dog to chew alive'

'No, you can't. I can. Would you have had me do any less if it was your family lay dead and abused round here?'

Sullenly the men look down, shaking their heads. The eldest looks him in the face, 'Your a vicious piece of work smith, not even the old girls were this nasty. But aye, mayhap you have reason enough. If they're in the woods theres an old trail that heads to the side of the hills. On horse back it will get us there quicker and in front of them'.

Nodding Wayland orders 'Lets do it' before calling his dog back from ravaging the screaming body. 'Work boy' he tells the hound and it bounds ahead, standing guard bu his horse, face red stained to the ears.

[Wayland]

'What the hell is that creature doing here' muttersone.

'I recognise that thing. Thats that smith's in Holywell's dog.'

'Then what the hell is it doing he...' An explosion of blood from the man's throat cuts him short as the arrow rips through his neck and spine, his body falling twitching on the ground. Grendell pounds forward, baying like a true hell hound leaping at on of the others, knocking him to the floor as his teeth rend into his face.

The men pile forward, swords drawn, stabbing and hacking at the fallen and their remaining comrade. This time Wayland just waits to the side, short sips from his flask wetting his throat. His colleagus are immersed in kicking and beating the bodies of the bandits and he muses on whether he should mention how similar in intent their behaviour is now to his questioning the dead mens colleague.

Eventually they stop and Wayland walks over, picking up a sword from the ground and brutally hacking off the mens heads. Shoving them into a cloak and drawing it closed he passes it to one of the others. 'On stakes atop Smithy Gate. Let them know the punishment for such crimes a sthese committed.' Silently he wanders back to where the horses atre concealed further down the path and pulls himself up. 'Dark dreams tonight dog' he mutters, 'Dark dreams indeed'.

Without waiting for the others he turns his mount and heads for the smithy, horse plodding along slowly in the darkness that has finally settled over the land.

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