By The Gates Of Forlaw




The old man Héahfram stood by the gates as straight as the timbers the walls of Forlaw were build of. His silver beard moved in the freezing wind while his sole visible eye stared vacantly across the landscape. A younger man Géngrim,  son of Stéapgrim, stood there as well, squinting at the horizon with more interest, "How many will come from Dunfast?"


Héahfram breathed through his nostrils, the steam having crusted his silver whiskers with frost.  Too many for all of us to survive this winter, was the old man's first thought yet he did not dare to diminish the spirits of the younger man by speaking aloud this grim estimation.


When Stéapgrim had died, Héahfram had promised he would look after his adult son. Géngrim was nearing his fourties now yet Héahfram felt still bound by his promise. After a long silence, the aged warrior grunted from behind his silver beard. "Let us hope all the men, women and children of Dunfast will arrive. We have lost too many already for this war and a walless village is no place to be."


Géngrim nodded, "I and Beorhtwyn have counted we can offer a roof for at least four of them. Perhaps my cousin's family." Héahfram found suddenly vast discomfort in the thought that he too might have to allow someone under his ceiling. The feeling did not manifest itself upon his frozen features, but it was written in his reply which was but a dry grumble that traveled along a sigh.


Gray silhouettes started to appear in the snow beaten horizon. Something Géngrim sighted first as he had two eyes and neither were dimmed by age, where as Héahfram had but one tired eye. Géngrim sighed, "There they are... How many you think will fit under your roof?"  Héahfram's nostrils grew along with his expanding anxiety. He growled out lowly, "Six would fit under my roof, Géngrim. But I will take only one to save the other five."