Seregrían has recovered from her recent encounter with the Nazgul, and her healing of Caeorwulf. The Riders Four, who now count her warmly in their company, have urged her to accompany them on their continued trek across the lands of Rohan, raising the alarm and striking wherever their enemies gather. The party of six depart Floodwend and ride north to return to Harwick, and the glad shout from the gates heralds their arrival. No sooner have they dismounted in the gate then they are met by Agelmund, captain of the Harwick Guard.
“Welcome back, riders! The tidings of your deeds across the Wold have lit the fires of hope for many. Hail, Burnoth, there is news that bears upon your errand, if you shall follow me – Caeorwulf, you are wanted as well. The rest of you, we shall see to your comfort as honored guests – especially you, Blodcwyn. The Lady Cillan desires to see you, she has asked that upon your return you speak to her. She has new lodgings near the south gate.”
Seregrían finds Cillan in a comfortable house, her children and a maidservant living with her. Cillan welcomes her gladly and bids she guests with her in her new home.
“Our fortunes have changed, and we have you to thank,” Cillan says as she and Seregrían sit beside the warm hearth. “Harding is as good as his word. All of the folk of Langhold are safe and more, they are useful and helping to make Harwick their new home, and better than they found it.
“I wish to show my gratitude, on behalf of my former people, and my family. As you know, I am still in mourning over the loss of my dear Utdred but seeing the hope in peoples’ eyes cheers me. I wish to give you a gift, and no, I look for nothing in return; for this is in return for your valor and your strength of will. Utdred’s steed stands without a rider or master. There is no need I have for such a mount, so proud he bore my beloved. I bid you, take him as your own. Utdred named him long ago in our tongue, Güthbrond, Heat of Battle.”
“’Heat of Battle’, you say?” Seregrían says. “I thank you, dear lady Cillan, for this gift. And to honor Thane Utdred, I shall keep his mount’s name, but in the Elven-tongue, his name shall be Dagorlach.”
Seregrían spends the evening in Cillan’s company, and in the morning after a meager meal a messenger arrives, bidding Seregrían come to the tavern near the city stables. She makes her way there and the greetings now are as different as can be from her first coming to Harwick. She is followed by a small crowd of townsfolk who wish to see her and praise her deeds. She arrives at the tavern, and is greeted warmly by the Riders Four, Agelmund, and Caeorwulf, who has only just returned from another errand-ride.
“The news I bear is for us all,” Caeorwulf says, “and it is not good. Lord Harding bade me ride to the towns of Wildermore to bring back tidings of those lands, but I got no farther than where Langhold once stood. Fugitives from the town of Scylfig came flying down from the mountains and spoke of terrible cold and more terrible foes that have overrun the lands. Harding has dispatched parties of sellswords who arrived after we rode the Wold, but he spoke directly about us – that is to say, Lady Blodcwyn and the Riders Four.
“Harding would have bade you ride north to Wildermore and aid the folk there, but he judged two points: that there is enough strength of arms bound north to deal with the threat, and that there is far more pressing need across the Eastemnet for you. It is Harding’s wish that you ride west to the Norcrofts and the town of Cliving, where Reeve Athelward has his seat. The news out of Cliving is that many of the farms and crofts there have been overrun by the raiders of the White Hand, and the town is now crowded to bursting. If there is any aid to be rendered, he bids you do so, as much as you are able.”
“Caeorwulf, I notice that you say ‘you’, and not ‘we’,” Hutha says. “Are you not including yourself in this errand?”
“No, I am not,” Caeorwulf says, his jaw set. “I am bid to ride north to Scylfig and join the effort in Wildermore.”
“That decision must be stayed, for now!” Agelmund says, after another messenger whispered news to him. “Riders, to your steeds, we must ride without delay, I shall explain on the way!”
All there rise and hurry to the stables, finding their mounts – and for Seregrían, the stable-hands bring her the war-steed Güthbrond, who she approaches and whispers to the horse a single word, “Dagorlach”: the horse nods his head vigorously as if in answer, and she springs lightly upon him. All marvel at how the horse allows a brand-new rider without complaint, except for the Riders Four, who smile unsurprised. Seven riders now thunder out from the gates of Harwick and turn westward, Agelmund speaking as they ride.
“Wolves have been spotted on the road towards Cliving, great wolves and Wargs lead them, their howling spreading fear at their coming. We are bid to deal with the threat, or the road west will be closed to us. Eyes forward and to the sides, for ambush may await us!”
They do not have long to ride before howls break upon them from the north. They pass through a gap in the hills, rugged rocks to their right, from which a pack of large wolves begin their terrible song. Horses shy and stamp, swords and axes flash out, Hutha’s bow at the ready – but none of it is needed. A piercing cry is followed by a wall of flame which erupts between the horses and the wolves, putting the beasts to flight as two great wolves are caught in the flames. As the smoke and fire disappear, one wolf remains behind watching, a great shaggy beast that eyes the riders in silence.
“These wolves are used to the ice and snow,” Agelmund says, “and look as Blodcwyn’s fires drive them off – but see this last one, that stands without fear.”
“What is she doing!?” Hutha says, “Lass, get back on your mount, that thing will run you down, come back!” For Seregrían has alighted and walks purposefully toward the wolf, her hands outstretched, and speaking to the wolf who watches her unmoving, its ears erect.
“She’s speaking to it,” Burnoth says, “in what I guess is the Elven-tongue. You sounded like that, Caeorwulf, when you swooned, and she healed you. Can you hear any of it?”
“As I said, I know not her speech,” Caeorwulf says, “but it seems the wolf does, for look!” And all watch as Seregrían approaches the wolf, speaking all the while, the wolf’s ears twitching, its head turning to and fro. She then lays one hand upon its head, and walks with the wolf back to the party, a strange expression on their faces of mixed confidence and wonder.
“He shall run with us, now,” Seregrían announces. “His pack has deserted him in the ice of the mountains, and he is alone. He shall harm none whom I name, and I have named all of you to him. And you may know him by the name I have given him: Warfrost.” And to the wonder of all, the great wolf falls in line beside Seregrían as she mounts, and Dagorlach shies only once at the wolf’s closeness after she whispers to the horse once more.
Hours later, the guards at the gate of Harwick announces the return of the riding, and the gates stand open – and words of wonder follow silent stares as the seven riders enter the gates, Agelmund and Caeorwulf in front, followed by the Riders Four – and lastly comes the Blood-queen astride Dagorlach, and at her side stalks Warfrost the mountain-wolf, her newest companion on her quest in the lands of Men.
