Here in lies a snippet recovered from a scrap of paper desperately saved after my laptop imploded destroying the story save a few lone snippets posted online.
In the afternoon Tortrym found himself lazing in the sheltered garden behind Ithignir Hall. After lunch the Thegn’s daughter, a mischevous seven-year-old, had insisted that the Chief Hallweard, his grandsons and he challenge her to a game of horseshoes. She had of course won easily and gloated about it until she fell asleep under a pear tree. The Hallweard himself nodded off soon after against a rather mossy apple tree closeby.
Tortrym ended up sitting on a tree-stump with a block of wood and one of his knives. At first the carving had gone towards a horse then he changed his mind to carve a humanoid figure, a girl. As indecision turned his toy into a woody pulp the sun began to wane and shine down Oakenbury Valley. The valley was famed in the right circles of the Kingdom for its vineyards. The vineyards twinkled in the sunlight and he began to muse to himself. “Noon’s golden valley. Enjoying neither dawn, nor, the last rays of dusk.”
It was while creating such skalds, as poems were called, that he was called by a Burghweard. The man was dressed in the brown livery of Ithignir Hall. “Sir, a rider comes from down the Fosse path. The first such since well, you lot arived.”
Tortrym tossed the wooden lump aside and stood up. “Where does he hail from?”
The guy smiled, dirtily, “He claims to have ridden all the way from Burgsted.”
He was shocked and nearly asked the Burghweard to repeat himself. Then thought better of it. It was his first chance to hear about a brother. “Does he bring word of Cafgar?”
The Burghweard shrugged. “Best ask yourself. Won’t speak to me.”
“Right. Let’s see if he will speak to a Prince of the realm. Until then go see if you can rustle up some food and drink for our messenger. Go see that Hallmaiden you like.”
Tortrym then took himself to the main hall for the grand reception while trying to imagine what had happened to his brothers. The fires of Regensmuth were still etched into his dreams.