Chapter 3 - The Long Road Out Of Eden

"Wine," Calix remarks as they venture further from the, hand twisting over the pommel of his sweord. His eyes skim the stalls as they walk, passing over farmers and leatherworkers and misled children peddling pagan charms. A year ago he might have been in a trading post not unlike this, caring little for a place called Lundenwic as he stumbled with Damasus laughing and half-drunk across the sea. Would that he'd ever know that ignorance again.  "Frankish wine. Not the swill you lot have here. Do you see anyone?"

"Swill? The hell makes your shit so much better? Paying a whole lot for the same thing is all I get out of it. Besides, a good ale'll set you better than any breakfast."  Hrothgar makes no great effort to see out someone peddling wine, but does make note of several stalls bearing various foods. "Need food before we need to get drunk. How's this gonna work? Armband's worth a month of food for us. Should we split it in chunks?"

"That is enough to tell me you've never had it. You would know," Calix responds, skirting the edge of a wayward wagon. "Splitting it will make it easier to spend. If you consider that a good thing, then yes, look for someone who can. With luck their stall will be beside a Frankish trader."

After a bit of searching, Calix and Hrothgar stumble across a foreign trader on the far side of the wic, who appears to deal in trinkets, shiny stones and precious metals. The dark-skinned man is dressed in baggy, colourful clothing, the likes of which few Englishmen have ever seen.

Hrothgar regards the merchant with apprehensive caution. Such people were quick-talkers and never gave all details in hopes of getting the better deal. “Good day. We have an armband here we’d like to trade for a few smaller items. We’re passing through and need supplies, but this would fetch too much to carry. What do you say” Hrothgar waits patiently, comfortable letting an initial offer to come before he offers a counter-offer.

With a charming smile, the merchant extends a hand to take the armband for inspection. "I can trade you for sceatta . They pass through many hands here in Lundenwic." The man hefts a jingling leather pouch and holds it out towards Hrothgar. "Fifty for the armband?"

Hrothgar dangles and bounces the small pouch offered by the merchant. It felt like bits of metal, and a quick glance inside showed that it was shiny metal at that. However, his lack of mercantile and appraising skills led him to mainly put on a good show instead. “Hmm,” he mused, “A good offer, but this was a valuable gift of gratitude from a lordling. I was the one who personally brought an axe to the head of his assassin and kept his bloodline in this world. I’m sure it’s worth at least sixty.”

"Perhaps one of the other traders would be interested at that price," the foreign merchant offers friendlily, gesturing towards the quarter of the wic where supplies and vittles are for sale. 

Hrothgar thinks over the merchant's rebuttal for a few moments, but a shrug from Calix convinces him, "So be it, you've got a deal." Once the pair are clear of the standard, Hrothgar empties the pouch and split the small valuables between them. "Stay in the market if you can, we meet at the gate in two hours to head back. I'll get food for us all, and I need to see a smith about an axe."

While Hrothgar arranges for supplies for the journey, Calix finds himself drawn to a stand on the north-east side of the wic. Numerous barrels, skins and even some glass bottles are protected by canvases dyed with the colours of Calix's Frankish homeland. Clouds are drawing in overhead, but the skinny, dark-haired man behind the stall seems stoically familiar with the cold and wet.

There's a rush of something cool and refreshing when Calix first sees the canvases, as familiar to him as the sweord at his side. Moreso, even. The blade had been out of his reach while Fabian lived, but this? This sight is almost more welcome. "Well met," he greets the man in Frankish as he winds to a stop at the stand. There's an urgent need to ask how soon the man plans to return to the continent that he barely bites back, trying and nearly failing to keep close all the painful lessons he's learned on these shores. "You are from Francia?"

"When it suits me," the merchant replies in the same tongue, his eyes falling to the sweord on Calix's hip. "What can I do you for?"

"How soon might it suit you?" Calix shifts, his hand falling protectively to the sweord hilt. "I will be looking for passage back soon, but before that, a message. Depending on when the tides might take you. And to where."

"I'll find myself in Frisia again soon enough," the merchant confesses. "Delivering a message sounds like going out of my way though."

"Only if there was nothing in it for you," Calix responds. "A father awaiting word on his sons carries a heavy debt to the one who would deliver the message. Mine is capable of paying it." He shifts again, this time to bring the sweord hilt more into view rather than less.  "And then some."

The man does hesitate when he sees the sweord, but seems not entirely willing to take such a promise at face value. "Got to find him first..." the merchant notes, clearing his throat. "What can you pay? Now."

"Finding him won't be difficult, if you know the path to Brittany." Calix considers the merchant, thinking of the distance and uphill bargaining battle he faced. "If you have contacts here more willing to make the journey, I'll pay you for their names and an introduction. Quicker money than a journey from Frisia."

The wine merchant grins a grin full of crooked, yellowed teeth and spits in his palm, before offering it to Calix to shake.

Calix doesn't hesitate before gripping the man's hand. "Lead the way."

"I am Theodculf," the merchant adds, flipping the silver sceatta that Calix hands him with a smile. Theodculf leads the Frank between the tents and stalls towards a makeshift bar protected from the rain by a leather marquee. A group of grizzled looking sailors are sat beneath it, drowning themselves in what smells like cider. "This here is Garfrith and that's Ulfwig," Theodculf explains. "The lad here's looking for someone to bring a message to his father in Breizh. You headed back that way soon?" Garfrith shrugs. "Where in Breizh?" He asks Calix directly.

"Aleth," Calix responds, glancing to the man's cup and back. "Are you familiar?"

"Aye," Garfrith nods with a glance to Ulfwig. "Who's your father and what's the message?" The heavy-set sailor is gruff and to the point.

"Lord Pius, son of Julius. Any in Aleth will be able to point you to his holding," Calix responds, proffering a thin roll of parchment that bears all he cares for, and all he owes. "He will ensure you're cared for."

"We'll see," Garfrith remarks, squinting his eyes as he takes Calix's measure. "Half now - five of your shiny coins," he adds, eyeing the Frank's pouch.

"Four," Calix counters. "You know now he's an ealdorman; you can tell him you had my word he'd give you eight when you get there. He won't make his son a liar."

Garfrith pauses for a moment, but then his eyes fall to Calix's sweord and he nods in agreement, offering an enormous, calloused hand to shake on the deal.

A few hours later, and after plenty of walking about the market, Hrothgar stands at the town gate with a hand cart borrowed for a few hours in exchange for a piece of sceatta. When Calix approaches, Hrothgar hefts the wagon's handles and the pair head out. After returning with their goods to the campsite, Hrothgar makes the relatively quick return trip for the cart, then back again. Purchased Goods: - Rope, 50' - Tinderbox - Waterskins (x4) - Ale, 8gal - Common Food, 12 meals - Rations, 16 days - Throwing Spear (x6) - Medium Shield, Wooden - Buckler (Goewyn)

Egon frowns at the numerous ale bottles in the cart. He glances at Hrothgar. "Are you planning on drinking yourself into a stupor for the remainder of our travels?"

"Ale carries better than water, and can replace a meal if you're desperate."  Hrothgar retorts with a sagely air.

Egon frowns, not knowing enough about travelling light to know if that was true or not. Still, it seemed an exorbitant amount. "It also makes men into idiots," he says.

Hrothgar shrugs with a wide smile, "Some, yes. But often friendly   idiots ."  He lashes a few of the jugs together into a makeshift carrying strap, then hoists them onto his shoulders with the rest of his equipment. "We go without names, yes? Well, say we meet someone and offer drinks. After a few, we learn they are hunting us. Now they are drunk, and we are not."  The bear of a man taps the side of his head with a finger and a knowing smirk.

It's not a terrible idea, but Egon still looks unconvinced.  "Let's be off,"  he says after everything is packed up.  "And be done with Lunden."

It's late in the day when Calix and Hrothgar return and the sun hangs heavy on the western horizon. The next morning brings a hard ride over hill and dale. It's late in the afternoon when the outline of the grand church, which Rome's bishop has had constructed at the heart of the village, finally comes into view. The proud, wooden edifice is bathed in the wan light of the fading day, as though the Christian God himself is calling out to those who can see. Here, you will find me.

Goewyn stares at the city as it comes into view, a wave of conflicting emotions comes crashing down upon her as they reach what she hopes will be the final step in getting her brother back. It has been a very long, very difficult journey to this point and now here she was... She tightens her grip on the reigns of her horse as she tries to think of what to do next, and honestly... she didn't know. She looks over at the others. "I... don't know what to do now. Do we ride in, kill all the slavers, then break open their cages? I always pictured myself catching them in the wilds, killing them one by one until they were all gone, but this is different."

Egon lets his hair fall in front of his face. It was longer than it had ever been before. Hopefully it would be enough to not be immediately recognized. "We need to be careful here," Egon says. "I think we should pose as Calix's retinue, and at least pretend to be...well...Christians while we get the lay of the land, as to not attract too much attention." His gaze is locked on the church, a clear monument to the greed of men rather than the splendor of any god. 

Goewyn follows Egon's gaze to the church and nods absently. "What say you, Calix?"

Muireann gazes at the church, a representation of everything she despised, everything that had taken her people away from her. And this man would have them pose as Christians?  The very thought made her stomach twist. But....if what she knew about Christians was true...she couldn't afford to reveal what she was.  "I don't like it. Pretending to be...." she can't even say the word. "But if it means we don't get killed, then fine."

"Pretend? Ha! These are desperate and unsure times. Who says a Christian wouldn't take protection like us if they had no other choice?"  He pushes a meaty finger towards Calix as well, "I'll act the part, but don't start acting like a lord in the streets." "Now, about these slavers. Maybe we wait to see where they're staying and pay them a visit at night?"

Muireann just glares at Hrothgar, then turns her attention back to the hideous reminder of the oppression of her people. 

Calix's sign of the cross at the sight of the church is a reflexive motion that he couldn't have stopped even if he'd wanted to, the light pouring over the wood silencing all fear he'd held that he had made the wrong choice in Lunden. There had been little to stop him from leaving with the merchants overseas if he'd wanted to; returning to Aleth in body and not just in word. But here He was, clear as he'd been in months – and his worry evaporates. "What do you expect me to act as? If I have a retinue, I must be someone of note," he responds to Hrothgar, pulling the cross necklace he'd buried beneath his tunic to be in full display now that they were in friendlier lands. When he looks back up it's to everyone gathered, each as pagan and against his people as the last.  "If the slavers are in the church, no one is killing them. There is no blood spilt in a temple of god."

"Your god would harbor those that would enslave children?" Egon asks, incredulous. "Surely not."

"Harbor?" Calix looks perplexed. "No. But if the slavers have taken refuge there, that is their choice, and they will be lured out. There will be no blood shed at His altar."

Goewyn looks at Calix. “I will do whatever I must to save my brother, including shedding blood wherever I must, but assaulting that building head on does not seem to be the best strategy anyway. So, in that I agree, if they are within, we should find a way to draw them out.”

Hrothgar gives Goewyn's shoulder a nudge, "Easy, now."  His tone lack its usual bravado and is replaced by concern, "I know what it's like to want blood debt paid; I think most of us do in some way.  But temples are always busy with people. There's a good chance we'll be caught just walking in like we are."  Hrothgar looks at the others, crooking his jaw and mouth in contemplation, "Send in Calix to find them, see if they can be lured out, then we take them where no one sees. Justified or not, they won't like murder in the open."

"Careful, you are almost speaking sense," Calix snorts. "The Lord is already working miracles."

"Very well," Egon says. "I am content to wait outside this town as well."

Goewyn glances at Egon. "You may wait outside, if you wish, but I will go with Calix. This is my brother and I want to know where he is being held and that he is still alive. Who comes and who will stay?"

Muireann comes up beside Egon, tearing her eyes from the church to look over at Goewyn. "I said I'd help you find your brother. I intend to do keep my word."

Egon nods. "I will accompany you then," he says.

Goewyn offers them both a smile, an almost strange look on the normally stoic young woman's face. "Thank you. I do not know what fears you face here, Egon, but your help is appreciated more than I have the words to say."