Chapter 2 - Ride of the Red Wolves

As the slavers flee, Gann raises his horse on his back hooves to quickly turn back towards the carriage in the distance then sees the two horsemen fleeing to engage them. One of them staggers on his animal barely able to maintain upright, then slumps and crashes on the dirt road, the animal shaking off the reins and swaying among the trees. The other one, however, rides true towards the defenseless folk. Cursing himself, his pride and bestial instinct betraying his duty, Gann rouses the animal with a loud cry, breathing raspily as he struggles for air. The horse charges, galloping between the shallow trees but no cries and no kick can push it further to close up the distance against the attacker who is past halfway the distance to Branok. A known sense of dread and defeat clutches his heart, and he squeezes hard on the handles of his weapon ready, praying to the wind to let him be faster: one breath, one strike only.

Glöyn turns to spot the fleeing drivers with Guthric and his hounds hot on their tails as part of her is briefly torn, but her promise to Magan to follow his directives overrides that brief feeling. She steps out and takes aim at one of the drivers, sends an arrow streaking through the trees and undergrowth to penetrate through the armor and deep into his guts! The man screams out in pain as the arrowhead punches through the front of his stomach. He stumbles and keeps his footing, but she knows a wound like that in the wilds is a death sentence. She turns and immediately begins rushing through the forest towards the heavy fighting that seems to be moving towards their own wagon and the child, Isolde... 'No more children will be hurt by these bastards this day...'

The drivers fleeing from Guthric and his hounds both collapse to the ground from blood loss and exhaustion. Those fleeing north have also long since vanished out of sight. Meanwhile, the remaining three riders break off from their pursuers and continue to gallop towards the carriage! Kara's action.  

Kara seeing them go after the defenseless takes off in pursuit, however in her haste she seems to lose focus, causing her swings to just phase through the enemy. At most she was keeping them tied up with their focus on her, which might slow them down enough for the carriage to either get out of the way, or help to arrive.

Digging his heals in and gripping tightly, Magan let's the divine urgency of his cause once again flow into Ealing, she moves faster than ever, narrowing the gap to the fleeing men and the carriage. Magan's vision closes in on one of them, identifying the patterns in his movement, the will of the gods closes in around him, and he instinctively begins to see weak spots where he can best hurt the man. 

Screams and barking trailed off east of the roadblock. Goewyn had done will in mortally wounding the fleeing drivers, but it was Guthric's hunt which sealed their fate. Several minutes passed before Guthric emerged first dragging a pair of bodies. To any observer, it would seem that he bathed in the aftermath of cleaning a deer where it fell in the brush. His hauberk was smeared with viscera and his face - most disturbingly his mouth - was a canvas of bright red and deep brown. The bodies brought from the woods were pierced and rent in several places. Once the casualties were laid on the road, he returned to the woods and emerged almost ten minutes later with the third body. The last to fall was in the worst shape, missing everything below the elbow on one arm and half a leg. Fang and Claw were similarly painted from their work flopped by the road barricade, waiting patiently as their leader sifted through the clothes and pockets of the slain.

Seeing all the slavers near him either downed or fleeing, Gawen looks around to see the status of his companions. The front of the carriage seemed to be secure, but at the far end of the train, he could clearly see the race towards Branok. Knowing he would arrive long after the skirmish was resolved, he dashes towards the wagon anyway, knowing that if the slavers reach their wagon first his knowledge of healing might be required.

Shouting and yelling at the horse to become one with the wind, Gann puts his whole murderous look on one of the riders who chose to strike at the innocent of their weak back. Twisting the reign so the horse moves from the right side to the left to put the foul man at Gann's seax arm, he leans by the saddle and then twists his body feeling muscle strain and old pains only fuel the fire within. When the time is right and his horse can almost smell the sweat and fear of the enemy beast, he strikes, slicing at the flank of the man, gushing blood that would soak the land and mark his grave. The strength behind the trust sent him swinging his whole body weight rightward and unless he held firm on the saddle he would have toppled over, but it revealed his upper back to the swing of the slaver, just a blink later but truer than his. It cut deep into Gann's delt, slicing deep against his scapula and almost close enough to harm the neck. It hurt as his body had pressed against a blacksmith's melting pot, his eyes watered and he hissed to contain the howl of pain. Only trained instincts held firm to the blade and the animal ran like chased by dark spirits.  Gann has no time to waste on the man - the blow he made had to at least slow him down until he could see the field of the skirmish - for his duty is betrayed by the time and spirits beckon him to mend his mistake. He continues to pull the horse left and closer to the other man left. So focused on his quarry, he can not even detect that Kara is approaching it as well. 

Harried by Gann and Kara and peppered by Goewyn's arrows from behind, the remaining two slavers lose their nerve, breaking off to the north and south as they make for the woods.

Magan squeezes his heels in, sending Ealing after the fleeing men. He is at the edge of his bow range he knows, but he let's off a shot. His aim is true and the arrow hits solidly into the back of the man, but at this range it does little to puncture the man's padding. 

Kara, trying her best to believe in the mission before her, swings Helgi at the fleeing slaver. Helgi had been on the fritz all battle, and it was clear nothing much had changed now. It may stem from her unsure belief in the battle before her, or just a general misunderstanding of this fight, but something was not focused for her. She was unable to do much this fight besides Harry the slavers and delay them, and it seemed enough to drive them from the carriage, for now.

Gann controls his breathing and his pounding heart following the beat of the hooves of the beast beneath him, trained to maintain clarity even in time of great pain. He maintains his animal to ride as closer to the escaping slaver as possible, save for obstacle that could put halt to either of them and strikes again. He feels the hard muscle pull to open his back wound, causing warmth to spill out and wash under his armor. He cares little, for his mind is overwhelmed by the calm of his duty. If one escapes, many will follow. He strikes, cutting closer to his lower back and belt, ready to raise the blade to meet a return strike. He staggers, maintaining firm hold to the animal riding head by head as it gets harder to extend the seax arm means he could do further damage to himself. The return strike he was ready to parry, however, does not follow as the man swings wildly but lacks the stability of his grip and feet as he loses consciousness and slips off the horse and falls on the ground. Gann jumps off his own and turns back a few feet to meet the fallen slave guard, standing above him. He crouches, checking for pulse and a quick glimpse at the wound. It is not too deep, but it is wide and is bleeding badly. His first instinct is to put end to his suffering. He imagines however, Magan would look sternly to his folly of the moment. Each mouth that can speak even weakly is more than a bone and mud to return to the earth. He tears off a piece of his sleeve with his blade and ties the two pieces hastily together in what would only soak the gushing blood but maybe that would be enough. He starts to apply the bandage, his fingers dark crimson soaked and warm to the touch. The man seems to fall deeper into the dreams of the world beyond, only a touch by his artery showing there's any sign of life. Gann grits his teeth and focuses his mind to make it until he relieves his body of his spirit. He ties the bandage hard to keep as much of the blood to pool into the torn flesh like tree resin, and carefully lifts him up. He checks again, and the slaver is still alive. He might make it. Gann takes the body over his bad shoulder, wincing at the pain of the wound opening under the rough wool. He puts the slaver over his horse's saddle, taking a moment to breathe hastily and regain his stamina. The world starts to spin and his fingers feel cold despite the sheen of blood on them and his lungs struggle. He needs help himself. Gann rises to his horse and saddles up, leaning closer to the animal and brushing its hair with his blood-soaked hand. "Awn ni.", he huffs and rides the horse towards the cart. "Gallwch chi orffwys yn fuan." Let's Go. / You can rest soon.

Gawen and Goewyn rush to catch up to their mounted companions, the latter loosing an arrow hopelessly into the air. However, the damage has been done. The fleeing riders both slip from their horses as they succumb to their wounds and for a brief moment the woods are quiet, but for the Gann's laboured breathing and the feasting of Guthric's hounds.

Kara turns back to her companions, her brightly burning cheeks the only sign she knows something is wrong. She had little done this fight but distract her opponents and squander opportunities. Perhaps this was for seen by the elder she had spoken with. It was why she needed to visit those places. She was sure of it. While turning back, she notices Gann attempting to save one of the guards. While he manages to maybe save the man, it was clear he too had some wounds. Reaching out, she gives him a soft touch on the back, a slightly warm feeling going to him. "Worry not my friend. We will make it back with our companions. Stand firm." Her gentle Norse seems to be a strange sound given the harsh breathing and other death rattling, but the warmth from her touch was enough to close Ganns wounds and staunch his bleeding, giving him a reprieve from death once again, in as many days

Glöyn looks about for a moment as the weight of this is finally lifted and for a moment she feels as if her feet lift off the ground as she turns back toward the slave train and rushes towards it as fast as her feet will carry her. She shouts at the top of her lungs. “Gruffyd! Gruffyd! Where are you?! It is me! It is Goewyn!” Her heart hammers away as her ragged breath burns her throat. Where is he?! Finally after all this time... Where IS he?!  Cart after cart of filthy, terrified faces stare back at her as she rushes from cart to cart screaming her brother’s name over and over as she receives no response. She reaches the last cart, grasping the bars in desperation as hot tears stream down her face. “...Gruffyd? Please... it is me... it is Goewyn... please... where are you?” As the weight of the realization crashes down upon her that her little brother was not here, Glöyn falls to her knees and cries uncontrollably for several moments.

"Guthric, take your hounds, see if you can round up the horses, we will need them." Magan casts his eyes around the scene before him; more spread out than he had hoped but the plan had worked well, they had barely suffered a scratch despite being vastly outnumbered. He nods in approval. "We have surely pleased the gods today with this victory. Now, time to recruit them an army." He rides Ealing up and down the carts of prisoners calling out to them. "We have freed you from these men today. We have performed the will of the gods, gifting them victory in blood and glory." He rides up and down the line, his voice echoing unnaturally around the trees ensuring everyone nearby can hear clearly the impressive power behind the words. "Now you have a choice. You were defeated people, claimed in battle. Your honour taken by the victors. Now in my victory, I claim you in turn from them. I now release you from your bonds and offer you a choice. You are free to leave here, though you may take nothing but some clothing, perhaps a knife. You may make your way back to your homes, to live your lives in a meaningless road to the end. Or you can stay. I offer you the chance to regain that honour you have lost. A chance for blood and victory. To impress the gods and die in battle. Yet may you be chosen for Valhalla if you ride with me. We ride to fight a new enemy. Servants of a new god. Those who die protecting the old ways are surely to be gifted a seat in Wodin's halls! I offer you a blade, what armour you can find, perhaps a horse, more when we find it. I release you now, make your choice. But once it is made, it cannot be unmade!" He gestures for the bonds to be cut and the carts to be opened.

Gann feels a different kind of warmth - not a burn that sears deep into his body but one that washes away the hardship of battle - and he looks into Kara's eyes, getting lost for a moment in their firm message. He nods in return, unclear what is wanted of him in such a moment other than to catch his breath and let the horse carry him back. But he appreciates the gesture. As they approach, Magan's voice already echoes into the woods and its strong and powerful message stings deep as if he is among those to be freed and given choice himself. He looks aside, best to make sure the carriage has approached the site safely and everyone is well. He takes off the horse - the back wound seems not to string as much anymore, he notes - and waits for Magan's gesture to begin freeing the those tied along with the rest of the group. From time to time he steals a look among the group unsure if he would notice that particular familiarity, but by the look on Glöyn's face he figures he should probably stop and let go.

Guthric gives a heavy sigh, standing from his work with a mixture of fatigue and frustration. The three bodies had been cleaned of anything carried, and he was nearly ready to start stripping clothes for spares and cloth. He gives a whistle and sets off with his hounds. Once in the treeline, Guthric takes his tooth necklace and sits with his hounds, "We need to find horses, the big things bad people sat on. They did nothing wrong and can help us. We will be good to them if they are good to us." How will they help? They helped the bad ones. Fang was always so suspicious of new things "You helped someone before me, right?" He does have a point, you know. And Claw, always the voice of reason. Fine. But if it tries to kick me, I'm biting it.

Four wagons stand before Magan, filled with what looks like around a score of slaves. The third of the wagons contains only womenfolk. Many of the slaves glance about at each other with uncertainty and fear, but others also return the wide-eyed stare of hope. Could such promises be true? One of the burlier slaves, a heavy-set Welshman steps up to the bars of his cage. "You talk of Gods and glory, Saxon, but where is your enemy? What is his name and what is yours?" Nevertheless, as Gann begins to free the slaves from their prisons and bonds, few make to leave, be it due to unease or newfound conviction.

Magan steps forward to address the man who questioned him. His voice still echoes around the trees impressively though so that all can hear the answer. "I am known as Magan. Once Magan Aethling, or Magan the Saxon, leader of the Red Wolves." He gestures around at his companions. "But now, I am know by a different name. Chosen of Vidarr, I am his hand and his instrument of vengeance. I work his cause, to wipe the Christian invaders from this land." He pulls apart his tunic to reveal the brand. "And those who fight with me, fight his cause too, and will earn the favour of the gods, chosen for Valhalla." He raises his hand for a cheer. 

This time more of the former slaves cheer, encouraged by Magan's noble tone and holy mission. All the signs are with him. He performs the work of the gods.

Veln ap Mawr listened to the speech from the bearded warlord from the ranks behind, enchained by his powerful voice. Not even when a rebellious voice among the saved challenged it did it waver. Hidden behind the broader backs of the older men, Veln stood invisible. His short and scrawny frame, clotted ashen hair and skin sickly from malnourishment did not separate him from the rest, but it was the azure blue eyes that were full of life and clarity, and yet not able to comprehend what had happened. During the fight, Veln had shivered and pushed himself against the metal bars as cries around him drowned into scream and gurgle of death. He breathed their pain and washed into their suffering, and was stung by the anger of betrayal, and Veln noticed the ocean waves of emotion had hit him harder than usual. For a boy that had lost his family in a single moment of bloodshed by the wilder roads, it was still unnatural and very unfortunate that the death of others had such a profound effect on him. He finally stepped forward as the man on the horse commanded his people to start freeing them of the ropes that cut deep into their wrists. Most of the men push shoulder and elbow to get aligned with the beautiful Norse woman, so Veln felt he should know his place and steer aside. Around him there were soft words of gratitude, women sobbed and able men made promises that were to be confirmed later. Veln felt someone shove him from behind to keep pace and not lose himself in the moment. Finally, his time had come and he winced when he stood in front of a short but powerfully built man with a hairy face chiseled of savagery and in a bulky coat of mail that shone under the light that made it through the high trees. The man was silent and with the weary expression of toil on his face, save for a few nods to the people who eagerly expressed their gratitude. Veln finally met eye to eye with his liberator and was lost to words. The man held a seax like it were a hunting knife, turned downwards to cut through rope. His hands were as thick as hooves, and coated with a webbed specks of dry blood.  In a moment, Veln's cold fingers that had almost lost sense of touch from the tight grip of ropes met with the hard skin of the man's hands. As the metal cut into rope-like it were gushing arteries of human flesh, so pain speared like blinding white lightning through Veln's chest and impaled into his head, stealing of him all sense of sight and sound and smell.  The ice and snow are bitter cold against Veln's skin. He's alone in the woods, but up ahead he can hear the grunting snorts of a great creature as it labours and struggles. The light draws Veln inexorably on, and he sees a vast black boar covered in thick bristles of fur. The monstrous beast has been led into the drifts and stranded to die. Out of the shadows between the trees on the far side of the giant pig steps a man bearing a spear. It is Veln's liberator and the thickset man plunges the weapon into the side of the boar, spilling bright red blood onto the snow. Veln winced like an old wound has reopened inside him and instinct drew him away from the blade. The large armored man raised his eyes off the rope to looked at him, unsure if he had cut into the boy's flesh. Veln suddenly felt ashamed of himself drawing so much attention to himself. He rubbed his free hands and stumbled back.  "Yr ysbryd baedd mawr." Veln spoke away, moved by the vision and still impaled by an invisible phantom of that spear. He thought he whispered to himself only, but he did not. Like many times before, Veln had no idea where the words came from. "Rydych chi'n ei ladd dro ar ôl tro, ond mae bob amser yn dod yn ôl." "The great boar spirit." // "You slay it again and again, but it always comes back."

In his weary state, Gann could only register people's gratitude but not respond to them. Adrenaline had worn off and with it, dreary exhaustion and the cursed sting in his bad leg had both reawakened to remind him he was indeed alive yet mortal. Gann released hands after hands from the bonds of slavery with a series of swift cuts, grateful their eyes were all turned towards the powerful presence of Magan. The routine was only broken when a boy winced as the blade met the rope, still reliving the days of violence that robbed it of free well. Then Gann heard the boy speak. Gann's hand froze, gripping the hilt with his hard, cold fingers. His eyes filled with icy white and his mind broke under the avalanche of repressed feelings, dominated by sheer animalistic panic. For a moment frozen in time, he fought the urge to twist his wrist and impale the boy right here before countless witnessing eyes. His contained breathing broke off into trembling hisses and though his lips moved, he failed to form words. The boy noticed this and like a small dear it smelled the stench of blood in the air he stumbled back against the crowd. Gann could not stand meeting its eyes, those wells of ocean-blue, still and sad and knowing. Gann retreated by an uncertain step, then turned back and shoved an aged woman away before she could touch his hand in gratitude, so hard she stumbled and fell. Gann tore through the ranks of free slaves until he would disappear among the trees across the road, leaving the rest of tied slaves confused and in need for someone else to release them.

Talorc stand behind Veln in the queue. His huge muscular frame standing out amongst the crowd that jostled in competition to reach the front. He stands aside with a grunt as the thick set man pushes through them and waits patiently for someone else to cut his bonds. A few of the freed slaves too, pick up knives and axes from the ground to cut each other's bonds.  Talorc stands back as the crowd cheers, silent and non-compliant. Most will stay he knows, he doesn't care. He puts a hand on Veln's shoulder, the young boy too, not cheering. "No. No. I fight for no-one. Man or god."  His voice rasps, horse and slightly unsteady, like someone who has not spoken for a long time. His accent, clearly of the north explains the short sentences. "Not my gods. No. They fight for themselves. They wish something. They do it."

A slightly built woman stands a bit to the side. While the cheers of freedom go up, her head seems to shrink a bit. Not all those gathered where her fault, but enough that most the former slaves knew of her transgressions against her kin and fellow villagers. When the cutting of the bonds was being done, she stepped forward, only to find herself in the back. Wicked men, always taking what is not theirs. Her face shows her clear displeasure at having needed help, which after the large man freeing them ran, meant noone was overly willing to cut hers.  Runwyn then notices a few of the other slaves that where young enough to help, and she approaches, though many of the older slaves seemed to give her a scornful look. " Fellows, would you free me as well, or be like those foul slavers?"  Her voice was soft, matching her blacken hair and green eyes, but a coldness to her posture meant she not as soft as she seemed. She was standing near Veln and Talorc, but was clearly by herself despite those gathered around

Shaken by the unexplainable actions of the armed man before him, Veln's first conscious thought is to seek refuge behind the crowds but a strong hand rests on his shoulder and halts him. He cowers from the rough voice behind him: loud, annoyed, and chiseling words into short statements. He had seen the man who the voice belongs to in the cages before, he had witnessed him spitting and wearing at the slavers and withstanding their punishment with ease Veln could not muster. The boy quickly lowers his head, afraid of the attention and even more so, the wrath of their liberators who this man behind him who openly challenges their faith.

Talorc smiles at Runwyn, giving her a wink and grabbing a knife roughly from one of the nearby slaves who was helping some friends. "Mine now." He holds Runwyn's arm to increase the tension of the rope. "You have no friends." It is a statement rather than a question as he slices the bonds. "They hate you. Why?"  He glances around before putting the knife beneath his rags, dangerously pressed against his skin under the simple rope that holds the tunic to his body. "They hate the boy. They hate Talorc. You, me, him. Not welcome."

Bristling as Talorc held her arm, she sniffs and states"  Because men are not to be trusted. They lie and steal."  She runs at her wrist, and it was clear that her bonds had been there for a good while, enough so there was some damage to the wrist. She pushes back her hair and puts a small braid in it to hold it back out of her face, before looking at the two before her. Small and afraid, and strong, but perhaps not all dim. Perhaps they would do.  " I chased the slavers who escaped. They owe me. I would rather see them all dead than these claims of foreign gods. That is a fools errand."

Veln tilts his lowered head to read the movement of the man who held him in place, and he is no longer there, instead drawn to a woman not far away. He quickly turns around and seeks a way through the gathering of free people towards the back, where the ox-driven cages rest. He leans against one of the carts, his thoughts in disarray. He wished he could muster the strength to speak to the man before he ran away like he saw death in him. If others stood by his side and proved witness, he would be food for a mob. Veln felt he must flee while he can.

After several moments, Glöyn slowly gets to her feet amid all the commotion around her. She seizes the hands of the nearest person to her, desperation evident in her eyes. "You! Where are all the children? What have they done with them?! My brother... he was taken near Penrhyn Gŵyr. I have tracked them to here. WHERE IS HE?!" She clasps the former slave's shoulders, fingers digging into the flesh.

The newly liberated slaves stare at the raving welsh woman fearfully, but Glöyn does not find the recognition that she seeks in their eyes. However, there is one woman who steps forward from amongst the huddled lost souls to place a hand of comfort upon Glöyn's arm. "I am Winflaed," she explains softly, reaching down to encourage the desperate girl to loosen her grip on the poor slave. "They took my boy too. We were separated at their stockade, up the Severn towards Gleawecastre. I never met a Gruffyd, but I also never saw a child leave that cursed place. If you take up arms against these bastards, I would join you. I would do anything for the chance to see my Cenred again." Winflaed is no taller than Glöyn, with mousy brown hair that's so dirty that it might once have been a dark blonde, but she speaks with a quiet power and conviction. Her green eyes burning with determination as she holds eye contact with her liberator. As Magan inspects the freed slaves for able-bodied men, five catch his eye as potential warriors. The enormous Irishman, Talorc. Another tall man with an oblong face and long, dark, curly hair. A comparatively short, though thick-set man, with very long, grey, braided hair and an oval-shaped face. A bald, athletically built man with a tatoo of a fish on his left arm, and one more with a handsome square jaw and short waves of red hair. The last three have stepped forward to take advantage of Magan's offer.

Magan lines up sets of armour and weapons from the guards and some from the wagon on the ground, and begins dishing it out to those who look capable and strong who have volunteered. "And you? Will you not help us in our quest to rid our lands of false gods?" He looks over at teh two strong men who have rejected the call and are making ready to leave.  The one called Talorc looks over, a heated challenging stare, full of strength and pride, "No. I fight in my land. For me. Your gods can do the same. You can do the same. Saxon."   He holds his stare, his muscular frame stands up, equal to Magan, or most other men, except perhaps Guthric. Magan meets his gaze though. The challenge evident. "Then go. I would not have a man who is not committed at my side in a shield wall. And you?" He switches his attention instantly to the other. 

The remaining warrior remains relaxed and unperturbed, in stark contrast to Talorc's bristling challenge. "I am but a simple ceorl, Magan Aetheling," he replies. "I have children who will fear me dead, and they a mother who depends on me. I wish only to return to my family and live my life, such as it was."

Glöyn glances down at the hand upon her arm and tenses as she glances up to the calm face of the woman, Winflaed. "Goewyn." She allows her tight grip to be removed from the slave's arm, recognizing the look of loss she herself felt every day. "You mean to say they are keeping the children at this Gleawecastre? Where is that?" "Not in Gleawecastre. A stockade near there. Tis up the Severn, a ways north of here. We were brought down the river to Caer Odor." Goewyn sighs bitterly. "We would only be but two women. The leader of this group, Magan, plans to build an army to fight the Christians to the east. They helped me track and ambush these slavers that took you in the hopes my little brother would be with you all. I do not know what to do now. I am not sure I could convince him to turn aside for two children." Her steely gaze meets Winflaed. "But I would lead our own group against this place with you, should you be capable of killing slavers with me?"

"Then go to them in peace. May you find eternal happiness with them in Helle's embrace." He smiles softly, a hint of pitty in his eyes. "As for the rest of you, we must get to work. Remove cage from wagon, make them comfortable, for now you must ride as warriors, seeking glory, not as cattle seeking only slaughter."

Winflaed's expression hardens. "I will do what I must," she tells Goewyn. "-and I will join you!" Another women declares, stepping forwards from amongst the other slaves. Built like a bear, she stands at over six feet with a braid of dark brown hair hanging over her shoulder. "My name is Beornwyn and we have suffered enough at the hands of these men. I would sooner take the fight to them." Many of the other slaves do move to begin carrying out Magan's orders. Some are only too keen to dismantle what until moments ago were their own prisons. However, Goewyn's conversation has not gone unnoticed and many of the slaves gather close to the welsh girl, keen to hear who they should follow to exact revenge on their former captors.

Kara perks up as Gann quickly moves away, leaving the slaves and the one lone captive with her. After the speech and whatever was happening with the slaves and Gloyn... or Goewyn... Or whatever her name is. I must find out who I travel with better...  Kara calls out to Magan, " There is one here still breathing Magan. Do we need to not question him? Also, someone needs to check on Gann. One of the slaves said something and he ran off."

Magan nods, ignoring the second part.  "Thank you, we will question him, and find out where your brother was taken Gloyn. When we are finished he will be my gift to those of you who choose to stay, to do with as you wish."

Guthric's private chanting had finished midway through Magan's introductions with the freed slaves. He took a minute to relay his mission to Fang and Claw, but heard a sudden crashing of sticks and brush. How strange that it was Gann storming away from the caravan he fought to free... "Gann, are you well? Come, we need horses, tell me your mind."

Guthric doesn't need to go further than a few dozen feet among sparse bush to notice a human figure leaning against a pine tree. Gann's head is facing the rough brown of the treebark and his forehead is pressed against it as if the man is confessing something to a wise elder's ear.  His right hand still firmly grips on the hilt of the blade as if it is the one thing that grants him comfort and certainty.  When he hears Guthric's call, Gann turns around and nods. He looks pale like a man who's seen death not victory, and the lost look in his eyes remains cold and distant as he approaches the large pict. it may be tiredness, but no tiredness would take as much life off a man like frostbite. "Ei am unhurt. Let's go find the beasts." He nods moving by Guthric's side and surveys around. 

Glöyn glances around as she realizes this group of former slaves was now listening intently to her hopeful plans of killing more of their former captors. She looks decidedly uncomfortable with all the attention she garnered as the massive, bear-like woman, Beornwyn, offers to join the fight as well. She nods to Beornwyn as Kara's words of Gann and a captive finally reach her ears. There is too much happening all at once. Part of her wishes to go after Gann to find out why he ran. Another part wishes to speak with Magan and explain it was never her intention to take any of the slaves away from his plan to grow his army... and the strongest part of all needed to speak with this captive. She hesitates, glancing at Magan. "Perhaps we could speak later of our intentions after this? I... I must speak with this captive, now, before it is too late." Without another word she rushes off to find their captive as her hands shake while she balls them into fists. 'He will tell me what I want to know. I will do what I must... for you Gruffyd. I am coming, little brother.'

The relief Gawen feels seeing his friends unhurt and the battle won suffuses his body. They were all almost uninjured, save for Gann, and even as he watches, Kara takes Gann's hand and Gawen feels rather than sees the golden aura that briefly surrounds them as she bestows some of her own power upon him. Truly the gods were with them. He listens impassively as Magan gives his speech, but inwardly is slightly surprised by how Magan has increased in spirit since his experience in Wansdyke. He watches as Magan's conviction spreads through the group, the subtle change from expression from hopelessness to belief in a cause puts him in mind of iron starting to glow when shown the heat of the forge. As Magan continues speaking to the freed slaves, Gawen remembers the captive that Gann had taken, likely in need of aid if he were to provide any information of use. Looking around, Gawen doesn't see Gann, but the captive he had taken was there, slumped against one of the carts. Gawen approaches cautiously in case the slaver was only feigning unconsciousness, but as he gets closer it becomes obvious that his wounds are serious. Kneeling down next to the man, Gawen pulls out his waterskin to begin inspecting and cleaning his wounds.

As Gawen moves about the man's injuries she notices something strange about one of the wounds and takes hold of Gawen's hand just as he is about to tough it. "Wait, Gawen, look there." Together they make a closer inspection and realize just how closely the wound was to opening and bleeding again. She removes some herbs some her pouch. "Pack this into the wound, it will help to stop more bleeding. Then wrap it with this poultice." As they minister to the man, she notices he is not bound and removes a coil of rope to bind him. Shortly thereafter his eyes flutter with a groan of pain as he comes to consciousness. "You have healer's hands, Gawen." She smiles and pats his massive back. "Now, I feel you may not want to be here for this." She removes her seax from its sheath and kneels down in front of the man. "You are awake. That is good. What you tell me next will determine how much pain you shall feel." She puts the blade of her seax against the man's crotch. "Answer my questions and you get to keep your cock. Otherwise I'll cut it off and force it down your throat. Do I have your attention?"

The slaver has lost a lot of blood, and only little colour remains in his face, but what little there is drains away in fear when he hears Goewyn's words. Silently, the man nods.

She gives him a grim look. "Good. You tell me the truth and I will not kill you, but if you lie then I will start with your fingers. The giant there will rip them off one by one. Your people took a little boy from the shores of Penrhyn Gŵyr. His name is Gruffyd. Do you know that name?" A pause for answer. "Those taken from the lands of Wealas, where were they taken?"

The slaver shakes his head when Goewyn mentions Gruffyd. "The boss doesn't sell the young'uns on the open market," he explains with a stammer in his voice. "Special customers only. He keeps them at Arlingham."

Goewyn's blood goes cold at these words and she leans in closer, pressing the blade painfully against the man's crotch. "What do you mean, special customers?!" Her voice is a quiet whisper, but there is no mistaking the deadly threat behind it.

The slaver gulps. "I don't know! We get special requests for all sorts. Rich buggers showing up on horses in fancy clothes with an honour guard. The boss finds 'em what they're looking for, and children fetch a lot o' coin, so he holds 'em back."

Magan approaches quietly from behind the slaver. His voice returning to normal volume now, but still echoing with the confidence and authority of a leader. "Tell us of the location. Arlington is small. You are inside the village? How many men?"