Voyage
He'd barely slept during the past two days.
Having inspected Marcus's body, Harry had shared a few drinks with the man's father and learned what his friend had been up to since he'd left Hogwarts.
Much to his regret, they'd lost contact over the years, and having come from a wealthy family, Marcus had done little but drink his life away, make terrible bets on often frowned-upon activities, and left a string of women he'd fornicated with in his wake.
According to his father, Marcus had lived how many others chose to, though his life had ended in an untimely, grisly murder.
Since the previous day, Harry had spent his time doing his utmost to trace Marcus's final steps, a difficult task as so few who lived such a life were willing to talk to him from fear of being persecuted or apprehended for their own indulgences.
Harry cared not what others did, but already, his brief journey had given him a glimpse into the outright debauchery prevalent up and down the country.
He'd known of whorehouses for some time now, but he'd never frequented them, nor the black markets, gambling dens, and venues that purported the most violent of sports.
There, men and women would fight to the death for coin, mostly seasoned muggles who'd spent much time on the battlefield, and even magicals who'd fallen on hard times.
Some, Harry suspected, were even dispensable slaves forced into the market by masters looking to profit from the spilled blood.
Those unfortunate to find themselves as such in life were often poorly treated, and the fighting pits, and the whorehouses were where they often ended up when they no longer served a meaningful purpose to those that had purchased them.
Harry shook his head at the thought of it.
He was ashamed to admit that even magicals took part in those activities and owned more than their own share of muggle slaves.
"Another?" the barman asked, pulling him from his thoughts.
"No," Harry answered, placing a coin on the bar.
He'd learned nothing new, nor found anyone to introduce him to the world he knew existed outside of this one, but he would remain diligent.
Harry was determined to get to the bottom of what had happened to Marcus and establish if it had indeed been his involvement in something nefarious that had been the cause of his death.
"You're new here," the barman spoke as he stood to leave.
Harry nodded tiredly.
The barman frowned.
"You don't look like the others who come through. Look around. Most of these are lost souls, or those drinking away their sorrows. Why are you here?"
Harry did look around, and the barman was right.
Although there were those talking to others around them, likely giddy from the ale and wine they'd consumed, their eyes were lifeless, and they were merely content to be comfortably numb from whatever plagued them.
"Don't become one of these lot," the barman warned. "None of them are long for this world. If you don't have coin or influence, these places aren't for you. They will swallow you up and spit you back out when you don't even have a tunic on your back."
"I have no intention to become one of them," Harry assured the man.
The barman frowned and leaned in closer.
"Then why are you here?"
Harry eyed the man speculatively for a moment.
It turned out that he was merely curious, and not looking for information. Leaning on the bar, he shot a furtive glance around the room before responding.
"I'm looking into the death of a friend of mine," he explained. "Marcus Gamp."
The barman's eyes widened in surprise.
"Marcus is dead?" he whispered.
"So, you knew him?"
"Not so well, but he's been in here a few times. You don't forget a man like him. He's loud and obnoxious, but harmless, well, was."
Harry nodded.
"When did you last see him?"
"Must've been a moon ago now," the barman answered. "He would usually come here after frequenting other places, if you know what I mean. You'd be better off checking those if you want to know what happened to him."
"What places?"
The barman swallowed nervously before releasing a deep breath.
"I'm only telling you this because I liked Marcus, but you did not hear it from me. I don't know all of the places he went to, but he mentioned one called The Hangman's Inn. It's in the centre of East Anglia, just outside of Norvic. Beyond that, I can't tell you much else, but I must warn you to be careful. There are some unsavoury people who will not like you looking into their affairs, especially if they are involved in murder."
Harry nodded appreciatively and placed another coin on the bar.
"No one will ever know this conversation happened," he assured the man.
The barman nodded and frowned.
"Listen, as much as I liked him, you might not want to involve yourself in this. Marcus had a way of angering the wrong kind of people. If they killed him, it would be for something worthy. They wouldn't risk it with someone who has such a prominent father."
"You're a squib."
The barman winced at the mention of the word but nodded.
"I am," he confirmed shamefully, "so, you're either one, or a wizard. Look, Marcus might have gotten involved with the goblins and owed them some gold. They have quite the stake in many of the trades in Britain."
"But they wouldn't kill him if he owed them money."
"No, they would not," the barman sighed. "If that is so, then it must be to do with something other than his debts. Check the inn I suggested, but tread carefully. They're wary of outsiders, Mr…?"
"Potter," Harry answered, seeing no reason to hide his identity. "Harry Potter."
"The dragonslayer?" the barman scoffed.
"I have heard that name," Harry grumbled.
The barman laughed and shook his head.
"There will be a lot of people shitting themselves when they learn that you're looking into his death. If you want any hope of learning anything, you mustn't alert any to what you're doing. They will go to ground. Very few will want to find themselves being interrogated by you."
"By me?"
"Your reputation precedes you," the barman said amusedly. "You will find few who do not know your name, Mr Potter."
Harry nodded and placed another coin on the bar.
"I was never here."
"You were never here."
Harry left the inn and pulled his hood over his head.
He knew he'd garnered a reputation for himself, but to think there were those that would indeed fear his arrival to speak with them was not something he'd considered.
Still, the barman was right and harry knew he must tread carefully if he had any hope of discovering the truth of what had happened to Marcus Gamp.
(Break)
Salazar watched as Rowena took a gulp of the potion he'd brought her with a trembling hand. The woman was perspiring despite the cold within the room, and yet, she refused to stop writing in the damned book.
"It must be finished, Salazar," she insisted.
"Then I will write whilst you dictate."
Rowena scowled at him, but it was clear to see she was exhausted from her efforts.
"Fine, but only for a short while. I will be well enough when the potion works."
"The potion is merely a treatment, not a cure," Rowena," Salazar pointed out.
He knew she'd heard him, but Rowena chose not to respond.
Instead, she began speaking, and dutifully, Salazar scratched her words into the book she was so determined to write.
Even so, he could not ignore her ill-health.
Rowena was not foolish to truly believe that she was well, and Salazar expected she was merely speaking aloud that she was in a bid to avoid admitting it.
Still, she was far from being herself and refused to allow Salazar to examine her thoroughly.
Instead, she'd asked only for some pepper-up potions, and other tonics to revitalize her.
None would cure her ailment, which meant Rowena knew what it was she was suffering from.
"Is it fatal?" Salazar asked as the woman took a breath.
Rowena narrowed her eyes at him.
"Keep writing."
She would give him no answer, which told Salazar all he needed to know.
Rowena was indeed aware of what was happening to her, and the cause, and yet, she was doing the bare minimum to heal herself because she knew it could not be.
Salazar swallowed the lump that formed in his throat as he continued to write, keeping his eyes fixed on the book so not to look at his frail friend, though he was pulled from his task as Rowena closed a cold hand over his.
"All will be well, Sal," she promised, her own eyes brimming with tears, "but this must be done. This is my legacy, and that is all that matters now."
Salazar nodded.
He understood.
Year upon year that he'd known her, Rowena had proven to be the most dedicated witch he knew. She worked tirelessly in the pursuit of knowledge, and equally hard on understanding the magic around them.
Her mind was unlike any other, the most brilliant of them, and he simply wished he did not have to accept that he would seemingly soon be without her.
"How long?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"I will not see another summer."
Mere moons then.
Winter was already coming to an end, and spring would arrive soon enough and with it, evidently Rowena's demise.
Salazar wiped the tears from his cheek as he continued to write, unable to ignore the slight quiver in Rowena's voice, something that only made it that much harder not breakdown from his grief.
(Break)
Arthur looked out towards the horizon.
He did not expect to see any ships coming for a number of days, yet, but he'd grown tired of peering towards the trees knowing that Guthrum would reach them before the incoming fleet.
"Nothing yet," Bors informed him.
The scouts were patrolling far and wide around the camp, which had been moved to sit strategically on top of one of the higher hills in the area. Not that it would offer much of an advantage if Guthrum unleashed the dead upon them.
"He will arrive soon enough."
Bors nodded.
"Are you going to send for Potter?" he asked. "He did say he wants to deal with Guthrum."
"I will," Arthur assured him. "We will need all the help we can get."
"Do you believe the stories about dead men?"
"Don't you?"
"I won't until I see them for myself."
"You'd be better off hoping we do not see them at all."
Bors said nothing else, and the two of them continued to watch the waves lapping at the shore below.
"Are you scared?" the large man asked.
Arthur nodded unashamedly.
"If half of what I have heard of them is true, then we all should be."
"But we will fight?"
"We will fight, Bors. What Guthrum has done is one of the very reasons we must. For too long, there have been too many tyrants across the country, crushing the poor beneath their heels in a bid to strengthen themselves. We must win, Bors, and we must be better."
"You will be, my king," Bors assured him. "I do not follow you just because you are my friend. I follow you because I believe in you and wat you stand for. We will win, Arthur."
"We will," Arthur echoed. "Britain must heal, and to heal and thrive, it needs a king to unite all under one banner. God put me here to achieve that, and God will see it done."
Bors nodded and clapped Arthur smartly on the shoulder.
"Then why the fuck are we standing here, my king?" he questioned. "We should be by the treeline, waiting for Guthrum, his heathens, and the dead."
"Aren't you scared, Bors?"
"Aye, I might just shit my britches, but we all have to die someday. Any day is as good as any so long as my belly is full of ale and my…"
"Don't finish that sentence," Arthur implored, fighting the urge to smirk at the bullish man. "Just don't even say it."
"I wasn't going to say anything you wouldn't approve of, my king," Bors called as Arthur made his way back towards the camp. "I was going to say a prayer in my heart."
He wasn't, and Arthur knew it, but he appreciated the sentiment.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to admonish Bors, not when death seemingly crept so near, so close now that Arthur could sense a chill on the air that had little to do with the winds this far north of the country.
(Break)
The Hangman's Inn was a forsaken place, little more than a den of debauchery, gambling, and scantily clad women plying their trade to the eager clients.
It was with reluctance that Harry ordered a cup of ale and brushed off three of the whores before he'd even taken his seat.
Even so, he could imagine Marcus here. If he retained anything of his youth, he would've been in his element.
"Can I interest you in a bet?"
Harry frowned at the grinning, portly man.
"What will I be betting on?"
"Cocks, lad," the man said with a wink. "We've got some of the best ready to fight it out in the back."
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
"I might be interested," he replied, patting his pocket.
The man's eyes widened greedily at the sound of the coins within.
"Well, which one would you like to wager on?"
"Without seeing them?"
The man's smile fell and he cleared his throat.
"Usually, I do not allow any to inspect he specimens, but if you were to place a sizeable bet, I might be able to make an exception."
"Sizeable?"
"Anything more than ten pieces of silver, or two pieces of gold."
Harry hummed and took a sip of his bitter ale.
"Very well. Twenty pieces of silver," he agreed, removing a small bag of coins from his pocket and handing it to the man, who checked the contents before chuckling.
"Right this way,"
Harry followed the man and found himself led into the cellar of the premises, where he found dozens of cages lining the walls, stacked from floor to ceiling.
However, he quickly realised they were not alone.
Concealed around the room were three other men, either lying in wait to attack him, or acting as security for the still-smiling bookkeeper of their enterprise.
"Ah, these are the two," he declared, nodding towards a pair of cages kept just far enough apart that the cockerels within could not harm one another, though not for lack of trying.
Harry nodded as he watched them.
"The one on the left," he decided.
"An excellent choice," the man chirped, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulder. "You seem confident."
"I am."
"Confident enough to perhaps double the bet?"
Harry snorted as he shook his head.
"Twenty is more than enough. It will soon be forty when I win."
The man chuckled, but there was no humour in it, and Harry immediately felt the mood within the room shift.
"I think you should agree to doubling the bet."
Harry quirked an eyebrow at the man and shook his head as he felt someone approaching from the rear.
Striking out with his elbow, he felt the assailant's nose break beneath it, and he seized the man by the throat before ploughing his fist into his already damaged face three more times.
The man fell limply to the ground, and Harry flicked his wand into his hands.
"I would urge the other two to remain hidden," he warned, "or I will make what I did to him look like a gentle greeting between two lovers. Understood?"
The wide-eyed bookkeeper nodded, the perspiration on his brow visible in the dim light of the cellar.
"I'll take my silver back," Harry insisted, retrieving the bag. "Now, you are going to answer some questions for me, and I suggest you do not lie. I will know."
The bookkeeper nodded.
"Do you know a man named Marcus Gamp?"
"Gamp? Never heard of him."
Harry released a deep breath.
"I did tell you not to lie to me."
The bookkeeper wheezed and fell to his knees as Harry drove his fist into his sternum before he was unceremoniously pulled back to his feet, struggling to exhale.
"I will ask you again, and if you think of reaching for your wand, I will take your hand," he added to the man lurking in the corner, looking on helplessly. "Marcus Gamp, do you know him?"
"Listen, I don't know what he's done to you, but it's nothing to do with me," the bookkeeper protested. "He owes me ten pieces of silver!"
Harry shook his head.
"Marcus is dead, so it will be difficult for him to pay his debt."
"No, no, I had nothing to do with it. Why would I kill a man who owes me money?"
"I do not think you did," Harry returned, "but since you are here, I am asking you for answers. Is there anyone else he owed money to?"
"I don't know," the bookkeeper said breathlessly, "but they wouldn't kill him either. You'd be better off speaking to those that knew him."
"Like whom?"
The bookkeeper shook his head, though he held up his hands as Harry made to strike him again.
"Maybe Bode!"
"Bode?"
"Carlton Bode," the bookkeeper said desperately. "He doesn't come here much but Bode and Gamp used to gamble at The Den in Wessex. You'll find it ten leagues east of Winchester in a village by the river. The man that runs it is called Warman."
Harry met the bookkeeper's gaze but saw no deceit in them.
With a nod he counted out ten silver coins and placed them in the pudgy man's hand.
"You and Gamp are even now," he murmured before taking his leave and apparating away from East Anglia.
Perhaps he was no closer to uncovering what happened to Marcus, but he would be soon enough.
Someone out there knew something, and Harry would find them.
(Break)
They were making good time on their voyage, but the sea had become as rough and unforgiving as Lancelot had heard it could be. He'd spent much of the past hours emptying the contents of his stomach over the side of the ship.
Cnut, however, stood on the bow of the ship, laughing uproariously as he clung to a rope of the main sail, goading his gods to truly send them to the depths of the ocean.
Lancelot would think the man to be mad if it weren't for the rest of the Danes following suit.
"Oh, is that all you've got, you swine!" Cnut cursed. "Get up, Sir Lancelot, you're missing the end of the storm."
"Is it the end?" Lancelot groaned hopefully.
Cnut laughed heartily.
"Njord sent but a breeze to welcome us back to the waves."
Lancelot could only shake his head, and his stomach lurched once more as he manged to stand on his shaky legs.
"A bloody breeze?" he groaned.
"That was nothing," Cnut said dismissively. "Thor didn't make an appearance, and the waves just jostled us a little. When I crossed the sea to England, we faced worse. I was thrown off the ship twice."
"You're all bloody mad you Danes."
Cnut clapped him on the shoulder as he nodded, grinning as though he'd just enjoyed the most exhilarating experience of his life.
"Just wait until we hit the west," he warned. "If we get a storm there, you'll shit yourself."
"Great," Lancelot huffed irritably.
If he ever found himself at sea again, it would only be too soon.
(Break)
The chill seemed to only become more prominent with each passing moment, and even Myrddin seemed to be nervous by the approaching force.
"Do you think he will care enough for his son that he will not attack?" Gawain asked.
"I'm not sure," Arthur answered honestly.
"Then we'd better pray," Gawain chuckled humourlessly, "because if he chooses to fight, we will need a damned miracle."
Arthur placed his hand on the pommel of his sword.
The blade was almost humming in his grasp with anticipation, or perhaps that was his heart pounding in his chest.
He wasn't certain, but what he did know was that the cold continued bury itself deeper into his bones, and the men standing shoulder to shoulder with him were feeling it to.
"What do you think, Myrddin?" Arthur asked.
Myrddin's expression became solemn, and though he spoke with reluctance as he uttered his next words, it seemed he was not too proud to admit that their backs were truly against the wall.
"I think if there was ever a time we needed him, it would be now, just in case Guthrum is no longer able to see sense."
"Then I will summon him," Arthur replied, hoping that Harry would indeed answer it once more.
(Break)
The Den was much unlike the Hangman's Inn.
There were no women parading themselves around the bar in the hope of making a coin or two, nor were there any obvious signs of anything nefarious occurring on the premises, but Harry could already feel a dozen pair of eyes on him, watching as he sipped a much more pleasant brew than the bitter one of the previous establishment.
Before he had managed to find the place, those here he would wish to speak with had undoubtedly been alerted to his presence by the bookkeeper, and although he'd yet to be intruded upon, Harry knew it was only a matter of time before his moment of peace would be disrupted.
"Bode is not here."
"Who says I'm looking for Bode?"
"I do."
Harry released a deep sigh as he felt the tip of a wand being pressed into his back, and he shook his head tiredly.
"If you enjoy this place, I suggest you remove it," he suggested. "If you do not, I will leave nothing in my wake but a pile of splinters, and your head as a warning. Now, I only came here to speak with Bode. I have no intention of harming anyone, but you are truly testing my limited patience."
The man seemed taken aback by how non-plussed Harry was at being so openly threatened, and he hesitated before responding by prodding him harder with the wand.
"I already told you…"
The man yelped in shock as he was sent crashing through the window on the opposite side of the room, and with a wave of his wand, the nearby furniture turned into a pack of snarling wolves.
"I had really hoped it wouldn't come to this," Harry huffed irritably, his eyes burning into every man and woman staring at him in shock. "Carlton Bode, if you are here, I would speak with you on friendly terms."
The other patrons began muttering amongst themselves.
"Bode isn't here," one of them spoke up. "When he heard someone was looking for him, he left. Does he owe you coin?"
Harry shook his head.
"No, but I would speak with him anyway about another matter of interest, but since he is not here, I would suggest you get a message to him. Tell him that Harry Potter is looking for him, and that I would prefer that I do not have to hunt him down."
"You're Harry Potter?" one of the men asked. "The dragonslayer?"
Harry merely nodded in response as he flicked his wand towards the window to repair it, frowning as he felt a magical disturbance within himself.
Arthur.
The man was summoning him which could only mean that Guthrum would soon be arriving at his camp.
Releasing a deep breath, he shook his head as he sent a patronus to Morgana.
"Tell Bode not to keep me waiting," he urged, apparating away and doing his utmost to prepare for what may come when he arrived at Arthur's side.
(Break)
The men had fallen silent as the anticipation and tension became palpable whilst they waited for the inevitable arrival of Guthrum and his forces.
All that could be heard was the crackling of the several that had been erected to light the hillside, though they only did so rather dimly.
Myrddin was not ashamed to admit he was nervous.
It wasn't often he encountered a problem in life that he did not have a ready solution available to, but when it came to such unpleasant and unprecedented magic, he was indeed at a loss.
Despite feeling so out of his depth, Myrddin could not bring himself to feel relieved that Arthur had summoned Harry Potter, even if he did understand the necessity.
The stars could not be ignored.
They had warned Myrddin of the man and the upheaval he would bring, of their crossed paths and how Potter would be his undoing.
In his heart of hearts, he could not bring himself to accept that such a dangerous could be left unchecked and remain in the best of graces with the king.
Myrddin shuddered once more as another chill stabbed at every fibre of his being.
For now, it seemed that Potter was a necessary darkness that must be tolerated in a bid to combat something somehow darker still, but Myrddin did not like it.
Such darkness was unnatural and should not be allowed to roam among them.
Nonetheless, and though it was currently to his own detriment, Myrddin had never allowed himself to indulge in the study required to do what was necessary now, though that would have to change.
Despite his misgivings, he realised now that there were those that did not align themselves with his own moral standings, those that would exploit his shortcomings in a bid to defeat Arthur and would do so by any means necessary.
Would Harry Potter prove to be that man?
Myrddin believed so, and yet, as things were, they faced a much more immediate danger in the form of Guthrum and the dark witches that had the man enamoured with them and their ways.
Even so, equally unsettling was the woman he'd first met when she'd been but a girl.
Myrddin watched as Morgana approached the king in the wake of her husband, and her eerily grey eyes came to rest on his.
Her expression was unreadable, but Myrddin did not need to penetrate her mind to know what she was thinking when she looked at him.
Now, however, there was a self-assuredness to Morgana, and Myrddin realised that she was no longer wary of him, nor did she fear him.
"He is close," Arthur murmured.
"He is," Harry agreed gravely. "They are watching us from the trees."
As he spoke, another sudden chill washed over the waiting men, but Myrddin noticed that neither Harry nor Morgana reacted.
They themselves had delved into things he never would, and such darkness no longer seemed to bother them.
For now, he knew that he should be relieved that he stood shoulder to shoulder with them, but the sooner they were gone, the better off Arthur and his efforts would be.
That would happen soon enough.
When Guthrum was defeated, there would be no need for Harry Potter's presence any longer.
"Where is the boy?"
Arthur frowned at the question.
"Safe."
"You will need to fetch him. Guthrum must believe he will be harmed if we are to solve this peacefully."
"But he will not be harmed?"
Potter shook his head.
"No, but Guthrum must believe it," he reiterated.
Myrddin did not like the idea of using a child as a shield, but he knew it was necessary.
Being more than one thousand men down, a battle was not in their favour, though he could not fathom what is what Potter would do.
He evidently had a plan, and as Lars was brought to him, he began whispering to the boy before drawing his wand.
(Break)
"They know we are here, and yet, they are waiting for us instead of fleeing," Guthrum murmured as he eyed the men assembled atop the hill in the distance. "Do they think this fight to their advantage?"
"They would be fools if they do."
"Foolish indeed."
"Then why do they wait for us?" Guthrum asked irritably.
"We cannot say, but the witch is with them, and the wizard."
Guthrum narrowed his eyes.
He had not forgotten how he'd been prevented from taking Daneland from Cnut, nor how the man and woman had thwarted him.
Still, that was all they'd managed to do.
They'd been unable to dispatch of his dead legion, which meant they had no true weapon against them besides using delaying tactics.
"We must be cautious, something does not feel well."
"Caution is a must, his other witch agreed. "There is something in the very stars this night."
"What is it?" Guthrum snapped irritably.
The younger of the two with the belly swollen with his child peered towards the sky.
"It shows me nothing but warns me of danger. The witch and the wizard are dangerous."
"Yes, they are dangerous," the older of the two echoed.
"But we outnumber them," Guthrum pointed out. "They have less men than we expected."
"But the danger remains."
"So, we shouldn't attack?"
The older of the witches grinned at him.
"We should attack. Yes, now is the time."
"You do not seem certain."
"It is impossible to be certain when the stars keep their secrets."
Guthrum frowned as he continued to look towards the hill before nodding and stepping out of the treeline.
Arthur's paltry force was no match for his.
With his witches and the dead, there would be nothing left of them in a matter of moments. Still they did not flee, even when they noticed his own army approaching.
"Stay where you are!"
The voice that spoke was commanding, confident, and almost cause Guthrum to halt his advance.
What did, however, came when he reached the bottom of the hill and saw the wizard who had assisted Cnut.
He held a knife to the throat of a bloodied boy, and Guthrum narrowed his eyes in a bid to see who he had in his clutches.
"I have your son," the wizard warned.
Guthrum felt a sense of dread fill him as he looked upon the bloodied Lars.
His son had several odd symbols drawn on him in blood, and his two witches hissed warningly.
"What is it?"
"Sacrifice," the older witch whispered, grinning almost excitedly.
"That is my son!"
"I carry your son!" the younger witch reminded him. "The stars have shown me his birth."
Guthrum swallowed deeply but was unable to look away from Lars.
The boy so resembled his mother, the woman he'd loved and lost some years ago now, and he couldn't ignore the plight of the boy he'd assumed to be safely tucked away in a monastery back home.
"He is not just my son," Guthrum whispered. "He is her son. You will release him?"
"Perhaps," the wizard replied. "I will only do so when you return to your own lands and I have received confirmation of that. If you don't, I will kill your son and imprison his soul. He will never pass on to return to his mother."
Guthrum looked towards his own witches.
Their expressions had darkened, though theirs were born from anger rather than fear.
"Is that possible?" he asked.
The younger witch nodded.
"Yes."
"He steals our magic to use against us," the older witched hissed angrily. "He must be punished."
Guthrum looked back towards the helpless Lars.
He had never wished to see his sin in such a predicament, and had taken every step necessary to ensure it would not be.
Nonetheless, his worst fear had come to light, and as much as he wished to focus on his efforts to seize the entire country, Guthrum knew he could not face his wife knowing he'd allowed their son to be sacrificed.
"No," he whispered. "Not yet, not when he has my boy."
The two witches glared at him, but Guthrum ignored them.
"I want assurances that he will not be harmed!" he demanded.
"You have my word," the wizard replied. "That is all you will get. Return home, and I will personally take your son to the monastery I retrieved him from."
"Does he speak the truth?" Guthrum asked desperately.
The oldest witch continued to glare at him but nodded.
"He speaks truthfully."
"Then we will return to East Anglia, and when Lars is safe, we will tear the country apart to find this wizard!" Guthrum vowed, his gaze burning into the wizard's as he took his first steps in retreat.
(Break)
"It worked," Arthur whispered.
"For now," Harry murmured. "They will return as soon as he has his son."
"You're truly going to return him?"
Harry nodded.
"Who am I to take a child from the only parent he has left?"
"Indeed," Arthur replied, giving Harry's shoulder a grateful squeeze. "It shall be done as you say, but we must be prepared for when Guthrum returns."
"We will be ready," Harry vowed, vanishing only a moment later with his wife after sharing a brief word with Gawain.
(Break)
Although the sea was now calm, Lancelot's stomach had yet to adjust to motion of the sea, and though he was able to resist vomiting what little he could manage to eat and drink, he still longed for dry land.
"How long?" he asked for the umpteenth time.
"A few days yet," Cnut answered, smirking knowingly at him.
Lancelot could only nod resignedly as he took a seat, and once more cursed himself for not having sea legs.
Cnut, the other Danes, and even most of Arthur's men were unfazed by the rolling waves, but not Lancelot.
Even the slightest shift, and he felt as though he would expel the contents of his stomach.
Still, he took comfort knowing the voyage was soon to be at an end, and he'd vowed innumerable times that he would not board another ship in his lifetime.
"What do we have here?" Cnut questioned curiously, nodding towards the horizon ahead of them.
Lancelot managed to push himself onto his weakened legs and frowned as he too spotted what the Dane had.
"Ships."
Cnut nodded.
"Irish ships. Now, I wonder where they might be heading."
"To Eadwulf's keep, I expect."
Cnut hummed.
"I think it is in our best interest if they do not reach it, don't you?"
Lancelot cursed under his breath as Cnut grinned.
"What are you planning he asked?"
"We're going to take those ships for ourselves," Cnut declared. "DO YOU HEAR THAT? WE TAKE THEIR SHIPS!"
The Danes on the other vessels roared their approval, and Lancelot felt another wave of sickness wash over him
He'd never fought on a ship before, but it seemed that if Cnut got his way, that would soon change.