The Sword of Wayland by Gavin Chappell

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  Cynethryth stood on the ramparts of the town-wall, staring out across the fields at the wall of dank, primeval forest that surrounded them. The Sun was setting in the west, over the lands where her allies had their dwellings. Soon, she told herself. Soon she would have the kingdom within her grasp. She had come so far in life since her own people cast her out, from fortune to loss, to fortune again. The wheel had turned, and her life had turned with it. But she had not yet reached the heights.

  Still, before all this was possible, it was imperative that she secured her position.

  A shadow slipped along the walkway towards her.

  ‘It is done,’ whispered Grimbert, casting wary glances around him, edgy in the open.

  ‘You have spoken with your allies?’ asked Cynethryth.

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ replied the wizard. ‘If you follow me, we may view their progress in the scrying-bowl.’

  He turned, and padded towards the ladder. Casting the forest one last baleful glance, Cynethryth followed.