8
“It is the bone-fire, at Wulfstam,” Celyn said, peering at the thick plume of smoke on the horizon. Thomas rode one of the Mercian warrior’s mounts, a docile mare he had named Missy. The two other horses were tied to their saddles with lead ropes. Celyn’s mount, a big brute of a stallion, was none too happy about it but had accepted the extra horse after some stern words from Celyn. Missy was happy enough to have the other one follow her, thankfully. He had been riding a time or two on his uncle’s farm, but was no expert by any means. If either horse bolted, he had no chance.
They had been on the move for half a day, stopping only to let the horses drink. Nothing had disturbed their journey except for this telltale smoke, which had stopped them in their tracks when they rounded a corne
