Celyn and Tynan rode up to Bebbanburg’s gates, their horses snorting as they slowed them to a walk. They had ridden hard after leaving Thunor One-Eyed’s holding, propelled by their eagerness to get to Oswy’s fortress. But even with their urgency, it was a little past noon when they reached Bebbanburg.
As they approached the village at the bottom of the outcrop, the guard on duty stepped out to greet them. Celyn recognized him as one of the young men who fostered at Bebbanburg and trained with Oswy’s war band. The youngling, Dudwine, nodded to him and opened the gate, standing aside for Celyn to pass. “Lord Celyn,” he said, lifting a hand in greeting.
But instead of entering, Celyn drew Arawn to a halt. “Any news of the king?”
Dudwine shook his head. “Nay. But after you left yesterday,
