Chronicle of Ages by Traci Harding Page A

Selwyn up by his robes. ‘Gwyn ap Nudd hast Tory? Where?’
    Selwyn pointed back into the mist and realised he couldn’t hope to retrace his steps back to her. ‘I know not.’ He bowed his head in defeat.
    â€˜Try harder.’ Maelgwn turned Selwyn around and pushed him on ahead to lead the way.
    The mist was closing in on them again, and it appeared to gobble Selwyn up as he trudged on ahead.
    â€˜Hold up,’ Maelgwn called. ‘I have lost thee.’ He walked a little further but the Druid did not reappear nor answer. ‘Selwyn? Selwyn!’
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    To describe the way Brockwell felt as vexed was an understatement. He’d been leading his troops through the thick mist for most of the day. His son’s welfare weighed heavy on his mind, but he tried not to let it affect his attitude towards the mission at hand. The sun had set some time ago; thus Brockwell had ordered torches lit and kept the party moving. Many of these soldiers had not had a decent sleep since leaving Powys before sun-up the previous day, and the King knew he would not be able to push them for much longer. He had several scouts that were scouring the trails ahead of the main party, searching for familiar landmarks. It was slow going, which only added to his frustration — they would not make Dynevor this night, that much was certain.
    â€˜Majesty.’ Sir Lamorak, Brockwell’s second-in-command on this mission, rode up alongside him as they entered a large clearing in the forest. ‘The men —’
    â€˜No need to say it.’ Brockwell knew he should really have camped outside of the town at Carmarthen when they’d passed it at sundown. ‘Make camp.’
    Lamorak smiled, gratified. He turned his horse around and rode back along the ranks to instruct the men to fall out and make camp.
    Brockwell dismounted so that his horse could be attended to, but having no desire for sleep, he had someone chase up Lamorak for him.
    â€˜Majesty.’ The knight reported to him as requested.
    â€˜I have decided to go on ahead to assess our situation. Find me a scout who feels up to the challenge and a couple of fresh horses.’
    Lamorak bowed to confirm the command and went about Brockwell’s bidding.
    It was a young scout from Dyfed who came forward to accompany the King; he appeared not that much older than Bryce. ‘My name be Trwst, Majesty,’ he bowed. ‘I shall see thee through the night and then some,’ he boasted.
    â€˜And thou doth know this area well?’ Brockwell had to wonder if the lad was seriously up to the task.
    â€˜I could find Dynevor with my eyes closed.’ The lad grinned, confident. ‘We have only to follow the Tywi river.’
    â€˜Then let us depart.’ Brockwell mounted his horse and was surprised when the lad grabbed a torch and ran off on foot. ‘Trwst, thy horse?’
    â€˜I need no transport,’ the lad yelled back. ‘In mist I am faster on foot. Trust me, Majesty. I shall guide thee right.’
    Brockwell looked to Lamorak, sceptical.
    â€˜They say young Trwst be part hound, Majesty.’ Lamorak vouched for his choice.
    â€˜I shall see thee at noon tomorrow then.’ Brockwell rode off in pursuit of the guiding light of his young scout.
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    Vortipor was experiencing the same problems finding his way through the heavy white veil that shrouded his path to Cara. ‘Lost in my own kingdom,’ he growled, driven to distraction by the slow pace they were forced to keep. ‘Conan shall be halfway to Brittany by this.’
    â€˜This mist will be hindering the movements of all within its grasp, Lord Protector,’ his scout assured. ‘There be not one breath of wind —’
    At that moment, all round them, the mist began to contort into forms, whereby Vortipor brought the party to a halt.
    At first the men thought the occurrence was the wind playing tricks in the torchlight, but then the