Padric thought he had the right of it. If the crofter and his family had been killed here then there would be some sign. Padric’s mind went unbidden to the memory of the pig keeper they found not a week before. The goblins had nailed him to the door of his cottage and set him on fire. The blackened remnants of his arms still hung from the wood, a pile of greasy ash and bone below. That unfortunate man had lived barely two days ride from the fort. The croft where they now stood was several days further distant and Padric could not help but think that it was unlikely its former inhabitants made it to safety. More than likely they were hunted down in the forests or harried into the bogs. Padric hoped they did not have any children.

He thought of his own family, and, not for the first time, was thankful they lived in the shadow of Stone Fort many miles away. If the Red Caps would not attack Kederic’s wooden holdfast, they would not dare attack the fortifications that guarded his home. He had grown up despising the warriors that mocked him, hoping that some bloody conflict would lead them far away and claim their lives. Now he was grateful that so many spears stood between his parents and the brutal acts he had witnessed since leaving them. Besides, he had new men to despise.

“Come lads.” Acwellen jerked the reins of his horse. “Let’s turn these nags to home. Nout to find here.”

The big man led them away from the croft, each rider falling into his designated place. Padric’s horse was square in the center of the line, four warriors before him, four behind. After their initial meeting at Bairn’s Babble, Padric had not been keen on accompanying Acwellen and his men, but the Thegn had insisted. Padric could not well refuse after asserting his need to help so strongly. Kederic had saved his life, clothed him and fed him and offered him lodging. In no small way was he beholden to the man and Padric would not dishonor himself by balking at the duties given him.

Acwellen’s riders were a grizzled bunch, each a veteran of numerous wars across the breadth of the Tin Isles. Once there were forty men under Acwellen’s command, but only seven had lived to see the Winetongue come into prosperity and retire in Airlann. A decade of peace and good living had done nothing to soften them. Padric had slain a gruagach and survived a Red Cap raid, but next to these killers he might as well still be on the teat.