Apologies for the very late chapter. It's been over an entire month. Still, I have a stronger idea with where I'm going, and setting up some interesting sequences. Hope you all enjoy.
In related news, the earlier short story "Secrets Under Sun" and "Secrets Under Blood" won 5th place in the contest I entered.

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Chapter 6: Keep of Wolves

Gwenhwyfar looked over her shoulder to watch the ship sail off into the distance, the crew in a hurry to leave her behind in their memories. Glancing up towards the bright moon, Gwenhwyfar started moving down the dock towards the small village of Narvik, letting Adara follow closely behind.

A single man holding a torch waited at the end of the dock, wrapped in thick furs to protect him from the falling snow. He bowed as Gwenhwyfar approached.

"My lady, allow me to escort you to the castle," he said in a thick Norse accent, already seeming to know who this visitor was. His breath came out in thick mist through the scarf he had wrapped around his face.

"Very well," Gwenhwyfar stated.

The man turned and started to walk, followed by the vampire and her horse. They moved through the small village of Narvik, the snow crunching beneath their steps. A few faces looked out from windows at the passing pair before quickly closing and a man holding a crossbow at his side leaned in the doorway of the local blacksmith, but that was the only sign of life this late into the night.

They left the village behind and moved along a path which was shown only by the snow drifts on either side and the partially filled footprints along its length. With thick forest on either side of them the pair moved without a word, the only sound their feet and the occasional whinny from Adara.

Gwenhwyfar saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and turning her head slightly noticed a few wolves trailing quietly through the snow, watching the travellers with hungry eyes. The guide put a hand to a sword sheathed at his hip as he noticed the hunters himself, a shiver of nervousness running through his form.

A soft growl came from the forest on the other side, and lowering the hood of her cloak, Gwenhwyfar turned her gaze to see more of the pack stalking them. Dark figures flickering through the shadows between the trees, the glint of inhuman eyes looking for food in the cold of the quickly settling winter.

"They will not attack. It is not deep enough into winter for them to be starving enough yet," the Guide said after a few moments, and Gwenhwyfar nodded, pulling her hand away from Caledfwlch's grip.

Eventually they emerged from the forest, leaving the wolves behind while before them loomed a seemingly abandoned castle. The walls were crumbling and covered in moss killed by the winter cold, and the iron portcullis had fallen apart, its pieces scattered on the gatehouse floor, rusting amidst the snow strewn stone. Passing into the courtyard, snowflakes gathering in her black hair, Gwenhwyfar noted the footprints in the fresh fallen powder gather about her. The tracks had all bled together into a single path, moving through the ill kempt courtyard and past the aging well, and into the surprisingly well kept, but forebodingly windowless keep.

Moving towards a set of high oaken doors, with the likeness of wolves carved into either one, the guide raised his empty fist and hammered on the entrance. Adara shuffled in the snow, while Gwenhwyfar simply stood with arms at her sides.

The doors swung inwards, and the smell of horse rushed out to greet them. Two men, clad in simple leather and furs, had pushed the doors open and ushered the travellers within. Once within the guide began to rub his arms revelling in the warmth as the gatekeepers closed the doors.

"We will take your horse to the stables my lady. You are expected in the great hall, you belongings will be taken to your room immediately," one of the gatekeepers said at a nod from the guide.

The respect and manners reminded Gwenhwyfar of a time long past. She closed her eyes for a moment in memory, but quickly crushed them down before they took hold. There would be time for that later.

Gwenhwyfar nodded, and proceeded further into the keep, past the entrance hall that led to the Stables and servants quarters, and to the large doors that led into the great hall of the Clan of the Wolf. The doors were more ornate than the ones leading into the keep itself, made of oak and strengthened with gold rather than steel or iron. It would have made even some of these modern kings, or even the old Romans blush.

Pushing them open, Gwenhwyfar stepped into a long room lit by torches sit in iron sconces on the walls, and chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. Two long table ran most of the room's length, joined at the end by a much shorter, but nearly identical copy. Chairs were settled alongside, all empty. Dust covered most of the surfaces, save some spaces used by the human servants of the keep.

At the far end of the hall stood a man in rich red, long blonde hair tied back in a pony tail, goblet held lightly in his hand as he looked up at one of the many tapestries that hung from the walls of the room, this particular one of a wolf biting the head off a rose, a few streaks of blood dripping from where the beast had been pricked by the rose's thorns.

"I do wonder if this was meant as a warning, or a reminder," Amadeo Castrogiovanni said loud enough to be heard across the hall, bringing his goblet to his lips.

"More than likely it's both," Gwenhwyfar said sharply, walking past the tables, travelling boots tapping on the stone.

Amadeo turned, and gave an extravagant bow for his fellow vampire once she was close. Standing once more, his cape falling over the one shoulder it was pinned to, obscuring some of the fine workmanship of his tailor. Gwenhwyfar simply nodded in return.

"A pleasure as always to see you my lady," Amadeo said with a charming smile.

"That silver tongue of yours spins lies as thick as pig shit. You hate me and would only be up here in Narvik if you were threatened or you could turn a profit. The question remains however, why do you wish to speak with me?" Gwenhwyfar asked of the Italian merchant.

"Always to the point, and never one to wear a mask. Perhaps you should have," Amadeo said acidly, his smile growing as Gwenhwyfar stiffened, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Did you call me here just to insult me then vulture?" Gwenhwyfar demanded.

"Why would I wish to ever speak with you, even to insult you?" Amadeo said, baring his fangs.

"That's enough," A harsh Germanic voice called out, causing both vampires to turn, seeing a tall muscular man wearing a simple cloth tunic and breeches, walk through one of the side doors. An axe hung from a simple loop on his belt on either hip, his blonde hair tied in two braids that laid over his shoulders, the tuft of a beard growing on his chin and upper lip.

Blue eyes narrowed at the merchant, who sighed and turned, walking towards one of the doors, muttering 'Whore Queen' under his breath, making Gwenhwyfar ball her hands into tight fists.

"He is not worth the anger Gwenhwyfar. Best to save the fury for the battlefield," the German said, leaning against the table and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Thank you Jurgen, now can I assume it was you that wished to meet with me here?" Gwenhwyfar said, after taking a moment to relax.

Jurgen Backenstede simply nodded, before reaching down to a rolled up piece of paper stuck in his boot. Spreading it out on the table, Gwenhwyfar could see it was a map of the local area, drawn in black charcoal. The keep was a square, and the village was a simple 'X', while the forests were mostly shaded in. However, it got the point across, and Jurgen jabbed his finger at a circle drawn overtop one of the spots in the forest.

"Some of our scouts have found soldiers searching the woods, their shields bearing the mark of the Rose. Their clan has always known we were around here, but never exactly where. Nor have they cared. The fact that they are scouting us has some worry on the council," Jurgen informed his friend.

"Where are our soldiers, why have these scouts not been dealt with?" Gwenhwyfar demanded.

"Much has changed since you have left. We have very little human forces loyal to our clan, and our clan itself grows weaker. To the East, the Rose grows. To the south, the Dragon is spreading. And us, here in the north, pull back into the tundra, our knights scattered across the nations. A proper council has not been held in fifty years," Jurgen told her, and Gwenhwyfar let out a long breath, digesting the information with a frown.

"I will deal with these scouts then. How long until dawn?" Gwenhwyfar asked, examining the map closely to get her bearings.

"A few hours yet. I'll go with you, I know this area well enough, and together we'll still be able to move quick enough to get back before sunrise," Jurgen said.

"Agreed. Meet here with a half hour."

Jurgen smiled, and clapped his fellow warrior on the back before moving towards his room. Gwenhwyfar returned the smile, it would be good to feed.

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Alan watched as the French marched out of the city, their banners sagging without any breeze to display the colours proudly. The soldiers did not march to war, but instead followed their king, on the road home. The body of Reynard amongst them.

Drinking deep from the water of his wineskin, Alan stood on the walls of Acre, and finally turned his back on the retreating Christians. Talk of assassins, and traitors within Acre had everyone on edge, the discovery of Reynard's mutilated body had been the tipping point that drove the French away.

Attaching his wineskin back to his belt, Alan walked along the walls, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his hauberk. As he looked down into the stables, he saw soldiers dressed in Lord du Lac's heraldry, and the English knight frowned.

Du Lac was not leaving, nor his silent soldiers. Alan wasn't sure what to make of it, seeing as the Lord's king was currently astride a horse moving back home. Perhaps it was because most of his soldiers seemed to be English these days, though it was hard to tell with them all wearing helmets, and never speaking. Word was that all who entered Du Lac's service had a vision from God, and all became holy warriors.

Alan knew it wasn't true, just barracks rumours. There was something sinister behind this army growing with each battle, and Reynard had gotten close. That's what Alan believed, but with so many eyes and ears about, he wasn't able to say anything, or investigate on his own.

"Alan?" a hearty voice called out from along the battlements.

Alan looked up, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, to see his friend, Sir Garret Thomas, fully armoured moving towards him.

"I'll never get used to this fucking heat... Alan, we're heading out tonight. Get your men together, we're going out to strike at a Saracen caravan," Garret said, a smirk across his face.

"Who else is going?" Alan asked, and the smiled dropped from Garret's face.

"We're supporting Du Lac's forces," Garret said solemnly, betraying his own thoughts on the mysterious French lord.

"He killed Reynard Garret, I'm sure of it," Alan whispered, and for a moment, he thought the other knight was going to punch him.

"You shut you're fucking mouth, because if you're right, you'll be joining him. We'll talk about this on the road," Garret said, and with that promptly turned and left Alan standing alone on the wall.

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