Sleep had come heavily, hours passed by a clouded memory in the time it took him to blink, and yet he was still tired, so tired. His eyes seemed to flutter under the afternoon sun where he walked, and the spring insects became an incessant headache through each ear. The hooves shifted along the winding track, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump,thump, and he knew that sound, it sang a song for his sleep, of a dream he never remembered upon waking. He held the bridle of the silver-grey stallion, clung to it as boots clumped the dry earth. Stay to the roads, stay to the road. This was a road, small road, a winding road, a tiny road; but it was a road nonetheless. The horse's hooves thumped, and his heart beat in time, thump-thump, thump-thump. He leaned against the great muscled shoulder, and every so often the rouncey would nicker, looking for a source to break free – it was not used to being coddled or led in such a manner, and though it did not break free of the master or bite or shake him off, it chewed its bit irritably, and snorted every so often, black tail whipping through the air like an angered dragon, the blue roan a bright sheen against the brown and green trail.
He carried next to nothing now, he'd left it all behind at the dark, musky room. None of those things belonged to him, they were a foreigners clothes, and we do not abade the blood of the westerner and their False Single God, lest their thoughts make us anger the Gods and unbalance the earth, for we remember and abide by The Old Ways. The gambeson was torn, ripped and shredded, and he knew The Master would be furious for letting his hair be dishevelled in such a fashion. The clothes were not his, nor was the knife, nor the sword, or the ring, not by might nor honour nor toil had he gained them, so they were not his for the keeping. The spring sun was warm upon his brown garments and torn boots, and flies came to land upon the great cut upon his forehead, that clotted and festered, then bled, only to clot and fester again. It was a great crevice upon his skull, and his thoughts of it only made him think of a red moon, a bloodied stag and pine nettle, and it made his head hurt, so he thought no more of it.
"Perhaps I could sell you," he muttered to the horse and his voice sounded far, a dream. "Or my master will take tha' back, and I will pay him, but the gold is not mine to spend freely."
He saw the sheen of the lake before he smelled the water, the thick darker green line that broke out over toward the swamplands, but here along the track, the land was green and lush, the sun warm, and he still did not remember his name. I name you cur, for the blood that stained the sheets upon your mother's broken bones, for she was never be whole again when you surfaced the waters of her womb. The sparkling water directed him across the winding track toward the rocky manor, old and battered, but showed much maintenance upon its old aging foundations, a sign of a careful working hand where coin could not suffice.
"What liege lord would sleep in the den of a forsaken province?" he asked himself. "It matters not, for we shall see on the nonce." Hooves shifted, and the stallion guided him along, nudging its head against the master's back, impatient now with the new smells and sight of this man-herd home. The air was not quiet for long however, for it was soon filled with the fwoop-fwoop-fwoop of embossed black, fluttering and flapping and clicking of little talons from branches on high. And from their cries he remembered the ringing of bells, and he wondered if that was supposed to mean something. His thoughts become a great mass of confusion over the blackbirds great din as they amassed in number to greet the new visitor, with japing cries and mocking little dances of caw, caw, caw, and cah, cah, cah. In each little sound they made appeared a whistling tin, a shade of pearl, coppers and shillings and pennies and nails, and one by one their caw became mocking voices in his ears.
Little Wolf, Little Wolf, don't let him in. Leave him in the cold, dark and dim!
Who is he? Who is he? Look at his broken ear! Those silly paws on all fours! Such a silly little wolf!
Killed his mother, killed wife and child, lost his name and now he's wild!
"Shut thee marth or get thee down ye black wretches," growled the man, the 'Little Wolf'. "A fine pie ye would make, hot meat and butter. Come down, come hither and mock me, cowards." He pulled on the reins, trying to walk faster, but they only flitted and hopped and flapped along after him, branch to branch, tree to tree, laughing, cawing, teasing.
Scared of a sparrow is the Little Wolf! Lost his teeth of steel, where is the Master in Black? He knows nothing!
To the King In White, upon the throne he did brood at Garden's heart, and the Little Wolf trembled and shook in fear, and could not strike him down with his steel teeth on the blood moon!
A waste t'was tha d'unt give owt for nowt, if tha di'nt do it for thissen.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up," he snarled. "Shut thee bloody beaks, y'bastards," and he picked up a stone and hurled it at the them as the rouncey shied, pulling him aside from the track. The crows were unharmed as the stone thunked against a branch, and the great murder only cawed louder, and they laughed and laughed while the Little Wolf snarled and led the horse along the winding path towards the old manor.