[Anguirel]

Before Lord Sorn could answer Scyld, their exchange was entirely eclipsed by a massive, booming report against one of the solid oaken doors leading into the grounds. Both of them apparently could guess what this entailed; Scyld assumed a weary look, and Sorn smiled sardonically.

"Well, my lady," he said, bowing elaborately to Linduial, who had also heard the sound and was looking distinctly uneasy, "it seems that you object to the valiant guardsman I allotted to your services. Perhaps you'll prefer the one who's coming to relieve him..."

A far louder crash sounded, this time as the door had been hit by a falling tree in the midst of a tempest, and the whole stucture shook on its hinges.

"Open the door to Master Gurth," Sorn ordered curtly. "Then come after me and I'll tell you all you need to know." He turned his back on the composition and strode away up into the main part of the house, his smile not once leaving his face till he disappeared from sight. Scyld swore again, rather more loudly this time, after the master was out of earshot, and then cautiously approachd and unbolted the door.

"Raarorghrangkragaa!" A vast stave of knarled oak flew through the air, and probably would have beheaded Scyld had he not been by now quite practiced in dealing with this monster, and bent double.

"Gurth," he wheedled, "nice Gurth. Sorn..."

"Sorn?" the sterterous and stupid voice responded.

"Yes, Sorn wants you to come in, Gurth, yes, like that, and do something, yes, exactly, no, in here, and then you'll get a good horn of mead..."

With desperately careful, quasi-maternal care, Scyld eased the newcomer into the darkened cellar room. The man looked like a vision of Helm Hammerhand from the old tales. He was tall, terrifyingly so, fierce, handsome and proud of glance. But his natural heroic gravitas was hampered by his fool's tunic, of green and yellow cloth, symbolising unripe wit; and by the thread of drool on his chin.

"Drink? Sorn?"

"Yes, yes. Now-you see that woman...there...in the cell..." Scyld spoke slowly, pointing, with extensive gestures. Gurth appeared to lose interest, at last crying out "Urrgh. Grendel!"

A strident bark answered this call, and an enormous dog, larger than any wolf could hope to be, bred from a she-wolf and a Rohirric mastiff, as it happened, loped in. Scyld stopped talking, paced slowly but firmly back up the stairs, and left, his parting words an emphatic command-"Stay. Guard her. Then you get mead..."