Cadwallon looked out over the misty waters. The warm weather had come early this year, and with it, the threat of attack from the heathen. King Erbin of Dumnonia had sent him out from Caer Uisc to watch over the entrance to the great river. No word had come from the settlements on Ventis for some months and Erbin feared they have been lost. A Saxon force wintering there could easily make use of the easterly winds to raid the southern coast. Such a wind had arisen in the last few days, but it was still too weak this morning the clear the sea mist.
At his side, his champion Yvor pulled his rough woollen cloak around him. 'Bugger this for a game of soldiers, boss', he grumbled, 'They'll not come this morning. Lets get back to that farmstead and warm our bones.' The idea was certainly attractive, but Cadwallon felt something in the air. A professional warrior, like his father before him, Cadwallon could sometimes sense when things were amiss...
