Thus the last seven-day of the great Geatish Folkmoot was a sorry affair. The West Geats departed across the Great Lake with their war-chief, Thorir Houndsfoot, after he declined to bend the knee to Wiglaf. As for the East Geats, most either departed with the old king’s fleeing gesiths or with the new king’s avenging host. For the East Geats brother-war and kin-slaying seem to be their wyrd in the months and perhaps years to come. Only a few who had refused to take either part remained, along with a some disappointed Weather Geatish shipmen who had wares to barter and no-one left with whom to trade. A gloom seemed to hang over the empty camp and even the skies, sunny and bright at Aerra were now dull and grey in the Aefter Aerra as if mourning the passing of midsummer.
Amongst those who stayed were East Geats Lyttleman and Cynewulf and West Geats Wistan Wulfinga and Tohrwulf. All had declined to depart with their folk. Arcenbryght the old skop and thyl too remained. Whether disappointed or satisfied with the deeds of Wiglaf, whose fortunes he had done so much to bolster, it seems he saw no reason to follow him to war against his own folk – or perhaps it was simply age and blindness that kept him in his booth by the Great Lake.
Thus it was that when young Oswy of Meresedge arrived at the Folkmoot, muddy and exhausted in a cloak too big and too richly embroidered for a poor marsh-fishing boy. He was seeking a one of the rune-wise and was swiftly directed to Arcenbryght’s booth. Arcenbryght, listened to the boy’s tale and seeking reliable, bold-hearted men to do his bidding, called upon Lyttleman and his friends.
It seemed that Meresedge had been attacked by Merefolk. Those few of their warriors who were not gone to the Folkmoot were swiftly slain and their womenfolk gathered up and herded northwards through the fens. Oswy thought himself the only survivor for as chance would have it he had spent the night dark-fishing and so had been out of the settlement when they came. He returned in time to see the Merefolk depart with all his female kin, with naught he could do to aid them but sacrifice own his life in an attempt to take a wight or two with him.
However, in the midst of his despair there came hope, for Lira Goldentongue, the famous priestess of Frige found him in that moment. She gave him her cloak, bound round with sigils of concealment and bade him run to the Folkmoot to fetch his kin. She gave him a wand incised with runes to show to anyone with the skill to read it. She for her part would follow the Merefolk and see what succour she could offer her people through her arts.
Oswy had set off at once, but when he arrive at the Moot he found his kin gone – departed with one or other of the warring parties – and the only rune-maege he could find was an old blind scop. However, turning the wand in his cunning hands Arcenbryght could easily discern Lira’s intent. The stave was a seeking wand which would ever point to Lira wherever she might be, while she lived.
Showing Lyttleman its properties, Arcenbryght bad him take his companions and seek out Lira Goldentongue with all haste and render what aid he might. Though the day was well underway, they set out as soon as they could, taking a small skiff and heading northwards along the shore of the Great Lake. With them came the walcyrige Nothgyth and Oswy as their guide. They reached the wreckage of Meresedge as the long midsummer day faded into its brief night, making camp in the wreckage of one of its houses.
They were not long abed when a small band of Merefolk came creeping through the ruined village to take them in their sleep with their poisoned darts that render a victim stiff and helpless. Lyttleman, on guard at the door of their shelter, was alert and ready. Darts struck into his shield and their first rush met his spear head on. Others were not so lucky and both Tohrwulf and Cynewulf were struck by the marsh-venom darts before they were fully alert. Wistan stood firm against their leader who had leapt through a gap in the ramshackle wall into their camp. Young Oswy leapt from hiding to hamstring another and leapt upon him stabbing ferociously with his saex. At length Nothgyth awoke from deep slumber to help Lyttleman in the doorway. The Merefolk had no answer to the onslaught of Geatish iron and fled into the night, leaving half their number slain. Of the Geats, a few had taken scratches in the fight. Cynewulf had not fully succumbed to the venom in the darts that struck him and was fully recovered, but Tohrwulf lay stiff on the ground, alive and conscious but unable to move a muscle.
By dawn Tohrwulf was in little better state. The rune-stave pointed northwards and this accorded with Oswy’s recollection of the channel along which he had seen the Merefolk drive off his kin. So the party loaded Tohrwulf upon their boat like a sack of winter roots and set off northwards. At their mid-morning break the party was surprised by what seemed to be a huge frog – no doubt some nicor in monstrous form – that identified Lyttleman as a small and succulent morsel for its breakfast. Its long sinuous tongue flickered out and grasped him around the shoulders and began to drag him back towards its gaping maw. Unfortunately for the great puddock, before it could make Lyttleman its meal, perforce it must break its fast upon his spear-point. This proved too much of a mouthful. As his companions gathered around to stab it with their own toothpicks, it sought to leap away over their heads. Alas for the giant frog a great loop of its guts remained attached to Cynewulf’s spear and unravelled as it flew. Thus it never made good a second leap but lay instead upon the sedge, gasping out its life. The Geats disdained to spend the time and effort to explore the properties of the magical creature or search its innards, though legend says they oft-times contain great treasures. Instead they loaded Tohrwulf once more aboard their boat and continued their journey northwards.
After a long midsummer’s day in the marshes, exhausted, muddy, soaking wet and beset by midges, the party encamped for a short night’s sleep. In the morning they are cheered to find Tohrwulf once more in command of his limbs. Another early start sees them following the wand slightly to the east of north and ever deeper into the fenland. As the channels had become increasingly winding and narrow and the whole company were fit to march, they decide to hide the boat and progress on foot. Standing on a bank and looking above the line of the reed clumps, Cynewulf sees a few miles distant a distinct raised mound, towering above the otherwise flat expanse of the fen. Consulting the wand they find it pointing precisely to the centre of the mound.
Yet here the tale becomes darker. Lira Goldentongue, knowing by her arts that her wand was close by, carried she must presume by rescuing heroes, revealed herself to protect the captive villagers of Meresedge from further ill and put forth her powers in a great galdor-chant of protection. The merefolk swarmed around her but could not break the runewall she erected around her charges. Alas, whether by the misdirection of aelves, mischief wrought by Saetere, trickster god of luck, or simply a cruel wyrd upon them all, her would-be rescuers seemed to lose all sense of purpose and urgency. As she gave freely of her power, anticipating rescue, they crept cautiously towards the mound. They found the pool at the southern end and noted the marks of passage that would indicate its use as an entrance. They began to hear snatches of her galdor coming from the mound. Still they hesitated, quarrelling bitterly amongst themselves as to what might seem the best course. At one point Tohrwulf threw himself into the pool – against the advice of others, but there his resolve dissipated and he swam out again, achieving nothing.
In all the time spent arguing and exploring, the wand continued to point to the centre of the mound and snatches of Lira’s galdor could be heard by those who stopped to listen. Suddenly it lay inert, for Lira in desperation, sensing her power waning and fearing her wards about to be overcome, drew in all her remaining power for one last great shout. So busy were the Geats remonstrating with one-another none heard it. At long-last Nothgyth, perhaps tiring of the men’s squabbling found a causeway under the water. This she followed, probing with her spear until she found an underwater tunnel leading into the mound. In she dove, finding that the passage opened to the air after just a few yards into a cavern. She swiftly dispatched the mereman guard. The other Geats, putting away their quarrels, followed her – Lyttleman first, then Cynewulf, Tohrwulf and Wistan. They sped forwards up a broad tunnel leading to the centre of the mound, all caution now abandoned. Mereman were encountered in numbers and dispatched with ferocity. Cynewulf was so careless with his own life in attack that he was all but cut down – only to be revived by Lyttleman who generously sacrificed a powerful magical artefact to bring him back from near death to full health.
Slaying all before them, the Geats reached a great chamber filled with dead, stunned or insensible meremen, butchered women and one huge mereman champion wielding an axe and clutching in its left hand a great mass of golden hair from which was suspended a human head. It was menacing what seemed the last three survivors of the women of Meresedge, a middle-aged woman and two young girls. However, it swiftly turned upon the Geats as they arrived. A fierce fight ensued and it struck some keen blows but it was no match for the fury of the avenging Geats and they struck him down.
The surviving women, through their tears told of their journey through the marshes, of how stragglers were slain and eaten by the fierce merefolk, and that they had made a great feast of one of their number on arrival, and put aside another two, they presumed against the same fate. It was then that Lira Goldentongue appeared to them, laying two guards low with galdor and cutting their throats. She had gathered the women at one end of the chamber and explained that help was on its way. She hoped to keep them all safe until it arrived and raised her voice in a galdor-ward. The merefolk threw themselves at it but were repulsed, doing themselves injury. The great mereman looked on in fury but held himself back. When at last her strength began to fail, her great shout stunned many of the lesser merefolk or robbed them of their wits, but their leader merely grinned and lopped off the exhausted woman’s head. He then set about slaughtering the surviving villagers.
The Geatish warriors scour the mound for surviving meremen. They find none, but do find two further village women, frightened and hog-tied but otherwise unharmed, and a goodly amount of treasure, They leave the merefolk bodies where they lie, but gather those of the villagers and make a pyre using a stock of firewood and a barrel of tar that the wights must have taken from the village. The body and effects of Lira Goldenhair they load onto their recovered boat, along with their loot. The villagers take weapons from the merefolk and together the party make their way back through the fens to dry land once more.