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foot.”
    Eamon smiled, trying hard to picture the Northman’s reaction upon waking to a missing horse.
    “What is his name?” The Northman asked, desperately trying to steer his horse in a straight line.
    “Farnov,” Eamon replied. “Named after a legendary King of the Steppes. He’s seen many battles, but he’s a good traveling horse, as well. He won’t tire easily, and he’ll steer clear of any snakes.”
    “Snakes?” Wrothgaar asked, his eyes scanning the ground around him.
    “Snakes, my friend. Snakes.” Eamon teased.
    “I do not care for snakes, either.”
     
    When dusk settled, the two men decided to make camp. They chose a clear spot just off the rocky forest path that had already been used once before. Large stones were arranged in a circle, marking the fire pit, and the remnants of a spit were still in place over it.
    Wrothgaar gathered logs, while Eamon gathered smaller twigs and branches for tinder. Soon, they had a fire going, and both of them leaned back against large boulders that lie close to its warmth.
    Eamon searched through the provision pack and took out a few slices of dried meat and a flagon of red wine. The two enjoyed dinner around the fire, passing the wine back and forth, becoming more comfortable with every passing swig.
    “I’ve never seen much use for helmets,” Eamon said, eyeing Wrothgaar’s horned great helm. “Except in open battle, of course.”
    “As a protective cover, they are fairly useless,” Wrothgaar said. “A club to the head will knock you senseless with or without one. The point is to frighten and disturb your enemy, to make them think you are fearsome and invincible. Hence the horns.”
    “I can see how that could instill fear,” Eamon replied. “I remember my Grandfather’s helmet. Without it, he looked like an old man. But when he wore it, he was a fearsome beast with fangs and horns.”
    “You know,” Wrothgaar said, his speech slightly slurred from the wine. “I have an uncle on my mother’s side whose head is so big, our blacksmith had to make his helmet out of a cauldron.”
    Eamon nodded, saying nothing for a moment, then burst out in laughter.
    “And I have another uncle who has two thumbs on his right hand. He is worthless as a warrior, but you should hear him play the mandolin.”
    The Prince laughed again, passing the wine back to Wrothgaar. “How many uncles do you have?” he asked.
    Wrothgaar paused, thinking, his face crunched up oddly. “I have no idea,” he said, finally. “But I have six aunts. Who knows? I do not even know who my grandmother is...on either side. I do not think my father knows either.”
    “He doesn’t know who is own mother is?” Eamon asked in disbelief.
    “No. I mean...I do not know...”
    Wrothgaar paused, thinking again. After a moment, he shrugged and took another swig of wine.
    After another fit of laughter, Eamon caught his breath and leaned in closer to the barbarian. “I’ll tell you something about these woods that few people know,” He said, nodding as if to accentuate his seriousness.
    “And what is that?” Wrothgaar asked.
    “There’s a banshee somewhere near. I’ve seen it. And I’ve heard its keening.”
    Wrothgaar laughed. “Banshees are fairy tales!” he exclaimed. “There are no evil female fairies to die and become banshees.”
    “Not anymore,” Eamon said with a stern look. “She was the last one.”
    Wrothgaar swallowed his wine and studied his friend’s face. The Prince did not flinch—nor did he blink. Wrothgaar guessed that he was truly serious.
    “How long have you known of her existence?” Wrothgaar asked.
    “Since Garret showed me her lair,” Eamon replied, poking the fire. “From a distance, of course. And during daylight hours.”
    “When did you hear her keening?”
    “A few years ago, when I was hunting at night. I heard the terrifying shriek and turned to look. I saw a ball of light floating in the distance, which I assume was her. Fortunately for me,