Most of the horses were Irish or Danish, but not Zamiel's. His steed was one of the feared and legendary black horses that Aurthor had worked for five years to breed properly. Trained since it was old enough to walk, this great steed was one that might hope to run alongside Slepnir in the afterlife; for it stood at fifteen hands high, now covered in a mixture of chain mail and plate armor, similar to Zamiel's.

 Zamiel took up the heavy armored coat from the ground an slipped into it, the black bearskin warming him in the brisk morning, it was clod and foggy, but the village as the tower lay no more than five miles away, and his men were trained to march through far harsher weather than this.

 He reached down where his armored coat had lain and picked up something that was longer than a man's leg and wrapped in a bearskin tied together by rope. Zamiel used a small knife to cut away the leather straps that bound the bearskin. Gouthren look at it, and his eyes grew wide. "You must truly be intent on killing him to use that, but are you sure we'll be in such a favorable situation?"

 The bearskin fell away to reveal a giant longsword, with a handle made to allow a man to hold it with both hands and still have room for leverage. The blade itself was no wider that his seaxe, but it was as long as a spear, with an elegant blood groove that ended six inches from the tip of the blade, and the sword guard had only the slightest downward curve that trace the outline of Zamiel's hand when he held it, with a pommel in the image of Mjollnir. In all, the sword was really only four inches longer than the average longsword, but the extended handle allowed Zamiel to wield it with much greater force and velocity, making it a fearsome weapon where there was room for it.

 Gouthren continued to look at the monstrous sword as Zamiel took a whetstone and sharpened it, as the last time he had used it had been several days ago. He went across both sides of the blade ten times before putting the sword back in it's bearskin wrapping and redoing the rope that bound it. He took some spare lengths of rope and bound the sword to his back.

 Assuming he had not heard the question, Gouthren began to repeat himself, but Zamiel cut him short. "If I'm lucky enough to get him out in the open, this is the best weapon to kill him with, and if not, then I'll kill him with my seaxe, or my knife, and if I have to, I'll kill him with my bare hands." he said as a grim smile danced across his face. "And what of you, friend?" he asked. Gouthren smiled. "You know that without asking, the Serpent will drag down the souls of mortals to be devoured by the Corpse-Ripper." he said as he drew out two single hand axes, both were identical, well crafted and each with one large pendulum-like blade, in the Eastern lands where his father traveled they were called "Serpent's tongue The two friends smiled at each others weapons, there would be great slaughter this day.

 The plan they had formed the previous night was as follows.

 A group of fifty would ride in from the East into the village and cause enough panic to arouse the attention of Aurthor and Cedric, who would take the chaos as his signal to engage Aurthor and his men. This of course, would be a simple ploy to force Aurthor and his men to retreat outside the tower, so that Zamiel and Gouthren would ride in from a nearby forest along with the other thirty Saxons of the war-party, and then join ranks with Cedric's personal guards to engage the Welsh.

 Five miles away, in a small tower on the outskirts of a small village, two warlords sat at a small table, each with their own group of bodyguards close by.

 Cedric, one of the handful of "Kings" in the Northern lands of Europe, was a slender built man who had accumulated heavy-set muscles on him since killing his cousin at eight. He had a long, narrow face that seemed to contradict his body type, with light brown hair that dropped to his shoulders, and a thick beard.

 The man who sat across from him was a fair-skinned Welshmen with long black hair and an even, broad face and large eyes that seemed kind, but behind that they concealed cruel, dark, and evil intentions. Aurthor wore an armored bearskin coat, very similar to the one Zamiel had, as the two were made together by Uther's personal blacksmith, forged for his sons. Author had heard that and laughed. his fathering thinking he had two sons was proof that he had become senile before his death, to make armor for a son that didn't exist, and such a theory was even further justified by the kindness he showed to a young servant who had disappeared while Aurthor took over his father's castle as a boy.