Just as he stepped into the gloom beneath the linden trees, Odin let out a piercing bark. By the rood and all the saints, the stupid dog would get him killed. Dunston hissed at the hound for silence, but Odin ignored him, raising his snout as if scenting something on the breeze, and then bounding off into the undergrowth in the opposite direction to the killers’ tracks.
Unsure for a moment, Dunston hesitated. Then, with a curse, he turned and ran after the dog.
Two
Aedwen tried not to breathe. She strained to hear any sign that the men had returned. But the wood was silent now. Gone was the terrible screaming. Before the inhuman shrieking that had come later, she had been able to recognise the sound of her father’s voice. He had spoken in that infuriatingly calm manner of his; the tone that mother had said drove her mad.
Walking back from the stream, Aedwen had paused for a moment when she’d heard him speaking, wondering whether he was calling something to her. But then she had heard the other voices, hard and jagged, as different from father’s tone as a flint is to silk. Absently wondering who the voices belonged to, she had started up the trail again. The bucket she carried was full and heavy, and she had wanted to relinquish its weight.
That was when the shouting had started. It had quickly been followed by screaming. For a moment she had stood there on the path, the forest still cold and gloomy in the dawn. The chill water from the bucket sloshed her hand, starting her into motion. She heard several coarse voices, and laughter.
And her father had let out a piteous wailing cry. Tears flooded down her cheeks at the sound, but she knew what he would have wanted her to do. They had talked about what to do if they were ever attacked by brigands on the road.
“If you can get away, you run, girl,” he had said to her, as he had stirred the pot of stew over the smoking fire. That was on the first day after they had left the home she had known all her life. When this was still an adventure.
Father had often berated Aedwen for not obeying him, but that morning she did as she had been told. She spun on her heel and sprinted away. She had run without thought for her destination or direction. Branches whipped at her face, snagging her dress. Brambles scratched at her skin. All the while, father’s screams echoed around the wood. His dying cries followed her until she was panting and breathless, sweat plastering her hair to her scalp.
At last, his screams ceased. Aedwen flung herself down in the lee of a broad-trunked old tree. She lay there, chest heaving and her face awash with great sheets of tears. She wondered whether she had merely run far enough not to hear him any longer, but deep down she knew the reason for his silence.
She tried to remember that first night when father had told her to run in the event of an attack. What had he said she should do after that? She could not recall any more of the conversation. The memory of his smile was clear though, his teeth shining in the firelight. Like all of his plans and schemes, there had been no thought to what happened next. By the Blessed Virgin, how she wished they had never embarked on this foolish escapade. But father had seemed so sure of himself. Wasn’t he always?
If only she could have talked him out of it. But he was so assured, so convincing. Mother would have put a stop to his madness. She always did.
Aedwen sniffed and her tears fell as great sobs shook her body. How she missed her. And now she would miss him too.
Aedwen allowed herself to weep for a while, before wiping her nose and face on her sleeve. She was alone now. She needed to think. Holding the face of her mother in her mind’s eye, she took stock. All she had with her were her clothes, the eating knife that hung from her belt, and the bucket that she yet gripped tightly. Most of the water had spilt from it as she had sprinted through the forest, but there were a couple of mouthfuls yet swilling at the bottom. She upended the pail and drank.
She had no idea who the men were who had attacked father, but everyone knew the forests were filled with those cast out from the law: wolf-heads. Men and women who had fled justice and could never return to their homes. They had no qualms in slaying innocent travellers. Their lives were already forfeit, and they could be killed like animals. And so they became as animals, savaging those who passed through their wooded home, eking out a living from robbery and murder.
If such men had killed her father, they might already be coming for her. She forced herself to breathe shallowly, listening intently for any sound of pursuit. But the forest was silent and calm once more. A bird cooed somewhere in the depth of the forest. The sound startled her.
It’s just a bird, she told herself.
Think!
Could her father yet live? She scarcely believed that it could be so. Surely those screams were those of a dying man. And yet she could not flee, leaving him to God knew what fate. Perhaps even now, the outlaws had stolen the goods from their cart and had abandoned her father, allowing him to bleed to death, slowly succumbing to his wounds. The thought filled her with horror. Could he truly be lying in the clearing in need of her help?
She would have to find out. And if she found him alive, how could she help him? She was no healer. Perhaps with the help of the cart she could get him back to Briuuetone, the last village they had passed through. If she could find the clearing where they had camped, she thought she would be able to trace their steps back from there to the road and the village.
But what if the men were still there? She shuddered. Aedwen was no fool. She knew what would befall her at the hands of such brigands. Once more she listened. The sun had risen higher into the sky and spears of light stabbed through the leaf canopy. A wind whispered through the trees, sighing and making the branches shiver. The green-tinged light danced and dappled the earth around her. Far away the bird called again. But there was no sound of pursuit. No yelling and snapping of twigs and rustle of undergrowth. She let out her breath and drew in a great lungful of air. The woodland was redolent of growth, verdant and vigorous. Summer had brought bountiful life to the land. And yet, she feared that in a small glade surrounded by pale-leafed trees her only kin lay dead.
She had to know for sure.
She would creep back towards the glade where she had left her father. If she suspected the men who had attacked him were approaching, she would hide and slip away. She was fleet of foot and fast. She trembled, the light from the sun offered little warmth down here under the trees. And the ground was yet cold and wet from the rain that had fallen these last weeks. They had slept without a fire last night, cold and shivering, huddled together for warmth, as the woods creaked and murmured about them. She pulled her thin cloak about her shoulders. The wool was old and fraying and the garment offered little protection. Whether her father lived or not, she would need to find shelter before nightfall.
Much of the morning had already passed and the sun would soon be at its zenith. There was no time to waste. She would be cautious, but she must move.
Aedwen pushed herself to her feet, brushing ineffectually at the leaves and mud that clung to her dress. After a moment’s hesitation she decided to carry the bucket. It could prove useful and she was not sure she would ever be able to find this spot in the forest again. Taking another deep breath of the heavy, rich air, she started north.
Scarcely had she taken five paces, than a dog’s piercing bark sliced through the sylvan stillness. Aedwen stifled a cry of fear, but was unable to prevent her feet from carrying her back at a run to the bole of the tree where she had been hidden until moments before. She pressed her back against the rough bark, her breath coming as ragged and fast as when she had first arrived here after running for a long while.