Part II: Flight (Original)

Early Morning, October.

Llewin crouched behind the outcropping of rocks and looked out over their last obstacle before they reached the Redwing’s hilltop fortress, trying to decide whether it was safe to move. The marsh stretched out below them, its near edge some two hundred yards distant over a gentle, but barren, slope, its interior shrouded from view by a dense blanket of fog. He could see no sign of their enemies either between them and the swamp or in it. But that did not mean they were not there.

He shook his head to clear it of the fog that seemed to seep in from the marsh. The motion scattered water from his sodden hair in a circle about him, but he did not notice because his clothes were already soaked. He could not remember when he had last been warm. He was tired, and cold, and hungry, and men in his condition made mistakes. He could not afford a mistake here; on the other side of that marsh lay the Redwing’s lands, and if they were lucky, safety. All they had to do was find a way through. The road they had come by lay miles to the east, around the edge of the marsh, and the logical avenue for them to take. He hoped, but did not believe, that was the road the Saxons were watching, and not this one; they had shown an uncanny ability to guess where he was going to go in the last three days.

Three days; it had been that long since they had left the rest of the Hundred at the road cut. He raked his fingers through his shaggy mane of sandy hair; sometime in those three days he had lost the steel cap he had worn in the fight. Three days without food, without sleep, without warmth, without respite from the pursuers that hounded them no matter what they did, no matter where they went. It seemed more like three years. They had learned the first night the folly of trying to camp and build a fire for warmth; had Timothy’s sharp ears not caught the faint rustle of their pursuers trying to encircle them, they would have been caught straightaway, their mission failed and ten—eleven—more heads added to the Saxons’ take from this incursion. As it was, they had had to fight their way out. Robert had not made it out of that deadly circle.

After the Iron Hands slipped out of the camp, the Northmen had lit torches to help them find their quarry. The torches had been almost a blessing, more of a help to the tiny party of Britons than to the Saxons, making the hunters easy to see and avoid. Until Eric, shouting that he would not be captured again, gave a great roar and charged off toward the largest group of torches. The rest of them had used the confusion to grope their way off into the darkness and get beyond the reach of their hunters, but their flight had not stopped them hearing his roar of rage turn to a howl of agony, then cut off abruptly as his determination not to be captured again bore fruit.

Jacob’s bulk had made it difficult for him to keep up with the others as they ran their deadly footrace. Finally, the second afternoon—yesterday afternoon, Llewin thought wryly—he had twisted his ankle crossing a swollen stream and could go no further. The ankle would still bear his weight, but he knew he would never be able to run on it. He had insisted they leave him there, had positioned himself to block the ford to slow their pursuers. Llewin’s last memory of him was vivid; he stood alone in the middle of the river against fully a dozen Saxons, his broad-bladed sword carving a deadly arc around him. Four of them lay silent and still at his feet. Then Llewin had turned and run.

And old George, who had been a soldier longer than Llewin had been alive, probably longer even than Timothy had been alive, had simply given a strange little smile as he rested against the bole of a tree that very morning and slumped forward, dead as a stone. Llewin thought it must have been the death the old man wanted; at the moment, he almost envied him.

They had not seen their pursuers at all that day, not, in fact, since Jacob’s stand at the stream. None of the remaining mercenaries were foolish enough to think they were safe, wondering instead what the fair-haired barbarians would try now, wondering when they would spring whatever trap they had spent the day laying.

Timothy crept up beside him and joined him in watching the marsh. That Llewin had heard him approach at all was an indication of the scout’s tiredness. The last three days, he had traveled at least twice as far as the rest of them, constantly pushing forward to clear their path and find usable trails, scouting behind to check their backtrail, looking out to the flanks to try to find their pursuers. Llewin couldn’t understand how the man still managed to move; his own legs wanted to fold under him like rotten straw every time he tried to stand.

“Anything?” Llewin asked.

“Nothing. Not a damn thing,” was the other man’s disgusted reply. “It’s like they vanished into the air.”

“Have they given up?” He already knew the answer, but had to ask the question.

He could feel the other man roll his eyes. “Not bloody likely. I sure as hell wouldn’t bet the Redwing on it.”

“Then where?”

“Behind us, somewhere. In front of us, maybe. Above us, for all the damned sign they’ve left.” Timothy was frustrated; he was never unable to find his quarry. That he had found nothing probably meant there was nothing to find, but he was tired, and even he could have missed something after so long without rest or food.

“Assuming they are still on the trail, where could they have gone that they would have left no sign?” He knew the older man had already thought this through. He just needed to coax it out of him.

“Only thing I can guess is they turned and traveled down that stream where Jacob fell,” the scout said. I didn’t go any farther than that, but it runs all the way into the swamp. Lets out about two miles to the east. Rough going, though; they’d have lost some men to broken legs and ankles if they went that way.”

“Are they waiting for us in the marsh?”

“Could be. If we’re lucky, they turned east and hope to use the marsh as cover, to attack us as we pass by on the road. But I wouldn’t count on it—they know which way we were headed when they lost us.”

So much for that hope, Llewin thought bitterly. He hadn’t really expected they would fall for that, but deep inside he had allowed himself to entertain the notion that maybe, just once, it might be easy. “So you think they’re just inside, waiting for us.”

“Possibly. But they don’t know exactly where we’ll come in. We’ve zigged and zagged enough since we crossed the river that they can’t cover all the possible entry points. More likely they’ll push on through to the other side in hopes of avoiding the Redwing’s patrols and catching us as we come out. I don’t bloody know, Sergeant.” There was no disrespect in his tone; that he used the title at all showed a measure of respect Llewin had rarely seen him show anybody. The man’s next question was direct: “What do you want to do? We’ve got to move soon, before we fall asleep.”

He was right. Llewin glanced back at the other four men behind them; none was fully asleep yet, but all were in that zombie-like state that proclaimed deep fatigue, the state where one could look straight at something and not see it, could hear his own name called and not even realize it. Garet’s head was beginning to nod. They had to move, or they would stay here. And likely die here. He asked one last question. “How many do you think are left?”

“Not sure,” the other man replied wearily. “Captain Jerrodd hurt them badly at the cut. Not many made it out of that. And we’ve cut them some since then, too. I’d guess no more than fifty.”

Llewin wanted to laugh. Fifty men against six! Even if they were in the same shape the Britons were in—Llewin doubted it; the Saxons had at least been able to eat, even if only field rations—they would make short work of the Iron Hands. If they were in there, the end of the mercenaries’ mission, and their lives, would come much sooner than he liked. But they had to move. One lesson he had learned from Captain Jerrod was that it was better to make a decision and move forward with it than to hang back, afraid to decide. There was no choice. “We go in. Now.” He noticed the rain had started again. He wondered how long it had been falling.

He looked back at the giant. They had all taken turns at carrying the corpse—it was easier, somehow, thinking of the fallen legend as just another corpse—but Derrick, of course, had taken the lion’s share. “Can you still carry him?”

The huge man shook his fatigue off and looked at Llewin for a long moment before collecting his answer. It was the same answer he had given for three days: “I’ll carry him as long as you need me to.”

Llewin looked at each of the other three in turn. Charles just met his gaze and nodded. Gryffyn elbowed his brother in the ribs, then said simply, “We go where you go.” It was the phrase the twins had used most often in the month since Llewin’s promotion.

“All right. Timothy, you lead. Spread out—ten yards in between men. We need to reach the marsh as quickly as we can, but I don’t want anyone breaking a leg on the hillside. Remember we’re all tired. Watch your footing, and be ready when we enter the swamp. I’ll follow Timothy, Derrick follows me, you three bring up the rear. If the Saxons are inside, we spread out. Keep Derrick and the Redwing in the middle. Try to take them on one at a time—and keep them away from the Redwing.” If only one of them survives, and they get him, their invasion was a success, he didn’t say out loud. And if every man of us dies keeping him from them, we’ve won, and cheap at the price. “Let’s go.”

They hurried down the slope at a stumbling jog, going as fast as their exhausted legs could carry them without tripping or sliding on the sodden grass. They reached the mist-wall of the swamp’s edge, where each man hesitated for a moment—a deep breath before plunging into unknown waters—then pushed in.

Llewin found himself standing on a patch of firm, sandy soil surrounded by stinking muck. Unfamiliar grasses and strange, twisted and gnarled trees grew all around. The fog was not as thick within the marsh as it appeared from outside; he could see a good fifteen to twenty feet around him. Not good for spotting approaching enemies, but he reminded himself it would make the Britons much harder to detect as well. For the moment, he could see no sign of Saxons. A bird called nearby, low and cheerless, a late hanger-on that hadn’t yet left for whatever paradise awaited him to the south.

Timothy stood at the edge of his vision, forward and to the left into the fen. He appeared to be standing on ground as firm as that Llewin had found. He took a step toward the scout—and found himself up to his knees in frigid, watery mud, the sudden change almost pitching him forward on his face. He started to panic; he had never been a strong swimmer. He forced the fear down, and noticed that Timothy’s legs were covered in muck to the middle of his thighs, the bottom edge of his surcoat heavy with fresh black mud, mud that stood out by its color from the rest of the stains on the no-longer-white garment. Then he noticed the grin the scout was barely managing to keep in check, saw it overcoming his face and his body shake with soundless laughter. And he began to laugh himself, taking care like the older man to make no sound, then waded—struggled—across six feet of mud to join the other man.

By the time he got there, Derrick had entered the marsh with the Redwing. They managed to wrestle the body across the stretch of mud, all three men getting soaked to the waist in the process, then the giant waded out of the muck onto the more-solid patch that felt almost crowded with his bulk added to the other two. Charles and the twins had entered as they were struggling with the body, and now they, too, waded across to join the others.

When they were all together, Timothy warned them all in a low voice to make as little sound as possible, that if the Saxons had made it here before them their survival depended on hearing the barbarians first. Then he was off, struggling through the cold mud to the next sandy island, then on to the next, finding a path that would lead them through. The other men followed, one at a time, spread out as before, each man trying to make as little sound as possible even as he fought his way through the noisome muck.

They traveled in this way for some time—under the blanket of fog, Llewin soon lost track of how long they had been in the marsh and in which direction they were going—occasionally walking on firm ground for a good way, frequently crossing small stretches of slime like the first, sometimes almost swimming across the muddy gaps, a few times running into dead ends from which they had to backtrack and find another way around. It was slow going, especially trying as they were to keep their noise down. When they spoke it was with voices pitched low and soft to keep them from carrying, or in low whispers with heads almost touching. The mist and the mud seemed to muffle sound, as though jealous of the heavy peace of the marsh. More than once Llewin wondered how they could possibly have done it without the scout to find the way through. He was himself no mean woodsman, having grown up on the edge of a seemingly endless forest, but he had no experience with marshes. Timothy found paths he did not think he could ever have discovered.

Hours passed before they took their first rest, sinking to the ground on a particularly large patch of firm ground. Llewin did not sit, but dropped to his knees; he feared that if he tried to sit, he would fall asleep in his exhaustion. They knelt there, or sat, panting as softly as possible, their senses stretched to detect some sign of their pursuers. There was nothing.

“How far?” he asked the scout after they had been still for a while, after they had managed to regain their breath in the heavy air. It seemed they must have covered several miles. Something told him the sun must be nearing its midday peak, even though the light had not changed, the fog had not lifted.

“We’ve come four or five miles, near as I can reckon,” was Timothy’s reply. “Another three or four to go, if we’re lucky.”

“Any sign?” He didn’t have to explain what he meant.

“None I can tell.” The rest shook their heads wearily. None of them had seen or heard a thing to tell them where their enemies might be.

Where the devil are they? Llewin wondered. He almost preferred the constant pursuit of the last three days to this. Then they had at least known where the northmen were. He felt as though their enemies must be waiting behind every bush, every tree, that every step was leading them headlong into an ambush. He felt terror rising in his throat, felt his weakened, exhausted body hanging on the verge; if he let go, he knew that he would collapse into a trembling mass, his fear overwhelming him. He bowed his head, willing his face not to show his weakness. Slowly, inch by inch, he crushed the fear down. How could he lead these men to safety if he was jumping at shadows? He needed a plan, some way to get them to the Redwing’s keep, not this mindless fear that saw death behind every bush and tree. The first part of that plan was clear: they had to get out of this marsh, out into someplace where they could move, could fight if necessary. To be caught in the swamp, outnumbered and starving, was death. They had to get out.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he looked up and realized that only a moment or two had passed. He took a deep breath. “All right,” he began. “Another few minutes, then we go on. Derrick, can you handle a little more speed?”

The big man merely nodded, his head hanging. The mist and rain and his own sweat matting his hair and beard made him look like some huge rat that had just been rescued from a water cistern.

“All right. We go faster from here. I don’t know where the Saxons are, but we have to get out of this swamp. If they catch us here, we’re dead men. They don’t know the swamp any better than we do, but there are more of them, and you can bet they’ve at least eaten.”

Five pairs of eyes came up from the ground and met his at the word faster. By the time he was finished, all five of them were nodding weakly. They started to rise from the ground, preparing their limbs for more struggling movement through the marsh.

He stood with them and looked at each man in turn, saw exhaustion mingled with determination in five pairs of eyes. No matter what happened, he knew these men would never give up. He took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for the miles ahead. Just three or four more miles, then another five to the keep, and we’ve succeeded, he thought. He wondered how he was going to take another step. “Let’s go,” he said to Timothy.

The older man set off at a fast walk, not running, but stretching his stride as he hadn’t before. Llewin followed, then the rest came after in the same order as before. Very quickly Llewin thought of telling the scout to slow down as his watery muscles began to scream in protest at the new pace, but he knew he couldn’t—it had been his idea to increase their speed, after all. They no longer spoke; it took all their remaining strength just to breathe and step, breathe and step. Thankfully, more of the going seemed to be on firmer ground this time, but they still had to wade through the pools and rivulets that crisscrossed their path. As before, these ranged in depth from a few inches to chest-deep. They struggled through as quickly as they could, passing the Redwing’s corpse from one man to the next over the frigid muck, panting and trying not to make too much noise.

They were jogging along a long spit of firm ground that ran roughly in their direction of travel, thankful for the respite from the muck, when Llewin heard, or imagined he heard, a sound not of their making. He froze in his tracks, noticing that Timothy had done the same, and held up his hand for the rest to stop as well. He stood listening, willing his heart to slow, his breathing to even, so he could hear just a little better. Moments passed slowly, slowly, then, just on the edge of hearing, a splash drifted through the still marsh air. It sounded like it was a long way off…maybe. Just the splash, then nothing.

Llewin’s eyes met Timothy’s, and the two men came together without a sound. “How far?” Llewin whispered.

“Hard to tell in here,” was the scout’s reply. “Maybe a hundred, two hundred yards.”

A hundred yards! Llewin’s legs felt suddenly weak. Was this the end? Again, he forced the fear down, pummeled it into submission. “Be careful. Make sure to scream if you can’t get back to us.”

The older man nodded. “Keep moving in this direction. I’ll catch up with you.” Then he took off into the mist in the direction of the sound.

Llewin looked back at Derrick, who nodded his understanding. Then he turned and began to lope off in the direction they had been traveling, trying to summon even more speed than before. Fatigue, while not forgotten, was at least easier to ignore for a while. At least now he knew where their enemies were.

Another half mile, and Llewin’s legs felt ready to give out under him. The lion’s share of his strength went just to putting one foot in front of the other, raising them high to keep them out of any sudden muddy patches. Much of the rest of his awareness went to searching ahead for a path that would keep them going in the right direction. He was so focused on moving that he failed to see Timothy until the older man drew up next to him. When he realized he was there, he nearly jumped out of his skin; awareness returned with a vengeance.

“Going to get yourself killed, you don’t pay better attention than that,” scolded the scout. “Let’s take a halt up there where those trees grow together.”

Llewin looked where Timothy pointed. Twenty yards away, through a chance thinning in the mist, he could see four trees growing so close together that they might have been one. They were the largest trees they had yet seen in the marsh. He nodded weakly.

They halted at the large trees and waited, gulping the heavy air, for the rest of the men to arrive. When all were there, Timothy spoke. “Listen. We don’t have much time. The Saxons are fifteen, maybe twenty minutes behind us. I counted thirty—make that twenty-nine—of them.”

“Twenty minutes? What the hell are we doing stopped here?” Llewin began.

The other man raised a hand to forestall him. “Hear me out, Sergeant. I may have found us a way out, if you’ll permit me. It won’t take long.” They could all hear the splashes now, still faint but coming closer. A single shout fought its way through the fog to reach them.

Llewin hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. Timothy had carried their lives in his hands for so long, it seemed, there was no reason not to at least hear the man out.

“As I said, they are about fifteen minutes behind us, spread out, moving faster than we are. Mostly because they can cross the streams one by one, not having to bunch up to get across. We can stay ahead of them—but we have to get rid of the body.”

“What?” Llewin hissed, too loud, he knew. The others’ reactions were no less emphatic. It was an effort to lower his voice. “You want to abandon our mission to save our heads?”

“Not at all,” said the scout, and Llewin could tell he kept his calm only with an effort. “But if we sink the body in the mire, where the Saxons can’t find it, we can come back for it later. We accomplish our mission and keep our heads.”

“Llewin,” whispered Charles in his strange Franks accent, speaking for the first time since they had entered the marsh. “I agree vis Timosy. We can sink ze body in ze swamp, zen come back for it in a few days. After ze Redwing’s house guard has dealt vis ze Zaxons.”

It took Llewin a long moment to find words. The plan—the suggestion—stank of cowardice to him. How could they just leave the Redwing there? After all they had been through to get it this far? There has to be a way! Not this! “I could have both of your heads just for suggesting this.”

“True,” responded Timothy, “but you won’t. We need every man to get out of here even if we do this. And we might not even then. But even if we don’t make it out, the Redwing is out of their reach. But this is the truth, and you know it: we do this, we might survive, and the Redwing stays safe in any case. We don’t do it, we die. And the Saxons get the Redwing. You want to punish us after we’re out of here, that’s up to you. Not a man of us will go against you. But you know this is the only way.” The sounds of pursuit were noticeably closer now. They could hear the barbarians calling to each other in low voices.

“Can we split up? Take them one at a time in the fog?” Llewin already knew the answer.

“There’s no way we could do it quietly or quickly enough. They’d figure out what was happening and group together, and then we’d be finished. Six in our condition against ten, or fifteen, even, I’d say we had a chance that way. Not against twenty-nine. Not a bloody chance.”

Llewin knew the man was right, hated what they had to do. “All right. Let’s make it quick.” He drew his dagger and handed it to Gryffyn. “Mark the tree.” And to the rest, “Let’s find a good hole for him.” He absently checked to be sure he still carried the knight’s gear: the longsword was still strapped to his back; the great winged helmet, now covered with mud, tied to the sword belt so it, too, hung on his back; and the golden torc still hung where he had tied it to his belt. They spread out, searching for a mudhole deep enough to hide the large man’s body.

They found a suitable hole in a broad clearing some twenty paces from the tree, at least ten feet across and with a look to it that suggested great depth. In it, the mire was almost black; little runnels from several other nearby pools ran into it, suggesting it would remain deep and dark even in the summer months when parts of the marsh may have run dry. Llewin and the others dropped to their knees, each man muttering a silent prayer while Derrick gently eased the body into the mud and pushed it out toward the center so it would sink as deep as the pool could manage.

Time seemed to slow. They could hear the sound of Saxons bulling their way through the marsh clearly; no more than sixty or seventy yards separated them now. They had started to call out excitedly to each other, obviously reporting the trail the Iron Hands had been too exhausted to hide. Llewin guessed they had five minutes before the barbarians were on top of them. The corpse sank slowly, slowly under the surface; first the head and chest slipped under, then one hand, then the other, then one foot, until only the toe of one booted foot remained. And remained. As though the Redwing’s spirit was making one last effort to deny death, that toe stubbornly refused to sink. Llewin felt panic rising in his throat with the sure knowledge that their mission would end here, that they would all be killed and the body taken into Saxon lands. There it would be put on display, that all the barbarians would know that their hated enemy, the one who had hurt them so many times in the past, whose name struck nearly as much fear into Saxon hearts as that of Arthur himself, was dead. He could not think clearly, could not take his eyes off that toe, could not push his mind beyond a single, all-encompassing word: NO!

Then time returned to normal, flashed to the speed of a hawk’s flight, and several things seemed to happen at once. Timothy, across the hole from Llewin, stood up suddenly, his suddenly-fearful eyes fixed on a point past his head; he turned to see what had frightened the scout, knowing what he would see; the Saxon who had just entered the clearing let out a victorious howl as he laid eyes on them, a howl that was cut short as Charles’s francisca flashed past Llewin’s head to bury itself high in the northman’s chest—

—and Derrick, the giant who had carried the Redwing for the most part of three days and nights, gave a wordless roar as he leapt into the pool of muck, both feet entering the slime where the Redwing’s chest had been. The toe disappeared, along with most of the giant, who finally stopped sinking when his armpits reached the muddy surface. He brandished his muddy club above his head and proclaimed at the top of his voice, “THEY SHALL NOT HAVE HIM, LLEWIN! THE REST OF YOU, GO! GET OUT OF HERE! GOOO!”

The words awakened Llewin from his stupor. He looked from Derrick back to the mist, where a spear-wielding Saxon was just emerging into view, then without thought leapt to his feet and charged with his own roar. The axe came onto his hands seemingly of its own accord; he knocked the northman’s spear aside with the head of the axe, drove up the shaft like a charging boar, and tore his throat out with the backswing. More Saxons began to enter the clearing, spread out along the north side as though converging from many directions; he charged the closest one, fatigue forgotten, and vaguely realized that the twins were there, fighting on either side of him. Together they caught one, two, three more barbarians as they came unaware into the clearing, following the sound of fighting, then he became aware of Timothy’s voice, joined with those of Charles and Derrick, all shouting the same word: “RUN!” His senses returning, he ran, pausing only long enough to be sure the twins followed. Behind them they heard more Saxons entering the clearing; after they had gone twenty yards, they heard Derrick start to scream.

Now the sounds of pursuit came strong on either side of them. The Saxons had tried to encircle the sounds of fighting, to come in from all sides and trap them in the clearing. They pushed on toward the south, where lay the Redwing’s lands and their only hope of escape. Now the great knight’s tools of war that Llewin carried on his back were just as important as his body, perhaps more so. They had to make it out. They had to break out of the deadly ring about to close around them. A man emerged from the mist in front of them, but Timothy’s sword found his vitals before he could call out. They ran on, gradually leaving a confused babble of shouts and calls behind them.

Timothy was terse as they ran, forcing the words out between gulps of air: “That was…bloody stupid…but it…may have…bought us a…little time…now they don’t…know what…the hell…is going on.”

“No more…talking,” Llewin shot back. “Got to…keep…in front…of them…can’t…let them…get ahead…of us…save…strength.” His own limbs had remembered their fatigue. They had to get out soon, or they were lost. He guessed they had a mile to go. He muttered a silent prayer that they might make it out alive, make it to the keep with their burdens and their news. He could feel their pace slowing even as they pushed themselves for more speed.

He looked to his left and saw, at the edge of his vision, something that pulled him up short. He stopped running, amid unbelieving gasps and oaths from the other men, and stared. A dim line of shapes, lying parallel in the mud, half-buried in the fog, so he could not be sure he actually saw it. He nodded his head in the direction of the line of oblong shapes, and asked Timothy, “See that…what is it?”

Timothy swallowed whatever he had been about to say and looked in the direction Llewin had nodded. “Log road…good eyes…let’s go.” Their brief halt had allowed them to notice something else—the sounds of pursuit, no more than a hundred yards behind them and doubled in fury.

They trotted painfully over to the log road, which Llewin now recognized as just what it sounded like; the oblong shapes were logs, cut into more or less even lengths and laid side by side to provide a firm, if bumpy, surface for carts or feet to pass through the marsh. He wondered idly how long they had been running along this road without knowing it was there. They started south down the road at the fastest pace they could manage. He was sure the Saxons would find the road quickly, if they hadn’t already.

Trying to run on the worn logs was easy only in comparison with trying to run over the soft ground of the marsh. Worn smooth by frequent passage of men and carts and slick with rain, the logs provided treacherous footing. Feet slid from the crowns of the logs into the spaces between, threatening to break toes and twist ankles. Some of the logs had gone rotten in the wet, and the sudden collapse of a surface that looked firm pitched all of them onto their faces at one time or another. And despite the help of the log road, their enemies seemed to gain ground on them.

Llewin fought off the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. No matter what he did, the Saxons were going to catch them. Where they could go no faster, their enemies seemed to have found some new reserve of strength that pushed them on in the pursuit. How could they possibly escape? He threw his head back and gave a howl of frustrated rage, listened to how the mist seemed to swallow the sound. Maybe someone, somewhere, would hear his rage as he died.

He stumbled as a revelation came to him. Maybe someone might hear! He cursed himself for a fool. They had been hoping, counting on luck and divine providence to bring a patrol their way when they emerged from the marsh. Maybe they could bring a patrol their way by calling for it. All of the Redwing’s household guard were former Iron Hands; they would know the band’s marching songs. Maybe they could make enough noise to bring one to investigate. Could we be so lucky? We’re due some bloody luck on this journey!

He started to open his mouth, then closed it again. His plan would force them to abandon silence, make them less stealthy, make them vulnerable to the Saxons hunting for them. Then he realized: Hang silence. It’s not as if they don’t know where we are already. He gasped for breath, then tried to raise his voice in a familiar marching cadence. It came out a croak, prompting sidelong looks from his companions. He tried again, and the tune came out clearer—and louder—this time. He motioned to the others to join him as they looked askance at him again. Soon all five voices were raised in song; not exactly in unison, and not as loud as he would have hoped, but maybe it would be enough. They loped along, the rhythm of the song at least making it easier to keep pace with each other.

The pursuers seemed close indeed when the ground began suddenly to slope upward. They were almost out! Their singing became more ragged as they climbed, but none of them stopped. The others had finally grasped what he was trying to do.

The light was beginning to soften toward dusk when they burst from the mist as abruptly as they had entered it that morning, the marsh giving way quickly to open, rocky, and hilly terrain. Llewin’s heart sank as he realized there was no patrol in sight. Their song faltered for a moment as each man came to the same realization, then became strong again as they determined not to give up hope. They were almost in sight of the Redwing’s hilltop fortress now; another four or five miles, across open, rolling ground, and they would be safe. And now the Saxons would be exposed, out in the open where patrols could see them. Help might come.

Suddenly their song was interrupted by a rough voice. “Who enters these lands? Friends don’t often come through the marsh.”

They stopped as quickly as they could, numb fingers letting weapons fall to the ground. They stood, gasping for air, as a ten of the Redwing’s household guard rose from the rocks around them. All carried bows with arrows nocked; for the moment, none were pointed at the Iron Hands.

Llewin willed his legs not to collapse under him. After a moment, he felt he could speak again. “Saxons behind us. We’re from the Forty-First. We’re—” his voice broke, and he swallowed hard—“all that’s left.”

Something brushed the outside of his right knee. He looked down and saw a spear stuck in the ground at his feet, saw red staining a rent in his mud-soaked trousers just where he had felt the brush. He tried to turn, to see what was happening, but his leg did not seem to want to move. It gave way, unable to bear his weight any more, and he pitched forward onto his face. He was dully aware of the twanging of bowstrings and shouted commands above him, of shouting in the northmen’s rough language behind him. Someone was kneeling next to him, calling his name. Then someone pulled him up, picked him up, carried him to a sitting position with his back against a rock. His eyes focused and he saw Timothy kneeling in front of him, tearing sodden fabric away from the fresh wound at his knee. Another man stood behind Timothy, wearing the crimson neck scarf that marked him as one of the Redwing’s household guard and a concerned expression.

Garet’s face pushed its way into his awareness, thrusting itself between Llewin and Timothy, a weary grin on its thin lips. It took a moment for Llewin to focus on it. “We go where you go,” it said, a joking tone weaving its way through the other man’s fatigue, “but we’re not ready for hell just yet.”

Consciousness dwindled to a pinpoint at the end of Garet’s nose, then the pinpoint winked out. Llewin had just time to wonder, is this what it’s like to die? before blackness took him.