text: Aedwen could not pull her gaze from the man's face. She recognised him as one of those who rode with Hunfrith. He was young, with a wispy beard and cheeks marked with the memory of the pox. But what caught her attention and would not allow her to look away, was the line of dots that ran all the way across his neck, chin, cheek and forehead.
  
  The points were bright, red and glistening in the last light of the sun that filtered through the forest.
  
  Her stomach lurched as she understood what she was seeing. Blood. Ithamar's lifeblood that must have sprayed up in a spatter of droplets as this man and his companions tortured and murdered him.
  
  At last, she cast her eyes down, following the blood-splatter down the man's chest. In his right fist he held a long sword. The blade was clean; polished and deadly. The metal of the blade caught the sunlight. It glimmered with the patterns of a serpent's skin or the ripples of waves on the sea.
  
  He gestured with the blade, twitching it, so that the point lifted.
  
  "Well, old man," he said. "We've been looking for you and the girl for days. You've led us quite a merry dance."
  
  Dunston did not reply. He fixed Aedwen with a steady look and gave the slightest of nods. She saw his hand tighten its grip on his great axe. The weapon was hidden from the swordsman's view.
  
  "Come on, greybeard," the man said, stepping closer. "On your feet."
  
  Without hesitation and with a speed that belied both his age and his bulk, Dunston surged to his feet and spun around in one fluid motion. At the same instant he swung his axe, flinging it at the young man's face. The axe was heavy and sharp and the throw was true. If it had connected it would have surely killed or mortally wounded the man. But the swordsman was fast and stood a few paces distant from Dunston. Moving nimbly to the side, he batted away the spinning axe with the flat of his sword.
  
  But Dunston had never intended for the axe to slay the man. Using the momentum from turning around and standing, he threw himself forward, pulling Beornmod's seax from the scabbard at his waist.
  
  The swordsman had not anticipated the old man's speed or his second attack. He was caught off balance, with his sword pointing to one side. Dunston did not slow his advance. He clattered into the slimmer man, knocking him from his feet. They landed heavily. The man grunted. Dunston made no sound as he plunged the seax into the man's guts. The blade came up bloody, droplets of gore flying from the wound. Again he hammered the seax into the man's stomach.
  
  Aedwen watched on in amazement as Dunston grasped the man's throat in his meaty left hand. Dunston squeezed and the man's eyes bulged. Fighting for air, he struggled against the old man's grasp. In his panic and agony, he dropped his sword and fumbled at Dunston's wrist. It was like watching someone trying to prise the roots of a tree out of frost-hard ground. Dunston's grip was too strong. His fingers squeezed tighter. Two more times he drove the blood-drenched seax into the man's body.
  
  With a juddering sigh, the light fled the man's eyes, and he grew limp. Blood bubbled and pumped from the savage rips in his midriff.
  
  Dunston let out a long breath and he rose to his feet. Blood now flecked his face and stained his beard.
  
  "Come, we must be gone from here," he hissed. "Now."
  
  He retrieved his axe and the man's sword. Tugging off the dead man's belt, Dunston quickly fastened it about his own waist. He sheathed the sword, and spun to Aedwen once more.
  
  She had not moved. She stared at him, eyes wide. She was not breathing. He had killed the man. It was all over so quickly, she could barely take in what she had seen. Her whole body trembled. She felt her gorge rising and feared she would puke.
  
  "Come," he said again. "There is no time to waste." He reached out a hand to pull her to her feet.
  
  She stared at the hand. It was large; thick fingers and callused palms. And it was covered in the brilliant crimson of the man's hot blood. She could not bear the thought of touching it. It would be warm and sticky, she knew. The scent of it was everywhere in the glade now. Metallic and hot on the back of her tongue.
  
  "Come on!" Dunston implored. The sudden sounds of men calling out for their dead companion made Dunston rush forward, reaching for her with his huge hand. "We must flee!"
  
  The sound of the monk's murderers' voices and Dunston's movement broke her moment of inaction. She did not wish to touch his blood-soaked hand, so she pushed herself to her feet.
  
  "Follow me," Dunston said. "We need to be fast and silent."
  
  She nodded, swallowing back her terror and the bile that burnt her throat.
  
  Close by, on the path, the horsemen were approaching.
  
  "Osulf," they called. "Where are you?"
  
  Without waiting for her to reply, Dunston turned and ran southward, away from the path and deeper into the woods. For an instant, Aedwen glanced down at the dead man. Blood pooled in the gashes in his body. His mouth hung open in shocked silence. His unseeing eyes stared upwards into the canopy of the trees.
  
  The men on the path were nearer now, their calls more urgent.
  
  Leaving the bloody corpse of the young man behind her, Aedwen rushed into the forest following Dunston into the failing light.
  
  It would be night soon.