text: Aedwen followed Dunston further into the forest. The boles of the trees loomed in the smoke-hazed darkness like giants. She hardly dared to breathe as she walked behind the old man. He moved without a sound, like a wraith flitting through mist. Despite her youth and slender form, she felt clumsy. With each step she snapped a branch or her cloak snagged on a bramble.
  
  It was dark under the trees, and a feeling of dread seeped into her as they crept stealthily away from the road. If only at that last steading they'd passed they had asked the goodwife for some food and a warm place to sleep for the night. The portly woman had been friendly and had waved to Aedwen as they passed. She had been taking in the clothes she had left to dry on the bushes outside her neat, thatched house. Aedwen thought they could have been cosy by her hearth for the night. But no, Dunston had made them carry on and now it was dusk and they were deep in the forest, surrounded by smoke. She had no idea where it came from. For a moment, she thought of a great wyrm, coiled and waiting in a forest glade, breathing out acrid clouds of smoke, its feral eyes gleaming in the darkness as it lay in wait for its prey to come to him, lured from the road with promises of warmth and shelter.
  
  A sound came to her then. A strange sound, that for a time, she could not fathom. A lilting warble accompanied by a rumbling thrum. The noise rose and fell and seemed to echo all about them, as if it emanated from the very smoke itself.
  
  Dunston had almost been swallowed up by the haze and the gloom and with a start she realised she had stopped walking. Quickly, she sped after him, uncaring now whether she made a noise or not. The thought of being alone and lost in this smoky darkness, surrounded by the eerie music, filled her with terror.
  
  Music.
  
  Yes, that is what it was. She suddenly understood the sounds, and all at once she could hear more than one voice. And there were words too. Words of love and loss. She caught up with Dunston. He turned to her with a grin.
  
  "Listen," he whispered.
  
  They stood still and silent there in the forest and listened to the song. She did not recognise the melody, but it was achingly beautiful, as if the forest itself was singing of its loneliness. There were deep, bass tones, and higher counterpoints, but against it all, there was the throb of a chanted song of lovers, destined to be ever apart and only united in death.
  
  When the singing ended, she found her face was wet with tears. Dunston cuffed at his cheeks, and placed a hand on her shoulder, leading her forward. It was almost full dark now, but she fancied she could make out a glow between the trees ahead.
  
  "Hail, the camp," said Dunston in a low voice.
  
  After a brief moment of silence, a voice came to them.
  
  "Who goes there?"
  
  "Friends," replied Dunston. "Just me and my granddaughter." Aedwen glanced at him, but he did not return her gaze. "We heard your singing. One of my favourites. I have always loved the lay of Eowa and Cyneburg. We seek shelter for the night."
  
  "Not many know our songs or would spend time with us," replied the voice. "What is your name?"
  
  "My name is Dunston, son of Wilnoth."
  
  Whispers in the darkness.
  
  "Approach," said the voice.
  
  They walked towards the glow. As they stepped from the forest path into a wide, open glade, Aedwen saw that the light came from a small fire, upon which hung a metal pot from a wooden tripod. The fire was much too small to have created all this smoke. Around the fire were several figures. Beyond them were five huge shadowy mounds and for a fleeting instant she thought again of the great coiled dragon lurking, awaiting its prey. Perhaps the creatures around the fire were the dragon's servants. Nihtgengas, night-walkers, for surely they could not be men.
  
  They were black-garbed and black-skinned. Their eyes and teeth flashed bright in the dark. She shuddered, a terrible fear gripping her. What were these beasts? Why had Dunston brought her here? Was he in league with these goblins of the forest?
  
  Dunston stepped forward and offered his hand to the nearest of the dark-skinned creatures, who was standing before the fire. His teeth showed as he smiled and gripped Dunston's forearm in the warrior grip.
  
  The firelight fell on the goblin's smiling features and, in an instant, she felt her face flush at her own stupidity. These were no monsters. They were but men, blackened and grimed with soot and ash. The glade was thick with smoke that oozed from the mounds and she finally understood. These men were charcoal burners, outcasts from the world. They lived together, in their hot, smoke-filled world, tending the charcoal piles. Charcoal burners had the reputation of being devils, stinking of smoke and living surrounded by fire, as if in their own personal hell on earth. She had never seen any charcoal men before, and she felt trepidation at being here at night, surrounded by them.
  
  But Dunston was smiling and slapping the man on the back.
  
  "You are well come to our glade," the black-smeared man was saying. "We have cheese and we have ham."
  
  "Smoked!" shouted one of the others, receiving a roar of laughter from all of the men. Aedwen could not believe this was the first time they had made this jest, but they laughed uproariously and she could not help but chuckle too, feeling the tension draining from her.
  
  "We don't get many visitors here," the leader of the charcoal burners continued, "and then we have two in as many days. If this continues, we will have to send someone in search of more food."
  
  "Or start charging for the pleasure of sleeping here!" shouted the jester, again receiving riotous guffaws in response.
  
  "We share our camp and our food freely, Dearlaf," said the leader, with a scowl of reproach. "Come, sit with us, and tell us your tale. We are ever hungry for tidings of the world."
  
  "We thank you," said Dunston. "We carry a small amount of provender and will gladly share what we have. Tidings too."
  
  The men shuffled apart, making space for them by the fire and Aedwen sat beside Dunston. Grubby hands passed them food and a cup was thrust into her grasp. She sniffed at the liquid, but could smell nothing over the all-pervading stench of charcoal smoke. She drank and found it to be ale, bitter, and with an unsurprisingly smoky flavour. It was good.
  
  After they had eaten some of the offered food, Dunston said, "You said you had a visitor a couple of days ago? That wouldn't have been a monk, by any chance, would it?"
  
  The leader of the charcoal burners, whose name was Smoca, gaped at Dunston, eyes wide and bright.
  
  "How did you know? And how is it you know of our songs and are unafraid to sit, eat and drink with us?"
  
  Smoca was wary now, as though he was afraid he had allowed a predator into a flock of sheep.
  
  Dunston swallowed a mouthful of the smoked cheese. Aedwen had thought the charcoal man to be jesting about all the food being smoked, but it seemed he had been in earnest.
  
  "Those are two different questions," Dunston said, after he had washed the food down with a mouthful of ale. "In answer to the second question, I have often spent time with the charcoal men in Sealhwudu, where I live to the north of here. They have ever been kind and have never seemed like devils to me." He gave a wry smile. "I know many consider you less than them, as you are blackened by your fires, but I know that beneath the soot you are but men. And I need what you produce for my work."
  
  "You are a smith?"
  
  "I have a forge, yes. I produce blades and tools for the folk around Briuuetone."
  
  Smoca nodded at Dunston's rune-decorated axe, where it rested on the earth by his right hand. The firelight glimmered on the silver threads that ran through its head.
  
  "Your work?" he asked.
  
  "Alas, no," replied Dunston. "I took her from the dead hand of a Norse warrior."
  
  "So you are a warrior, as well as a smith?"
  
  "I was, once."
  
  "What do the carvings mean?" Smoca asked, gazing in wonder at the intricate runes and sigils on the haft.
  
  Dunston shrugged.
  
  "I do not know and I didn't think to ask the original owner before I sent him on his way." He lifted the axe and Smoca tensed. Dunston smiled and patted the weapon. "I cannot read the runes, but I named this beauty, DeaÞangenga."
  
  Smoca swallowed. His eyes never left the blade as Dunston turned it to catch the flickering light.
  
  "An apt name," the charcoal burner said. "I am sure death never walks far from that axe."
  
  One of the other charcoal burners, a cadaverous man with a bald head and skin as wrinkled and tough-looking as leather, leaned forward, peering at Dunston through the dancing flames of the fire.
  
  "Are you the Dunston? The one they called 'The Bold'?"
  
  "I have been called that," Dunston replied, with a sigh. "Long ago."
  
  "You don't look so bold now," said one of the other men. He was much stockier than the rest, and younger. He was the loud one who seemed always quick to jest. This time none of the men laughed.
  
  But Dunston let out a bark of laughter.
  
  "No, I don't suppose I do," he said. "If I am honest, I am not sure I ever truly warranted the name. But once a name is given to you, it often sticks and is impossible to shake off."
  
  "How did you come by it?" the jester asked.
  
  "Ah, that is a long story. Perhaps I will tell it later."
  
  The young charcoal burner looked set to press Dunston for an answer, but the old man glowered at him, his eyes shining from beneath his heavy brows and the man clamped his mouth shut.
  
  For an awkward moment, they all stared into the fire. One of the men leaned forward and added a log to the embers. Another coughed. Out in the forest, a vixen shrieked.
  
  "You knew our song. You must have spent a lot of time with our kind to hear them sing."
  
  "Yes, I have spent many nights over the years with them. I consider them my friends." He fell silent and took another sip of ale. Aedwen thought he would offer no more about his time with the charcoal burners when he said in a quiet voice, "I owe them much. They gave me my best friend."
  
  "Your best friend is one of us?" asked Smoca.
  
  "No," replied Dunston, offering the man a sad smile. "He is – no – was, a hound. I called him Odin." A couple of the men crossed themselves and Aedwen thought it strange that people thought of these men as heathen devils.
  
  "Odin?"
  
  "He only had one eye, you see. Like the god of the Norsemen. He was the runt of a litter, a tiny thing. Somehow he had scratched one of his eyes and it had grown putrid, full of pus. His mother had left him to die. And he would have done, had it not been for the charcoal men. They nursed him and tended to his eye. One of them walked for a day to my hut to ask for milk from my goat." He smiled at the memory. "By God, we all loved that pup. We fed him milk from the corner of a cloth dipped in the fresh milk. He was so small, we never thought he would live, but there was something about him, a look in his good eye. We just refused to let him die. And in a few days he began to put on weight and grow strong. When I eventually made my way back home, he followed me." Dunston held out his cup and one of the men filled it with ale. "I hadn't known it, but I was lonely, and Odin made a wonderful companion. He grew strong and spirited. A great hunter and a faithful friend."
  
  Dunston fell silent, gazing into the flames as he drank from his cup.
  
  "He sounds like a worthy companion for Dunston the Bold," said the jester, his tone now reverential.
  
  Aedwen thought of the rangy one-eyed hound, and could scarcely believe he had once been a sickly puppy. Looking at the taciturn, gruff old man who had led her southward these last days, she also found it difficult to imagine him tending to a defenceless animal. And yet, had he not done the same with her? Like Odin, she had been alone and in need of succour. It seemed that Dunston, beneath his hard shell, would not turn away from a lost orphan.
  
  "He was the best of dogs," she blurted out, surprised that she had spoken. The black faces of the gathered men turned to her. "He tried to protect me, but was cut down by a bad man."
  
  "Which brings me to the answer to your other question," said Dunston, not waiting for a response to Aedwen's comment.
  
  "The monk who stayed with us killed your dog?" asked Smoca.
  
  "No, but we believe he is being pursued by the same men who struck down Odin."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "He has information that they seek."
  
  "What information."
  
  "We do not know."
  
  "And you are looking for him too?"
  
  "We are. This girl's father was slain in order to keep secret what this monk knows. They tortured and killed the inhabitants of Beornmod's steading to find out where her father had learnt of the tidings that got him killed." Smoca was clearly shocked by these tidings of murder. His mouth hung agape for a moment. He seemed poised to ask something, but Dunston did not pause. "They found that the monk, Ithamar, carried a message." He held up his hand to halt the query on Smoca's lips. "We do not know to whom, or what the message says, but we are sure they mean to hunt him and slay him. We hope to find him first, if we are able."
  
  Smoca drew in a deep breath and pondered Dunston's words for a long time. A log popped in the fire. The vixen called again in the night. Aedwen tried to hear Dunston's words as they would sound to these men. It was hard to make sense of what had happened. Would they believe him? There were so many uncertainties in his story. And yet he spoke with conviction.
  
  "How did you know the monk had sheltered with us?" Smoca said at last.
  
  "I saw the print of his shoe on the path that led from the road."
  
  Smoca nodded.
  
  "A smith, a warrior and a woodsman," he said, raising his eyebrows. "And you say these killers are on his trail? How far ahead of you are they? We have seen nobody else since Ithamar came to us."
  
  "We are a day behind them, but we are on foot, they have mounts." Dunston thought for a moment, running his thick fingers over his beard. "If Ithamar was here, and you have not seen his pursuers, all I can think is that they missed his tracks turning off the road. It was only by chance that I noticed the print of his foot, and from horseback, it would be easy to miss the path to your encampment."
  
  Smoca nodded thoughtfully.
  
  "Ithamar was scared of being seen on the road, busy as it is. We just thought it was because he travelled alone and was fearful of brigands and robbers. There are wolf-heads that will even stoop to attacking a man of the cloth."
  
  "When a man has nothing to lose, he is as dangerous as a savage animal," said Dunston, his face grim. Aedwen wondered if he was referring to himself or to the brigands who preyed on travellers.
  
  Something in Dunston's tone made Smoca hesitate.
  
  "How do we know you do not mean the monk harm?" he said. "Perhaps he was running from you. He was good to us. Puttoc had a carbuncle and Ithamar lanced it for him and prayed over him. He prayed with all of us." He squinted at Dunston, trying to weigh him up.
  
  "I can offer you no more than my word that we mean him no harm," Dunston said. "But the word of Dunston the Bold has never been doubted before."
  
  Smoca met his gaze for several heartbeats, before finally nodding.
  
  "Anyone who knows the song of Eowa and Cyneburg and breaks bread with charcoalers cannot be too bad. If you are right about the riders that hunt for Ithamar, and they have lost his trail on the road, they must have ridden for Exanceaster."
  
  "Yes," said Dunston. "That seems most likely."
  
  "But," said Smoca, with a glimmer in his eyes, "we know that he was not headed towards Exanceaster."
  
  Dunston leaned forward eagerly.
  
  "Where was he going?" he asked.
  
  "He was making his way to Tantun."
  
  "But this road leads to Exanceaster."
  
  "That it surely does," said Smoca with a grin. "But we set him right. We put him on a path that leads through the woods. It joins a road to Tantun not far from here. If he has walked fast, he might be there already."
  
  "Do you know why he was heading for Tantun?"
  
  "As a matter of fact, I do. He said he wished to see the priest there. Come to think of it, he said he had a message for him."
  
  Aedwen wondered whether the Blessed Virgin had heard her prayers. To bring them to this glade and now to be put on the trail of the monk, the Mother of Christ must be smiling upon them.
  
  "Will you show us the path to Tantun?" asked Dunston.
  
  "In the morning, I will take you there myself," said Smoca. "But first, rest. You look like you could use the sleep. One of us is awake all the night watching that the mounds burn well. No harm will befall you."
  
  Dunston gave the man his thanks, and rolled up in his cloak and a blanket beside the fire and was soon snoring.
  
  Aedwen lay down beside him and stared into the coruscating embers. Dunston seemed to trust these soot-smeared men, but she could not shake the lingering terror that the forest was the home of a sleeping dragon, the charcoal men its servants and she and Dunston its prey.
  
  For a long while she fought against sleep, despite the tiredness of her limbs and mind. A light breeze whispered through the forest. A night bird screeched in the distance. And then, all around her, the black-faced men began to sing again, softly this time, their voices calming and achingly beautiful in the smoke-filled darkness. The melody washed over her, soothing her, allaying her fears, and soon, her eyelids drooped and closed.