text: Dunston's breath rasped in his throat. Crouching behind the broad bole of an ancient oak, he tried to breathe silently, but was all too aware of his wheezing panting.
  
  A howling scream. Loud. Harsh. Terrible. The forest was still all around them, as if it had been shocked into silence by the poor monk's pained cries.
  
  Gruff laughter followed the piteous wail. Voices, but the words were muffled by distance and the woodland.
  
  Dunston signalled for Aedwen to join him in the lee of the oak. Pale-faced and wide-eyed, she hunkered down beside him. She was trembling, but her mouth was a thin line, jaw set. She was not out of breath.
  
  With a start, Dunston understood that his own laboured breathing was not from exertion, but from the horror of what he was hearing. The horrific sounds of the dying man's last moments conjured up dark memories. Often the faces of fallen enemies would come to him in his dreams. At such times, he would stoke up the fire in his hut until the flames burnt away the darkness. He would gulp down strong mead until at last he could no longer remember the faces of those he had seen die; no longer recall their screams and pleas for mercy.
  
  But here, there was no escape from the cacophony of Ithamar's agony.
  
  With an effort, Dunston slowed his breathing, taking long, drawn out breaths of the warm loamy air. It tasted verdant and full of the life of the forest.
  
  Someone shouted. This time, the words were clear.
  
  "Where is it?"
  
  A pause. A sob. A mumbled answer. Then, another excruciating scream of pain.
  
  Dunston wished Aedwen and he had not come closer. They should have run into the forest in the opposite direction, away from these murderers. But Aedwen had grasped his hand and stared up at him, eyes brimming with tears and compassion.
  
  "We must help him," she had said.
  
  And so, even though he knew there was nothing they could do for the monk, Dunston had led her through the dense foliage towards the sounds of torture. If only Ithamar had fallen silent in death before they had come so close. Then it would have been an easier matter to lead the girl away. And yet it seemed the man's tormentors had some skill in inflicting pain without causing death. For the monk yet lived, though there was no doubt in Dunston's mind he would join Lytelman, Beornmod and the rest in death as soon as he had given his torturers what they wanted.
  
  The man he assumed was Ithamar screamed, and then groaned a reply. Louder now, more emphatic.
  
  "Hidden!" he said, his voice rising into a shout. "Hidden, you sons of Satan!"
  
  His angry answer was cut off by his renewed screaming, as one of his captors performed some unspeakable act of cruelty on the poor man.
  
  Dunston half rose to his feet, hefting DeaÞangenga. By Christ's bones, he could stand this no longer. He would creep to where they were torturing the wretched monk and he would slay them all. He could not bear to hear the man suffer further. Aedwen gazed up at him as he stood. Her eyes were bright, her face expectant.
  
  "Will you rescue him?" she asked.
  
  In the distance, the monk's cries had dwindled to sobs and coughing. Harsh laughter echoed in the forest.
  
  Slowly, Dunston lowered himself back down beside the girl. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
  
  "I cannot," he whispered, fearful that any sound they made might be overheard in the preternaturally silent woodland. She open her mouth to reply and he held up a hand to silence her. "There are too many of them." As he said the words he heard the truth in them. There were five of them and he was but one old man. He might be able to kill a couple of the bastards, three with luck and surprise. If he had been alone, he would have taken his chances. It would not be a bad death to die trying to free an innocent monk from five murderers. It would be a death he would be proud of. Eawynn would have been proud of him too, he thought, despite the oath he had made to her long ago.
  
  "I love that you always seek to defend the weak," she had told him once.
  
  But as he looked at Aedwen's youthful, terrified face, he knew that his path had already been set. He would not rescue the monk. For if he fell in the attempt, what fate then would await Aedwen?
  
  "Who else knew of the message?" came the sudden, furious shout from one of the torturers. "Who knew?"
  
  "Nobody! Only the peddler…" Ithamar's words trailed off and were lost for a time. And then, with vehemence he cried out. "Forgive me, oh Lord, for speaking to the man, for his death is on my hands!"
  
  "We cannot leave him at the mercy of these people," hissed Aedwen. Tears streamed down her face now, but she seemed oblivious to them. "We cannot."
  
  When Dunston made no move to stand, Aedwen started to rise. He gripped her arm and yanked her down to the ground again. He longed to be able to act, to save the poor monk, but it would be folly.
  
  "We must," he whispered. "We should never have come here. But now we know enough. We must take the message to someone able to read it."
  
  Aedwen's expression changed from anguish to anger in a flash. She tried to shake off his grasp, but he was too strong.
  
  "Let me go," she hissed, more loudly now. "We have to do something even if you are too craven!"
  
  Her words stung, but he held her firm and would not allow her to move.
  
  From the distant site of Ithamar's torment there came a strangely calm voice. After a moment, the words became clear.
  
  "Fæder ure þu þe eart on heofonum; Si þin nama gehalgod…"
  
  The voice must belong to Ithamar, but gone was his crying wail of pain, instead replaced with a tranquillity Dunston could scarcely believe. And he was reciting the prayer to the Lord. The man must have been incredibly strong of will.
  
  "Stop that!" came a screeching scream and anger. "Answer me. Where is the message? Where have you hidden it?"
  
  But the Lord's Prayer droned on and Ithamar did not miss a word.
  
  "… to becume þin rice, gewurþe ðin willa, on eorðan swa swa on heofonum."
  
  It seemed the monk was done speaking to the men who had cut and tortured him. He had commended his soul to God and would pray until his demise.
  
  Aedwen shuddered in Dunston's grasp. Sobs racked her frame and her face was wet with tears.
  
  "Coward," she cried, her weeping making her voice catch in her throat. "Coward," she repeated and Dunston knew there was nothing he could say that would change her mind.
  
  "Quiet," he hissed, shaking her. "Would you have us both killed too, foolish girl?"
  
  His tone was sharp, and his words cut through her distraught anguish, for she bit back a retort and he could see her forcibly seeking to control her crying.
  
  She stared into his eyes, unspeaking and unblinking, as they both listened to Ithamar's last moments of life.
  
  "… and forgyf us ure gyltas, swa swa we forgyfað urum gyltendum…"
  
  Ithamar continued chanting the words of the prayer, ex-horting God to forgive him as he would those who did him ill. But before he could complete the prayer, his words were cut off.
  
  "If you will not speak," came the coarse voice of Ithamar's tormentor, "then I will make you sing the song of the blood-eagle. Sing, you bastard. Sing!"
  
  Whatever savagery was being dealt to Ithamar's body became too much for him to bear then, and he let out a moaning, keening squeal of pure agony.
  
  This was a man they had known by name only. Hearing his howling cry cut off in a strangled gasp, Dunston knew they would never know the monk in this life. And yet in a short time of hearing him facing his attackers Dunston knew Ithamar was a brave man. He had been defiant till the end and had died as a true, devout follower of God.
  
  Aedwen gazed up at him, her face contorted with fear, grief, anger. He shook her again, more gently this time.
  
  "We must flee," he said in a hushed murmur, his mouth close to her ear. "We cannot have Ithamar's death be for nought." He touched the vellum that lay in the bag slung over his shoulder. "He gave his life for this message, we must carry it now."
  
  "What can we do?" she said, her voice terribly loud in the stillness of the wood. "These men are monsters."
  
  "Quiet, Aedwen," he whispered. "They might hear you."
  
  Aedwen's eyes widened in sudden, abject terror and she pulled back from his grip, as though she thought he might be about to strike her. For a heartbeat, he was confused. Then he followed her gaze. She was no longer looking at him, but over his shoulder. Dunston's skin prickled as he heard a twig snap behind him.
  
  "Too late," said a deep, husky voice. It held an edge of cruel humour. "One of them has already heard you."