text: Dunston knew something was amiss before they could see the hall. The sky was a flat, iron grey, but behind the clouds the sun was low in the sky. Long shadows trailed out from the ash trees that lined the path and the hill that dominated the skyline was huge and foreboding. Some long-forgotten men had sculpted out steps into the hillside, creating terraces in the grass and lending the mound a strange, unnatural quality.
  
  Cantmael was not far from Spercheforde and so they had not tarried long there. There had still been enough light in the day for them to reach Beornmod's hall and so, after convincing Snell to give them a bowl of the pottage that he had left simmering over the embers on his hearth, they had set off once more.
  
  Now, as they approached the steading in the lee of the looming, stepped hill, Dunston halted and held up his hand for Aedwen to do likewise. He shrugged off the hemp bag he now carried slung over his shoulder. He had persuaded Snell to part with it and also an earthenware pot in exchange for the promise of forging him a knife when all this was done.
  
  Snell had smiled grimly, clearly wondering how likely Dunston was to be able to fulfil his promise, but he had agreed without quibbling. Dunston had thanked him. He knew it was no small thing to trust a man at his word, and he was grateful to the wiry ceorl.
  
  In the cool shade of the great hill at Cantmael, Dunston sniffed the air. Smoke and manure, and rain somewhere far off. Nothing untoward. And yet…
  
  He took a few more steps towards their destination. The hall and its outbuildings would be visible when they rounded the next bend in the path he knew. He halted again, listening, straining to hear anything that might suggest to him what to expect at Beornmod's hall. He crouched in the path, examining the furrows and tracks in the mud, turning his head this way and that in order to pick out anything unusual in the churned surface.
  
  Several horses had come this way recently, and earlier in the day, oxen had pulled a cart with a wobble in the rear left wheel. There were prints from the shoes of ceorls going to and from the fields. He could clearly discern where the men had jumped over the numerous puddles, where they had placed their feet close to tussocks of grass, trying to keep dry. Two dogs, large ones, had padded along the path too, but unlike the men, they had cared nothing about muddying their paws.
  
  He saw no indication of the horsemen returning along this path.
  
  Without a word he handed the bag to Aedwen.
  
  "Go there," he indicated a hawthorn that was flanked by huddled downy willows, "and hide. Wait for me to call or to come for you."
  
  "What if you don't come back?" she whispered, terror in her voice.
  
  For an instant he was going to lie to her, to tell her that of course he would be back. But then he thought of the girl's father, and all of the man's broken promises. He pictured Lytelman's back split open like a butchered boar. He would not lie to Aedwen.
  
  "If I do not return, wait till nightfall and then make your way back to Snell. He is a good man and he would help you."
  
  He could see she did not much care for his answer, but she merely nodded and scampered away into the undergrowth. After a moment, she was hidden from sight.
  
  Glancing down at the muddy path once more, he saw again the indentations made from the clawed, padded paws of the two hounds. His breath caught in his throat and for a moment, he thought one of the dogs might be Odin. He bent to get a closer look and realised his mistake. These were not the tracks of his dog. Odin was surely dead somewhere in the forest where he had run after being injured.
  
  Dunston set his jaw and, gripping DeaÞangenga tightly, he walked down the incline and around the bend in the path. The shapes of the buildings came into view. All was still and with a jolt Dunston realised what had alerted him that something was not right. This was the end of the day, when thralls and servants would be bustling about the steading, preparing for the evening meal. The last chores of the day should be under way. The small hall, barn and two outbuildings should be abustle with activity.
  
  And yet there was no sound. No movement at all.
  
  A crow croaked from where it was perched, dark and brooding, in the grizzled old oak that gave shadow to the ground between the buildings. It was the first bird he had heard or seen since arriving here, and its doleful call made his skin prickle.
  
  And then he saw what the crow was resting upon.
  
  Two men in simple clothing dangled from a high branch of the oak. Ropes had been thrown over the bough and secured around the bole. The men's faces were mottled, dark swollen tongues protruding from fish-pale lips. Their breeches were stained where they had soiled themselves in death. Dunston sighed and spat. Would he never be free from death and killing? He yearned to be left alone, to live out his days in peace.
  
  The crow cried out again and to Dunston it sounded like a harsh bark of laughter.
  
  The moment he had found Lytelman, his chance of a straw death, growing old and dying in his bed, had fled. Everywhere he turned now, he stumbled on more blood and murder. He felt his anger brimming within him. He fought to keep it in check, but he recognised the call of the old beast. It had been sleeping within him for such a long time that he had thought it was gone, but it seemed all it had been waiting for was the right food to give it strength once more.
  
  Strength and purpose.
  
  Skirting the hanging men, he moved stealthily towards the hall. There were no sounds from within. No smoke drifted from the hole cut into the thatch. The stillness was unnatural. This was the pure quiet of a tomb. All he might find here were ghosts.
  
  Close to the hall's open doorway lay the corpse of a large tan-coloured dog. Its head had been almost severed from its neck, its mouth pulled back in a defiant snarl from its white, dagger-like fangs.
  
  Hefting DeaÞangenga, Dunston took a deep breath and stepped through the dark maw of the hall's door. Inside was gloom-laden, the air stale. Cold soot, sour beer, the acrid scent of shit and, beneath it all, the metallic tang of blood.
  
  Squinting and blinking against the darkness, he looked around the hall. It was a modest building, with a high table that would sit four and enough room at the benches for perhaps twenty men in total.
  
  Three women and an elderly man lay dead on the floor near the cold hearth. They had been cut down by swords or long seaxes. Great gashes had opened their flesh and their blood had soaked the rushes black.
  
  The other dog was dead beneath its master's feet. It must have tried to defend Beornmod, but it had been pierced by spears and then hacked into a mess of muscle, bone, sinew and fur. And blood, so much blood. The huge pools of the stuff mingled with the gore that had run from the board where Beornmod's corpse was draped.
  
  Dunston instantly recognised the handiwork of Lytelman's murderer. Beornmod lay face down on the board, blood-splattered arms hanging down, flaccid and mottled in death. The man's kirtle had been torn asunder and it was the sight of his back that brought the gorge rising in Dunston's throat. The ribs had been shattered and wrenched apart and the man's entrails and lungs draped on his back, like wings of offal.
  
  He turned away from the corpse. Beornmod would tell them nothing. They had come to this hall hoping for answers and instead they had found more death.
  
  "Is that how my father was slain?" said a voice. It was small and empty-sounding, but it was loud in the complete still of the hall. Despite himself, Dunston started, letting out a tiny sound of alarm.
  
  "I told you to stay hidden," he said, his voice harsh and as brittle as slate. "God, girl, you promised to do as I said." He grabbed hold of her shoulders, spun her round and shoved her out of the doorway, away from the mutilated remains of Beornmod. "It could have been dangerous."
  
  Outside, she turned to face him. Finding an outlet for his anger now, his ire bubbled up and he jabbed a finger into Aedwen's sternum. She staggered backwards with the force of his stabbing blows. He was only using his thick forefinger, and yet she was unable to hold her ground.
  
  "What if the men who did this were still here?" he asked, his finger prodding out the beat of the words.
  
  Aedwen's eyes filled with tears, and they started to roll down her cheeks. She let out a sob, and as quickly as they had been kindled, so the flames of his anger were doused. After a moment of hesitation, he pulled the girl close to him with his left hand. In his right he held his great axe and all the while he scanned the other buildings for signs of danger. Aedwen shook and trembled against him.
  
  "I need to know you are safe," he whispered to her, "or else I will not be able to protect you."
  
  She sobbed and sniffed, and at last she pulled away from him. She swiped at her face, brushing away her tears.
  
  She mumbled something under her breath. He could not make out the words. Perhaps she was apologising, but his anger still simmered.
  
  "If you mean to say sorry," he hissed, "save your words. I need to know you will obey me. When I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions. No arguing. You just do it! Understand?"
  
  Aedwen nodded, her face a mask of misery.
  
  "Well, you have chosen to defy me, and now there is nothing for it. I did not want you to see such things, but maybe it is for the best that you do. Perhaps then you will comprehend what it is we are dealing with."
  
  Aedwen's gaze flicked to the oak and its dangling corpses, then she peered, wide-eyed, into the darkness of the hall, as if she wished to see the mutilated corpse in more detail.
  
  "You think the men who did this were the ones who killed my father?" she asked. Her voice was so quiet it was almost lost beneath the cawing of the crow.
  
  "Who else?" Dunston replied. "Now, stay close and keep your eyes open."
  
  They moved through the steading, searching every building, but the men who had massacred Beornmod's folk had left. They found two more bodies. A young man, and a girl. The man seemed to have come running from the fields. There was a hoe and two weed hooks near his corpse, but if he had tried to use them as weapons he had clearly been no match for the horsemen. Spear points had pierced his chest, and he had been left to wail and bleed out his lifeblood into the soil.
  
  The girl had been dragged into one of the storerooms. Her clothes were ripped, exposing pallid skin. Beneath her dark staring eyes, her throat had been opened in a terrible wound. Dunston read what had happened inside the small shed as clearly as if he had been there to witness the atrocious last moments of the poor girl's life. After the men had done with her, they had cut her like a pig for slaughter. Blood had fountained, gushing and pumping as her heart fought to keep her alive. She had been young and vital and now she was no more than a carcass, cold meat on the packed earthen floor of a storeroom.
  
  Dunston turned away, closing the door of the hut behind him. He sighed. Christ, to think he had hoped to be done with death.
  
  Aedwen had grown very quiet and he noted the pallor of her skin. He placed a hand on her shoulder and for a heartbeat, he thought she was going to run from him. But then she trembled, letting out a strangled sob.
  
  "Sorry," she said.
  
  "Come," he said, ushering her towards one of the buildings that was devoid of corpses. "I'll light a fire and we can eat and rest."
  
  "Here?"
  
  "It will soon be dark and I don't think the men who did this will be back."
  
  "Are you sure?"
  
  "I cannot be certain, but the tracks of their horses lead south and west. If I am not mistaken, and I rarely am when it comes to reading sign, they are in pursuit of something. Or someone. They were riding hard, pushing the horses."
  
  He led her into a small house. Like the hall its walls were whitewashed daub and its roof was thatched. Inside it was comfortably furnished. The small hearth was circled by stools and chairs. Chests lined the walls and ham and sausages hung from the rafters. To the rear, a curtain hung to separate the sleeping quarters from the main space. Thankfully nobody had been slain inside this abode and the riders had not plundered its contents.
  
  Indicating to Aedwen to sit on one of the carved chairs, Dunston set about kindling a fire on the hearthstone. The ashes were still warm and there was dry wood in a basket. Dunston found a flint and steel in a small wooden box beside the basket of logs and in moments, he had a small blaze burning.
  
  He placed the tinder box in the bag Snell had given him.
  
  It was dark within the house, but the flickering light from the fire showed Aedwen's frown well enough.
  
  "That is not yours," she said.
  
  "You are right, of course, but we have more need of it than Beornmod's folk now, don't you think?"
  
  Aedwen scowled, but said nothing.
  
  "Make no mistake, Aedwen," Dunston said, "I am no thief. But I will take from these poor people whatever I can to help us. I think that is what they would have wanted. I know I would not begrudge someone taking my things after my death. Especially if they were hunting my killers."
  
  "Is that what we are doing now then? Hunting these killers?"
  
  For a while Dunston did not reply. He picked up a split log and placed it carefully on the flames. The truth of the matter was he did not know what they should do next. He was but an old man and Aedwen was a child. What could they do in the face of such ruthless barbarity? But what alternative did they have? If they could somehow unearth the reason for these murders and unmask the perpetrators, perhaps he could return to his life in Sealhwudu. Far from the evil of men. He had seen enough of that for a lifetime and more.
  
  "What else can we do?" he said at last. "I would wager these are the same men who killed your father, and they are clearly searching for something. I think we will need to follow them. And, with luck, we can find out what they are about before they kill again."
  
  "They told Snell they were the reeve's men," Aedwen said. "Surely that cannot be true. The reeve's men would not kill all of these people."
  
  Dunston had been thinking about this, and he had his suspicions about what had happened here. He ran his fingers over his thick beard.
  
  "Perhaps they lied to Snell, or mayhap they are Hunfrith's men."
  
  "But how could that be so? To kill so many…"
  
  "Maybe the first kill was an accident. But after that first one, the only way to avoid justice would be to kill everyone. I think that is what happened. From the marks in the mud outside, I believe the workers were speared first, then the horsemen, reeve's men or not, moved on to the others."
  
  "And the girl?"
  
  "Once such men are on the course of blood and killing, they would think nothing of taking their pleasure with an innocent."
  
  Dunston glanced at Aedwen and saw she was staring into the flames.
  
  "Why didn't they burn the hall with the people inside?" she asked after a time. "Surely that would have hidden the nature of their crimes. And people might have believed it to have been an accident. Fires happen all the time."
  
  "True," replied Dunston, strangely proud of the girl for looking at the situation and analysing the possibilities. "But the smoke would have drawn neighbours, and they might have been caught here and found they needed to answer difficult questions. In this way, they must have hoped that when the bodies were found, nobody would be able to say who had done these foul acts."
  
  "Just like my father, killed deep in the forest."
  
  "Yes, Aedwen. If there are no witnesses to a crime, it is much more difficult to prove who did it."
  
  Now it was Aedwen's turn to fall silent, as she pondered his words. After a time, she nodded, her face pale and doleful in the firelight.
  
  "We should bury Beornmod's people," she said. "Before we go. We cannot leave them like that." She shuddered, and Dunston could imagine her thinking of the girl lying cold and alone in the store. The men, dark tongues poking from blue-tinged lips, swinging stiffly from the oak. The other corpses, brutally cut down by savage men. The bloody, mutilated butchered remains of Beornmod himself.
  
  "There is no time for that," he said. "If we remain here, we will lose the men who did this. Worse, others will come and blame us for what has happened." He glowered in the gloom, recalling the madness of being accused of Lytelman's murder. But without witnesses or those to swear oaths for him, who knew what men would make of him being found in Cantmael surrounded by corpses?
  
  "But it is not right to leave them…" she hesitated. "To leave them like that."
  
  Before Dunston could reply, a mournful moan came to them from outside in the gloaming. It was a doleful sound, full of pain and torment.
  
  Aedwen stiffened and horror filled her eyes.
  
  But Dunston smiled.
  
  "Do not fear, child," he said. "That is not a bad sound to hear. Listen."
  
  Again came the droning moan and as Dunston saw the truth dawning on Aedwen's features, he stood and said, "Bring that bucket," indicating a wooden pail that rested in the corner.
  
  Outside in the gathering dusk, the sound was louder and clearer. They followed it to its source, Aedwen trotting along beside Dunston. By the door of one of the barns they found the creature that was lowing pitifully as darkness draped the land.
  
  It was a large cow with twisted horns and distended udders painfully full of milk. Inside the barn, Dunston found a stool and another bucket. He tethered the beast, and set down the stool.
  
  "We will have fresh warm milk tonight," he said, smiling in the gloom.
  
  He could not make out Aedwen's expression, but he was pleased when she sat and proceeded to milk the cow effortlessly, sending warm streams of liquid squirting unerringly into the bucket. It didn't take long until the first bucket was full. Dunston passed Aedwen the second pail.
  
  "Poor girl," he said, patting the cow's shoulder. The beast had stopped lowing now, and was content to be milked, relieving the pressure from her udders. "Looks like we'll have more milk than we can drink," he said.
  
  "Perhaps you could spare some for me then," said a voice from the darkness behind him.
  
  Aedwen leapt up, overturning the stool and spilling the milk from the half-filled bucket.
  
  Dunston spun around, dropping his hand to the small seax he yet carried in his belt. By God, how could he have been so foolish as to leave DeaÞangenga back in the house next to the fire? Pushing himself in front of Aedwen, he tried to discern the features of the newcomer.
  
  The figure stepped closer and Dunston's eyes widened in surprise.