text: Dunston snapped instantly awake. He pushed himself to his feet, his aches and pains forgotten as the sounds of alarm from outside grew more intense and increasingly insistent. A hollow clangour echoed in the village as someone beat on something, an empty barrel perhaps. Shouts and yells of anguish drifted to where Dunston stood. He bunched his hands into fists, forcing himself to remain calm, despite the blood rushing through his veins. He recognised the sensation of his skin tingling, his limbs thrumming with tension. This was how he had always felt before battle.
  
  But was there a battle taking place outside? Or was this something less dire? An abandoned rush light, or a stray ember tumbled from a hearth on the dry rushes of a floor perhaps. He breathed deeply, taking in the night-cool air that smelt of straw and dust and the animals that had previously inhabited the barn. Underlying these scents, he half-imagined he could detect the slightest trace of smoke.
  
  Just outside the barn door, his guard called out to someone.
  
  "What is that?"
  
  Dunston could not make out the reply muffled as it was by distance, the barn's timber walls and the noise of many people hollering in the night.
  
  Could it be that the village was under attack from the Norsemen? Was it possible that the blood-eagling of Aedwen's father had presaged the arrival of the sea wolves this far inland? Were the people of Briuuetone even now being slaughtered by savage heathens? By Christ, if that were so, what would befall Aedwen? And Gytha and her daughters?
  
  Dunston trembled. How he wished he had hold of DeaÞangenga. The axe's sharp blade would make short work of this wooden gaol.
  
  "What is happening out there?" he bellowed. No answer came to him.
  
  He stumbled to the door in the gloom and placed his ear to its rough-hewn oak. Men and women shouted. Dogs barked, loud and insistent in the night. For a fleeting, sad moment he thought of Odin. There was no clash of metal on metal. The constant echoing drum beat had ceased.
  
  He knelt and peered through a knot hole in the planking. Shadows flitted before the light of flickering flames. But he was unable to make out any details of the events beyond the door.
  
  Standing, he beat on the door with a fist.
  
  "Hey! Let me out of here. I can help."
  
  He paused to listen for a reply.
  
  To his amazement, he heard the bar being removed with a clatter. The door swung open, letting in the noise and light of the night. The cold air was redolent of smoke. Dunston blinked, trying to make sense of what he saw. Some distance away, in the Bartons, the alleys that led to the animal enclosures, a fire was raging. Long, dark shadows danced from the men and women who had flocked about the flames and were doing their best to douse them.
  
  In the doorway, shadowed by the distant conflagration, stood two figures. After a moment, their shapes became clearer to him, their features limned by the silvery light of the full moon.
  
  "Aedwen?" he said, bewilderment in his voice. "Gytha? What is this?"
  
  "There is no time to talk," said Gytha. Despite the obvious urgency, Dunston could not help but notice how the woman had aged. She was, as ever, a handsome woman, and yet she looked as though a decade had passed since last they had met, rather than a few months. "You must flee," she said. "You are not safe here."
  
  "What? Why?" Dunston felt stupid, unable to understand the meaning behind her simple words. The flames behind her seemed to be under control now, the shrillness of the voices in the darkness replaced with determined shouts and commands.
  
  "There's no time, Dunston. You must run."
  
  "I've done nothing wrong."
  
  "I know that, but Hunfrith is keeping things secret. We think he means you harm."
  
  "But why? I have done nothing." Dunston repeated the sentiment of his innocence, but even as he spoke, he could hear the shallowness of his words. Did he truly believe justice would be done here? He was being held for a crime he did not commit, by a man who would not listen to reason. And here was a girl and woman who had risked much to see him freed.
  
  Gytha placed a hand upon his shoulder.
  
  "That fire will not burn for long, Dunston. I must be gone from here and home with my girls before anyone suspects my involvement." She gripped his arm tightly for a moment. Her face was shadowed, but he could sense her terror of being found here. "You are a good man," she said, her voice hissing in the dark. "But you must go. Now. Godspeed." Without awaiting a reply, she turned and ran into the night, away from the now waning blaze. In an eye-blink she was swallowed by the darkness.
  
  An instant later, his mind was made up. He trusted Rothulf's widow. She was a clever woman, honest and true, and if she had taken this action, there must be good reason. Casting about for his belongings, he saw none. That could not be helped. He would have to make do with what the forest provided. He wished he had a knife at least, but he would manage. He began to make his way around the barn, away from the noise and tumult surrounding the fire. Aedwen followed at his side.
  
  Wheeling on her, he hissed, "You cannot come with me, child. Go after Gytha. You will be safe with her." He made to turn, but her small hand gripped his arm, pulling him back.
  
  "No. I will go with you."
  
  "By Christ's bone's, girl, do what you are bidden." He felt exposed out here. If someone should look in this direction they would see him arguing with Aedwen, lit up against the side of the barn by the dying flames of the fire.
  
  "No," replied Aedwen.
  
  By God, the girl was infuriating.
  
  Dunston was about to snap an angry retort, when a large figure loomed in the darkness. It was a tall man, easily a head taller than Dunston, with a dark shock of hair and a mordant, angular face.
  
  Without thinking, Dunston shoved Aedwen behind him. She was light and his strength flung her against the barn with a clatter.
  
  "Well, well," said the newcomer. "If it isn't Dunston, the famous warrior. You don't look so bold now." He sneered, raising the weapon he held in both hands. The far-off fire gleamed from the familiar silver-threaded axe-head.
  
  DeaÞangenga.
  
  His eyes flicked towards Aedwen, who was pushing herself to her feet from where she had fallen. "Oh," he leered, "after I've cut you up, perhaps I can have some fun with the filly. I like them slim and tight."
  
  If the reeve's man had expected Dunston to respond to his taunts, he was quickly disappointed.
  
  Without a word, Dunston closed with the man. The man's eyes widened, but he was young and quick. He stepped backward and raised the great axe, just as Dunston had known he would. Dunston did not stop, instead he increased his speed, forcing the man to react. Dunston knew that most men will think twice before dealing a killing blow, especially against an unarmed man. He hoped to keep him off balance, but his adversary was no peasant and it seemed had no qualms about striking an opponent who bore no weapon.
  
  He raised DeaÞangenga high in the air and swung a huge blow downward aimed at Dunston's head. If the axe had connected it would have killed the older man as quickly as lightning striking from a summer storm. But, Dunston was a veteran of many battles, and, unlike his enemy, he had used DeaÞangenga, the long hafted axe, in combat so often that he knew its heft intimately. He knew that such a powerful swing would slay any man, but he also understood that if it were to miss, the wielder would be unable to halt the weapon's progress.
  
  Belying his advanced years, Dunston skipped backward, allowing the axe to slice the air a hand's breadth before him. His attacker was unbalanced. He stumbled as the axe-head struck the earth, burying itself deeply into the mud, Dunston sprang forward. Placing his left hand atop DeaÞangenga's haft, he drove his meaty right fist into his assailant's face. The man relinquished his grip on the axe's handle and staggered back, arms flailing. Dunston had struck him with all his weight behind the blow and was surprised that the man did not fall to the ground. He was a tough one, of that there was no doubt.
  
  Shouts from the Bartons told of how others had seen the men fighting by the barn. There was no more time.
  
  Tugging the axe out of the ground, Dunston swung it in a vicious arc, connecting with the blunt side of the iron head with a thudding crunch into the man's jaw. He dropped without uttering another sound.
  
  Dunston scanned the gloom. His senses were sharpened now, the battle-fire flooding his body. He felt younger than he had in years. Several figures were approaching cautiously from where the fire was now almost completely extinguished.
  
  Looking grimly at the collapsed man, Dunston prayed he would live. He had not meant to kill him, but perhaps he had hit him harder than needed. There was nothing for it now. His life was in Christ's hands.
  
  DeaÞangenga was warm and comforting in Dunston's grip. Bending to the man's immobile body, he tugged the seax from the scabbard that hung from his belt. As he rose, his eye caught on a leather flask that was propped against the side of the barn. No doubt it held ale or mead that his guard had been drinking before the night exploded into fire and chaos. Without hesitation, Dunston snatched up the container.
  
  Someone shouted out.
  
  "Hey, you there!"
  
  Quickly, Dunston decided which way he would run. He knew this land well and the night held no fear for him. He would make his way quickly down to the river's edge where the water's rush would mask any noise he made. Then he would head south for a time, away from his hut. In the opposite direction to that which the people of Briuuetone would likely expect. The thought of the tithing-men coming after him turned his stomach. The tithing-men would be simple folk of Briuuetone, doing their duty, as they saw it. Helping to bring a miscreant to justice. The villagers were known to him. He had no quarrel with them and did not wish to face them. He would flee deep into the forest where they would never be able to find him.
  
  He sprinted into the darkness, the shouts of pursuers growing louder behind him. A moment later, he became aware of the slender shape of Aedwen, running along beside him. He halted and turned on the girl.
  
  "You cannot come with me. It is too dangerous. You will become a wolf-head."
  
  "I know you do not want me with you," she said, her voice high and trembling. "But think. The reeve's man saw me. If I stay, they will say I freed you. If I go, they will believe I acted alone and Gytha and her girls will be safe."
  
  New voices had joined the shouting now. The crowd had found the fallen guard and from the sound of the yells and insults in the dark, the man's friends were not happy.
  
  Dunston stared at Aedwen for a moment, her eyes glittered. She looked like Eawynn when he had first met her.
  
  "Over there!" came the cry from one of the pursuers.
  
  Dunston growled. There was no time to argue.
  
  "Very well then," he said. "Try to keep up."
  
  And with that, he sped into the black of the night and the willow-slender form of Aedwen followed.