text: Dunston stretched his feet out towards the fire. The flames had died, leaving writhing red embers that lit the small hut with a ruddy flickering glow. By Christ, he was tired. And yet he knew he would not sleep for a long while. He sipped the strong mead directly from the leather costrel. It was soothing, and he felt his shoulders relaxing.
  
  He looked over the coals of the fire to where the girl lay. She was exhausted and he had needed to halt frequently on the journey through the woods. He wasn't sure how old she was, he hadn't thought to ask, but she was somewhere in that awkward time between a girl and woman. Something about her reminded him of Eawynn. Perhaps it was her determination. She had shown great strength when he had led her to the site of her father's murder.
  
  "You do not wish to see your father as he is," he had told her.
  
  She had argued, but he had been adamant, sending her to the cart to find something they could use to cover the man's corpse. He'd ended up using the man's cloak and the leather cover that had been on the cart. He had made her wait with Odin by the handcart and had set about tending to the girl's father. It was a terrible task, as he had known it would be, and after a time he was covered in sticky gore.
  
  Aedwen's eyes had widened when she saw him step from the glade, arms and hands besmeared in blood. He had led her with him to the stream, where he had washed himself as best he could in the bitterly cold water, picking up handfuls of sand and rubbing away the grime. Then he had filled the girl's bucket and carried it back to the glade.
  
  "Wait a short while more," he had said when she asked if now she could see her father.
  
  He had wrapped the butchered man tightly in the leather and cloth, shrouding his body from view. He left his face visible, using a scrap of the man's kirtle dipped in the bucket to wipe his cheeks, chin and forehead clean. Then he cut a long strip of woollen cloth from the cloak and bound it about his head, over the crown and beneath the chin to hold the mouth shut.
  
  Only then, when he was sure he had done all he could to make Aedwen's father look at peace, had Dunston heaved the man's corpse up and carried him to the cart. They had cleared the bed of the cart and Dunston had laid the man down as softly as he was able. The girl had gazed at her father's face for a long while.
  
  Dunston had been nervous, peering into the forest and listening for any sign that the men who had done this thing might be returning. But they had disappeared and now that he had found the girl, he did not regret letting them be on their way. Nothing he did would bring Aedwen's father back. And men capable of this kind of violence would meet a bloody end themselves one day, of that he was certain. Sweat-drenched and breathless from his exertions, Dunston drank cool water from the bucket while Aedwen cried silently.
  
  They had piled the goods from the cart around Lytelman's corpse, even placing a couple of sacks, one of feathers and one of smoked mackerel, on his chest. Dunston had said they could leave the contents of the cart hidden and return for it, but Aedwen would not hear of it.
  
  "This is all that is left of my father's dreams," she had said, sniffing. "I will not leave it or throw it away."
  
  Dunston had not replied, merely helping her to arrange the sacks. The cart creaked and groaned and was difficult to coax along the root-snarled paths to his hut, but Dunston understood Aedwen's anxiety at leaving the things untended in the wood. He had asked about her kin and found she had none. She was an orphan now, and this was all she owned. It was not much, but it was better than nothing at all.
  
  Taking another swig of mead, he looked down at the girl where she slept in the fire-glow. In sleep, her face was soft, trouble-free. How would such a young child survive in this world? Well, that was no concern of his. He would do his duty and take her to Briuuetone. Let Rothulf there find a home for the orphan. Not for the first time, Dunston wished he had not left his hut that morning. Nothing but trouble had come his way. Everything had changed when he'd stumbled upon the blood-soaked corpse of the girl's father. Well, as Guthlaf had so often told him over the years, there were only two things you could ever be sure of in life: the passage of time and the unexpected. Today, he had been reminded of both. He twisted his head around and his neck gave an audible click. He grunted, feeling his age of close to fifty summers.
  
  Odin let out a suppressed growling bark, dreaming of the shade of some woodland creature no doubt. His legs twitched as he ran in his slumber. The animal was stretched out beside Aedwen and one of his huge paws rested on her arm. Dunston snorted and sipped again from the costrel. He had never seen the hound take to someone in this way. The dog was friendly enough with him, and fiercely loyal, but he usually slept alone beside the fire, or curled up close to the door. He never came close to Dunston's bed at the rear of the hut.
  
  The foolish beast would miss the girl when they left her at Briuuetone. All the more reason to be done with it. At first light they would set out. He could not have the poor girl weeping and complaining around the place.