text: Dunston awoke with the first lightening of the sky. The air of the clearing was hazed with the smoke that oozed and drifted from the mounds. Beside him, Aedwen slept, her childlike face soft and peaceful.
  
  Pushing himself to his feet, he stretched. His back popped like a pine cone thrown onto a fire and his knee was stiff as he straightened it. But he felt rested and when Smoca offered him a cup of water, he took it gratefully with a muttered word of thanks. He swilled some of the cool liquid around his mouth and spat into the long grass that grew at the edge of the clearing. His mouth was dry and tasted of ash and woodsmoke. The flavour reminded him acutely of the time he had spent with the charcoal burners near his home when Odin had been a tiny pup. He looked down at Aedwen, half-expecting to see the hound stretched out beside her. He snorted at his foolish sentimentality.
  
  The girl stirred and looked up at him with a smile. Dunston grunted and walked away from the charcoal mounds to piss.
  
  He was glad his instinct about the charcoal men had proven to be accurate. The truth was he had been too tired to stay awake. They had been on the run now for three days and when they had sat beside the fire the night before he had been exhausted.
  
  But now he felt rested and, despite the aches of his ageing body, he was ready to recommence the hunt. He allowed himself a small moment of hope. It appeared they had stumbled upon Ithamar's path, while the horsemen had carried on towards Exanceaster. With some luck, it was possible they might even find the monk before the hunters did. Perhaps then, they would be able to discover once and for all, why so many people had been killed. What could be so valuable?
  
  He wondered what they would do if they found the monk, but then dismissed the idea. There was no point in thinking so far ahead. First they must find the man, and then they could decide on their next move.
  
  They ate a few mouthfuls of fresh oatcakes that had been cooked on a griddle by the campfire. Like all the food the charcoal men gave them, these too tasted of smoke, but they were warm and wholesome.
  
  Aedwen walked about the clearing, studying the charcoal piles and even asking the men about their work. She seemed much more animated than the previous night. There was colour in her cheeks and her eyes were bright. Dunston was pleased.
  
  He picked up his scant belongings, calling out to her to do the same.
  
  Smoca was waiting to lead them to the path that Ithamar had taken. Dunston thanked all the men for their hospitality and promised he would return one day, if he could, in better times. The charcoal burners nodded back at them, faces dark and serious, as they followed Smoca out of the smoke-thick camp.
  
  He led them through dense forest, past hazel, ash and beech. The foliage was so snarled and the path so infrequently travelled that Dunston did not believe he would have found it on his own. But after a time, he began to notice signs of Ithamar's passing. Broken twigs, a scratch on the bark of a wych-elm, a print in the soft loam of a hollow were rainwater had puddled. He recognised the shape and weight of the tread and paused a moment to point out the sign to Aedwen.
  
  She was a good student and he'd discovered that he enjoyed imparting his knowledge to her. He recalled words that his grandfather and father had spoken to him and he heard his own voice echoing theirs all these years later. It was as if they talked through him and he wondered whether their spirits were somehow present in this forest, in the dappled shade beneath the canopy of linden and oak.
  
  They picked their way along the overgrown path until quite suddenly, as Smoca led them past a dense tangled mass of brambles, they came out onto a more clearly defined path. It was by no means a main thoroughfare. The trees and shrubs that lined its verges were packed close and grew tall and overhanging in places. The ground was bare earth. Dotted along the track were knotted roots that, along with the low branches of some of the trees that encroached on the path, would make it difficult for anyone attempting to travel the path on horseback.
  
  "So this leads all the way to Tantun?" he asked, signalling to their left, westward.
  
  "It comes out onto the road from Exanceaster," replied Smoca. "You'll be able to see Tantun's church tower from there."
  
  "How far?"
  
  Smoca thought for a moment.
  
  "The best part of two days walking," he said, gazing up at the clear blue sky through the gaps in the boughs that stretched over the track. "But the weather looks set to hold fair. You two take care."
  
  "We will," Dunston replied, clapping the man on the shoulder. "And thank you."
  
  Smoca nodded in acknowledgement, but did not reply. He turned and made his way back into the thicket, disappearing quickly from view. For a moment, they listened to him retreating through the woodland, and then they were alone once more, the only sounds the wind rustling through the leaves and the twitter of the birds.
  
  Dunston dropped to one knee and was pleased when Aedwen did the same without comment. Together they surveyed the earth of the track.
  
  "There," said Aedwen, pointing to a small indentation in a soft, shadowed portion of the path. "Is that Ithamar's tread?"
  
  Dunston moved closer with a grunt as his knee made an audible cracking sound. He peered at the soil for a moment.
  
  "Good," he said, forcing himself to smile for the girl's benefit, despite his misgivings about their quest. "You have a good eye. It is as Smoca told us. Ithamar passed this way a couple of days ago."
  
  They set out westward, pausing only occasionally when one of them noted a print of interest in the earth. Aedwen was growing in confidence and had a keen eye for the details that most people would miss. When they stopped at a stream to refill their skins, she found the tracks and spoor of deer and boar.
  
  "Are they fresh?" she asked, taking a sip of water. The day was warm, even under the shade of the trees and Dunston could feel sweat trickling down his back. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
  
  "Three deer and a family of boar all stopped to drink here this morning," he said.
  
  Aedwen grinned, clearly pleased with herself. He returned her smile. He remembered how excited he had been when he had first begun to understand the sign left by the forest's animal denizens.
  
  A little later, Aedwen called him over to inspect another set of prints in the mud.
  
  "Are these from a dog?" she asked. There was a catch in her voice and he knew she was thinking of Odin. He was touched by her tenderness. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he glanced at the marks in the earth.
  
  "No," he said, straightening his back, "these are not from any dog."
  
  "What are they then?"
  
  "These are from the paws of wolves." He saw her eyes widen. "Don't be afraid," he said. "They will not bother us." But he thought of the deer and the boar that roamed the forest, and pictured the pack of wolves that stalked them. And his mind turned to the men who pursued Ithamar. They were also after him and the girl and now those killers were behind them. As they walked on through the dappled light of that clammy afternoon, Dunston could not shake the feeling that they had become prey to a hunting pack of wolves that slathered and bayed at their heels.
  
  They saw no other people throughout that long day, and it was plain from his footprints that Ithamar had continued following the path that Smoca had set him upon. They found an area of flattened grass, some crumbs of dark bread and a thin rind from a slice of cheese, where the monk had sat and eaten.
  
  They were making good progress and Dunston could imagine the monk walking the path before them at a more leisurely pace. His confidence grew that they might be able to close with him even before he reached Tantun.
  
  And then, as they were passing a huge oak with a twisted trunk, Dunston held up a hand for Aedwen to halt.
  
  "What?" she asked. He hushed her with a sharp hiss and a cutting gesture with his hand.
  
  The hair on the back of his neck prickled. What had unnerved him? He could hear nothing untoward. He sniffed the air. It was rich with leaf mould and loam, but there was no hint of smoke. He knew not what had unsettled him, but Dunston had lived for too long in the forest not to pay heed to his intuition. Grabbing Aedwen by the arm, he pulled her away from the track and dragged her behind the massive, gnarled bole of the oak.
  
  "What is it?" she hissed.
  
  He did not reply, but held a finger to his lips.
  
  He strained to hear anything out of the ordinary. The murmur of the wind, high in the leafy canopy. The chatter of magpies someway off. Then the sudden, panicked flapping of a flock of wood pigeons, flying up from their roosts into the cloud-flecked sky.
  
  A heartbeat later, the first of the horsemen rounded the corner on the path. Dunston pushed Aedwen against the rough bark of the oak. He did not risk looking, instead he listened carefully. They came from the east and were leading their horses.
  
  "Are you sure this is the way?" one said, his voice tired and irritable.
  
  "Do you really think he would have lied to me?" answered another, tone harsh, an edge of cruel laughter tinging his words.
  
  The first man did not answer. Dunston counted the horses passing until five horsemen had led their mounts past the oak. Dunston stared into Aedwen's eyes and saw terror there. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears and his right hand gripped DeaÞangenga's haft so tightly that his knuckles ached.
  
  Off to the west, the lead rider called out.
  
  "The path opens out here. We can ride for a while."
  
  Sounds of men climbing into saddles. The creak of leather and the jingle of harness. Then the thrum of hoof beats on the soft earth of the track, as the men cantered into the west towards the lowering sun that slanted through the limbs of the forest.