text: Aedwen clung to the branch and watched Dunston's stand against the riders with a mixture of awe and horror. She cuffed away bitter tears, smearing her cheeks with the green of lichen and moss. Despite the terror that she was about to witness the old man's death, she could not look away.
  
  More than once she was certain that Dunston would be struck down, but each time he had emerged from the press of horses and weapon-wielding men. She watched in a daze of disbelief as the grey-bearded woodsman killed two of the riders in that first attack and left two mounts screaming and kicking in the grass. The sound of the animals' distress scratched at her nerves, echoing her own anguish. But she did not scream. She gripped the alder tightly until her muscles cramped while she willed Dunston on.
  
  Surely he could not hope to face so many foe-men and survive. And yet, as some of the horses wheeled about, she gasped. The old man was rushing at them! His bellowing cry reached her and she shuddered. He pulled one rider from his saddle and the man was sent careening away over the meadow towards Exanceaster, dragged from his stirrup.
  
  And then one of the horsemen dismounted. His sword flickered in the sunlight as he circled Dunston. The man was young and fast and Aedwen was certain that she was about to see the death of the man who had kept her alive these last days. She felt a hollow emptiness; was unable to think. She knew she should take advantage of the fact that all of the remaining men were watching the duel. She could slip down from the tree and sprint to the path that ran alongside the river. With luck, she could be at the woods the other side of the path before anyone noticed her. Perhaps then she would be able to make her way carefully and invisibly to Exanceaster. She patted the bag that was slung over her shoulder. The message was yet there. And surely that is why Dunston fought, so that she might have time to escape. He could not hope to live. She must flee. She knew it.
  
  And yet she did not move. She shifted her position slightly so that she might see more clearly through the tree's leaves and she watched.
  
  The two warriors, young and old, were speaking, but she could not hear the words from this distance. She held her breath as the dark-bearded warrior leapt at Dunston without warning. The clash of their blades reached her a moment later and she was shocked to see Dunston had avoided the man's attack.
  
  Along with all of the riders, she watched raptly, unable to turn away as the two men fought. She let out a whimper when Dunston was cut, and wept with relief when finally he slew his younger and faster assailant.
  
  But Dunston was wounded now, bleeding and struggling. She could barely imagine the fatigue and exhaustion he must feel, and yet she saw it in his gait, in the droop of his head and the slump of his shoulders.
  
  Against all the odds, Dunston remained upright and Aedwen cursed herself for not running. He had bought her this time with his blood and his suffering. And, she was sure, with his death, which must come soon enough. And yet still she did not climb down from her vantage point.
  
  She screamed out a warning when she saw the horse bearing down on him from behind. Perhaps this was how she repaid him, by saving him from a craven attack from the rear.
  
  Dunston turned, but too slow and she could not stop her tears now as the horse clattered into him, sending him tumbling and sprawling to the soft earth of the meadow.
  
  She sobbed, willing him to rise. And when he did, pushing himself painfully and slowly to his feet, her heart clenched. He was barely able to stand, his body broken and clearly in agony. The horseman who had hit Dunston dismounted. Despite the distance, she recognised him instantly and cursed at the cruelty of it. That the man who had slain Odin would now kill the dog's master.
  
  The circle of horsemen watched on, anticipating the end of the great Dunston the Bold. Expecting to see his lifeblood pumping into the meadow grass here, beneath the crumbling walls of Exanceaster.
  
  Aedwen watched too. Like the riders, she was entranced, unable to turn away. But from her lofty position in the alder she caught a movement in the corner of her vision. A stealthy rippling in the long grass. A grey shadow, slipping between the waving sedge and golden marigolds of the meadow.
  
  Raegnold was close to Dunston now. The old man, holding himself awkwardly against the pain, said something to the advancing man, but she could not hear what it was.
  
  Her blood rushed in her ears and she looked back for the approaching shadow in the grass, thinking she must have imagined it.
  
  It was still there, creeping ever closer. Could it be a wolf? Her mind could make no sense of it.
  
  And then, in an instant, all became clear.
  
  For, at the moment that Raegnold rushed at Dunston, ready to hack him down, the grey shape sprang forward, abandoning stealth for speed.