text: Dunston blinked, unsure for a moment what he was witnessing. Had he lost his senses? His body screamed at him, his chest a burning agony with each breath, hot blood running in rivers down his arm and belly. He had seen men lose their minds at the end, delirious from the pain as their spirits fought to cling to life for just a few more heartbeats.
  
  He shook his head to clear it.
  
  He was not dead yet. His vision was clear.
  
  And now there could be no doubt. The grey shape that had leapt from the tall grass was Odin, his great merle hound. The dog's snarling jaws snapped onto Raegnold's wrist and the tall man, completely taken by surprise, let out a wail of fear and pain and fell into the grass. Odin was a frenzy of snarling and growling. Raegnold screamed as the two of them rolled, half-hidden by the foliage.
  
  Regaining his wits, Dunston staggered forward. He would not allow the bastard to kill his dog. Evidently he had not slain Odin in Briuuetone, Dunston was not about to let him now.
  
  He had only taken a couple of steps, when Raegnold's screams abated suddenly. Odin rose, panting, chest heaving. Raegnold was still. The dog's tongue lolled and its maw was stained crimson. Dunston almost laughed to see the dog's grin, but then he saw the long, blackened wound that ran the length of Odin's body and his stomach tightened. No hair grew along the cut that appeared to have been stitched and then burnt to staunch the bleeding. Someone had tended to the dog's injury, but Dunston feared the mystery healer's work would be undone soon.
  
  The leader of the riders was the colour of a ripe rosehip now, as he screamed at his remaining men.
  
  "Kill him! Kill him! Kill him, you incompetent fools!"
  
  Goaded on thus by their master, the men spurred their horses forward. Dunston saw fear in some of their faces. Much blood had been spilt in a matter of moments, and the old wolf still stood. And yet, there was resolve in his enemies' expressions too. The warriors urged their mounts closer. Their eyes were hard and their weapons' steel glimmered dully in the sunlight.
  
  A light rain began to fall and Dunston welcomed its cooling touch on his brow.
  
  "To me, Odin," he called.
  
  The hound padded to his side. Dunston's hand dropped to the dog's head and scratched behind his ears affectionately. It was good to see the old boy one last time, though how he had come to this place Dunston could not guess.
  
  The riders were hesitating now, unsure how to proceed. They were grim-faced and determined, and yet it seemed they had not contended with the prospect of attacking an armed killer and his huge hound, both covered in the blood of their fallen comrades.
  
  "What are you waiting for?" yelled their leader. Dunston noticed that despite his anger at his men's ineffectiveness, he did not ride forward with them.
  
  A horse snorted and stamped. Its rider sawed at the reins, struggling to keep the beast from galloping away.
  
  Dunston scanned the men's faces. Their jaws were set and they still had the benefit of overwhelming numbers. They would attack soon enough, goaded on by their lord.
  
  "Just you and me again, old friend," he whispered and patted Odin's head. The fur was wiry and wet. Odin gazed up at his master with his one eye and licked his hand.
  
  Above the riders, a rainbow appeared in the cloud-embroiled sky. Dunston smiled, wondering at the sign. He drew in a deep breath. By Christ, his ribs hurt.
  
  Well, whether the rainbow was God's promise or an omen from the Norse gods, he would find out soon enough.
  
  Hefting DeaÞangenga before him, Dunston raised himself up to his full height. His teeth ground together and he winced at the pain. But he would not let it show on his face. He would meet these murderers standing tall, not cowed and broken like some old washer woman.
  
  "Come on then, if you are coming, you cowardly whoresons," he bellowed without warning. The steeds shied at the volume of his voice. He grinned, his teeth flashing wolfishly. "Or are you too craven to kill an old man and his dog?"
  
  He would die now, he knew, but he had resigned himself to that reality and had made peace with breaking his oaths to Eawynn. The thought of death held no fear for him.
  
  "Come on then, you curs," he yelled, ignoring the agony in his chest and raising DeaÞangenga into the air so that the sun caught its silver-threaded blade. And at last, their leader's commands and Dunston's taunts made the men move. As if at some unspoken signal, they all touched their spurs to their horses' flanks as one, and approached him and Odin with a deep-throated growl rather than a roar of defiance.
  
  Dunston lifted his axe and prepared to take as many of them with him before death claimed him.
  
  "Goodbye, Odin, old friend," he said.
  
  The riders were almost upon them when a sound cut through their ire-filled shouts and the thrum of their horses' hooves. It was a piercing wail of a hunting horn and it came from the direction of Exanceaster. The riders reined in their mounts, clearly pleased for an excuse not to attack the blood-soaked greybeard, with his death-dealing axe and his fanged companion.
  
  They halted a few paces from Dunston and turned towards the sound of the horn.
  
  Riding from the town, sending up more angry green plovers into the sky, came a large group of men. Their cloaks were bright and polished metal glittered from their clothing, weapons and horses' harness.
  
  One of the men who had been about to attack Dunston cursed and spat. He wheeled his horse about and trotted back to his lord. A moment later, the other horsemen followed him.
  
  The golden-chained lord who led Dunston's assailants had lost all of his bluster. He was pale now where he had been crimson with rage moments before.
  
  Dunston placed his hand on Odin's head once more and let DeaÞangenga's blade rest on the earth. Smiling, he looked up at the many-coloured arc of the rainbow that still hung in the air. He wondered again at its meaning. Whichever god had sent it into the heavens, it would seem it was a good omen for him.
  
  He leaned on DeaÞangenga and patted Odin as the new group of horsemen approached. The horses splashed through puddles, sending up showers of tiny rainbows into the air. He counted close to thirty men coming from Exanceaster. They rode good horses, and the men wore colourful cloaks. Spear-tips glinted. Silver and gold glistened at throats, shoulders and fingers. Dunston noted that several of the men bore bows. None were armoured.
  
  Dunston watched as his erstwhile attackers drew together. They were agitated and there was much hushed conversation. Dunston could not hear what was said and he did not much care. His body screamed at him with every breath. He longed to slump down, to rest in the long wet grass. And yet he willed himself to remain upright. He did not know who these newcomers were and he would not face a potential enemy sitting down, not while he yet lived.
  
  They came at a canter and once again the horn sounded, piercing and loud. Moments later, the large band of riders was reining in around them. Dunston met the gaze of the men who looked down from their well-groomed mounts. Most were young, fresh-faced and arrogant, with combed and trimmed beards and moustaches. Their expressions of disdain withered under the glare of his ice blue stare.
  
  One of the riders, an old man, with full, grey beard and wolf fur trimming his cloak, despite the warmth of the day, nudged his steed forward. Two dour-faced, younger men, with swords at their belts, pushed forward to accompany him.
  
  "So," said the old man, taking in the dead and dying men and horses scattered about the meadow, "this is what prevented you from joining me for the hunt, Ælfgar."
  
  The gold-chained leader spurred his steed forward.
  
  "My lord king," he said, "I thought you were planning on hunting to the north."
  
  "I was drawn to the commotion to the south. I may be old, but I yet have eyes in my head and great flocks of birds taking to the wing seemed like good prospect for hunting." He paused, casting his gaze about, taking in each of the bloody corpses strewn about. With each passing moment, his expression grew darker. For several heartbeats, his eyes lingered on Dunston, blood-streaked, wounded and leaning on his gore-slick axe. "By all that is holy," the king raged suddenly at the ealdorman, causing the horses to stamp and blow. "What is the meaning of this?"
  
  "My lord king," said Ælfgar, raising himself up proudly in his saddle. "This man fled imprisonment. He has broken your peace, as you can see." He waved a hand about him as evidence of Dunston's wrongdoing. "He has slain several of my men." Ealdorman Ælfgar's voice trembled with barely contained emotion. "He is a killer and he must be punished."
  
  The king shifted in his saddle. The leather creaked. He narrowed his eyes beneath his bushy brows and held Ealdorman Ælfgar in his stare. For a long while, he did not move. Men jostled and shuffled. Someone coughed. The ealdorman swallowed and, after a moment's hesitation, dropped his gaze. Seemingly satisfied, Ecgberht turned his attention to Dunston.
  
  He peered down at him for a time. With an effort, Dunston stood straighter and met the king's gaze. Ecgberht nodded.
  
  "Well," he said as last, "I know that this man is a killer."
  
  Relief washed over Ælfgar's face.
  
  "You are wise, lord king. Have your men take him and we will have him hanged forthwith."
  
  "Do not presume to give your king orders, Ælfgar." Ecgberht's tone was as hard and sharp as a blade.
  
  "No, lord," stammered Ælfgar, "of course not, I merely meant—"
  
  Ecgberht cut him off.
  
  "I said that I know this man is a killer," he said. Ælfgar nodded, uncertainly, waiting now for the king to elaborate. "But I have never known this man to slay any but the enemies of Wessex," the king continued. "What do you say on the matter, Dunston, son of Wilnoth?"
  
  "But lord…!" blurted out Ælfgar. "The man is a murderer."
  
  "Silence, Ælfgar," snapped Ecgberht and, despite the pain that racked him, Dunston could not help but smile thinly to hear the steel in the king's tone. The man had grown old, but this was the same Ecgberht who had led Wessex to so many victories over the years. Age had not diminished his spirit.
  
  The ealdorman seemed about to continue to protest, but another glower from the king silenced him.
  
  "I would hear the telling of this tale from the mouth of one I trust," Ecgberht said. "Dunston, speak."
  
  And so, in spite of the pain throbbing in his arm and the burning agony stabbing his chest with each intake of breath, Dunston told the tale as best he could. When he mentioned Hunfrith the reeve, one of Ælfgar's sworn men, the ealdorman could keep himself silent no longer.
  
  "Lord king, you cannot listen to any more of this wolf-head's lies. He is outside the law. He has no voice."
  
  Ecgberht turned to the granite-faced man to his right.
  
  "If the ealdorman speaks again without my permission, you are to bind and gag him."
  
  The guard nodded.
  
  "With pleasure, lord king."
  
  "Continue, Dunston."
  
  Dunston did his best to tell the story of how they had fled from Briuuetone, their plan to find out why Aedwen's father had been murdered, discovering the slaughter at Cantmael. He did not mention Nothgyth, instead saying he had picked up the tracks of the riders and followed them. He told of the torture of the monk and how they had found the message and decided to head for Exanceaster in the hope of finding the king.
  
  "I thought that only you could bring justice, lord," Dunston said. "I am but a simple woodsman, but it seemed clear to me there was more to this whole affair than banditry and wanton thirst for blood."
  
  "Indeed. If what you say is even half-true, then there is the stink of conspiracy and treason about it. Though to what end, I cannot fathom. Where now is the message? Without it, your word is pitted against that of the ealdorman's."
  
  "The girl, Aedwen, has it."
  
  "And where is she?"
  
  "I sent her to hide in those trees," Dunston said. "I do not know if she remains there."
  
  "Well, call her hither, man, and let us see if we can put an end to this."
  
  Dunston raised his arm, wincing at the pain and waved towards the stand of trees. For a long while there was no movement and he began to think Aedwen must have fled, as he had hoped she would only moments before.
  
  He waved again.
  
  "Aedwen," he called, his chest screaming from the effort. "Come, all is well."
  
  Still no sign of her. He sighed. His mouth was dry. The gathered men were growing impatient, no doubt imagining that his whole tale had been nothing but lies.
  
  "Where are you, girl?" Dunston whispered. Sweat mingled with the blood staining his kirtle.
  
  He raised his hand for a third time and was about to shout once more, when the slender figure of the girl stepped silently from the shadow of the trees.
  
  At the sight of the girl, Ælfgar tensed. He seemed ready to ride away, but the king's stony-jawed guard rode forward and grabbed the ealdorman's reins.
  
  Aedwen walked slowly towards them. Her eyes were wide as she scanned the mass of mounted men.
  
  "Do not fear, child," said Dunston. "This is the king." Her eyes widened yet further.
  
  "And you are Aedwen, daughter of Lytelman, I take it?" asked Ecgberht.
  
  She nodded, but seemed unable to speak.
  
  "I am sorry for the loss of your father," Ecgberht said. "Do you have the letter that Dunston has been telling us about?"
  
  She nodded again.
  
  "Yes, lord," she managed at last.
  
  "I would read it," said Ecgberht, holding out his hand expectantly and clicking his fingers.
  
  One of the young men jumped from his horse and moved to Aedwen's side. She glanced at Dunston.
  
  "It's all right, lassie," he said. "The king must read it."
  
  She rummaged in the bag and pulled out the rolled up vellum. She handed it to the man, who in turn carried it to the king.
  
  Swaying on his feet from the effort of standing, Dunston shook his head. He blinked against the blurring of his vision and clutched tightly to DeaÞangenga's haft. The carved patterns and runes in the wood dug into his palms. He watched as Ecgberht read from the flimsy sheet of stretched calf hide. As the king's gaze drifted over the scratched markings, his face grew dark and thundery. Nobody spoke as he read. Ealdorman Ælfgar fidgeted uncomfortably in his saddle, glaring at the man holding his reins.
  
  When he had finished reading, the king frowned and handed it to one of his retinue, a hawk-nosed man, with a prominent brow. The man read it more quickly than the king. On finishing, he lowered the vellum and looked with incredulity and scorn at Ealdorman Ælfgar. Without a word, he handed the note back to his king.
  
  "Well," Ecgberht said, shaking the sheet of writing so that it flapped and snapped like a banner, "now I understand why you chose not to ride on the hunt with me. Retrieving this message was much more important." He shook his head sadly. "What a fool you are! For surely only a fool would commit treason and then have scribes put quill to vellum setting out that very treachery in ink for anyone able to see."
  
  Without warning, Ælfgar tugged his reins free of Ecgberht's man's grip. Kicking his heels into his mount's flanks, he sought to gallop away. But, the grim-faced warrior had only been momentarily surprised and before Ælfgar could pull away from him, he reached out and took a firm grip of the ealdorman's cloak. The lord's horse bounded away from under him and he tumbled backwards, landing hard on the soft earth. As quick as a diving kingfisher, the warrior leapt from his own saddle and was beside the ealdorman, deadly long seax unsheathed and at his throat.
  
  Ecgberht sighed.
  
  "You really are a fool," he said, still shaking his head. "The rest of you," he said, looking at the face of each of the ealdorman's men, "drop your weapons. You will be judged in accordance with the dooms of Wessex and, if you are innocent, you have nothing to fear." Two of the men tossed their swords into the grass and held out their hands. The remaining three evidently did not think much of their chances of being found innocent. They swung their horses' heads to the south and spurred them into a gallop.
  
  The hawk-faced man barked orders and several of the huntsmen galloped after them.
  
  "Lord king," said Ælfgar, his tone pleading. "Show me clemency, I beseech you."
  
  "Clemency?" spat Ecgberht. "I would no more offer mercy to an adder. You sought to conspire with my enemies, to see me slain and the kingdom invaded. And for what?" Spittle flew from the king's lips, and his face was crimson, such was his sudden fury. "For wealth? For power? What riches did the Westwalas promise you in exchange for your treachery?"
  
  "Lord," whimpered Ælfgar, "let me explain."
  
  "Silence him," commanded the king and his man cuffed the ealdorman about the head. Hard. "Gag him, I would hear no more of his villainy. I have enough here, in writing and his guilt is plain on his face for all to see."
  
  The warrior who held Ælfgar pulled off the noble's belt, shoved it in his mouth and tightened it, so that the man could do nothing more than grunt and moan.
  
  Ecgberht turned away from the scene as if it disgusted him. Slowly, with the careful movements of the old, he swung his leg over the back of his horse and slid to the ground. Dunston's head spun. How young he had been when he had first met Ecgberht. The king had seemed old to him then. God, he must have been close to Dunston's age now. By Christ, the man must feel tired and stiff. It didn't seem all that long ago, since they had ridden into battle side by side, both strong and full of life. Hungry for glory and battle-fame. Not long ago. But a lifetime had come and gone since then. Many lifetimes. He thought of Eawynn. She had never liked Ecgberht. She had been overjoyed when he had left the king's service.
  
  Strange that now, all these years later, he should be with Ecgberht once more, and Eawynn long gone.
  
  "It's been a long time, old friend," Ecgberht said. He took in the blood that soaked Dunston's clothes, the tatters of his sleeve. "You look terrible."
  
  Dunston laughed.
  
  "I only came back for the compliments," he said, wincing as the pain in his chest intensified.
  
  The king laughed too.
  
  "By Christ, it is good to see you, even if you have grown old."
  
  "We all grow old, lord king," replied Dunston. "At least I will always be younger than you. You must be over sixty summers now!"
  
  "I don't need you to remind me of that." The king smiled ruefully and Dunston chuckled. His laughter promptly turned into a cough that sent paroxysms of pain through his chest. Ecgberht placed an arm about his shoulders until the coughing subsided.
  
  "It seems," he said, "that as is usual with you, you come to my aid when I most need it. You know," Ecgberht said, shaking his head, "I had thought you dead long ago."
  
  Dunston grimaced with each stabbing breath. His vision darkened. Ecgberht's voice sounded distant, echoing and strange, as though he were in a great cavern. Dunston tried to focus on the king's face, but he could not see him clearly.
  
  Behind Ecgberht, the rainbow was still bright and vibrant in the grey sky.
  
  "I'm not dead yet," Dunston said, and collapsed into the long, lush meadow grass.