“I’ll be glad to get out of this,” said Martin as they got everything loaded up and balanced. They were leaving nothing behind.

It was an oddly cheerful procession, although it was so cold and miserable. Ivar could not talk; he was too tired. The others laughed and joked as they squelched along, sticking frequently in mud, cursing and swearing as they dug out the wheels for the third time, stumbling and once losing the kidneys entirely when the nameless lad lost hold of his side of one basket. But Uta groped around in the underbrush and found them both, gleaming wetly, still warm. The carcass steamed in the cold air, its soul dissolving upward, if horses had souls. Had the scholars at Quedlinhame ever discussed such a question? Ivar could not remember. His old life seemed impossibly distant. All he knew now was that his feet were numb and his nose was running and there was an unfathomable amount of debris fallen just within the halo of the lanterns although fortunately no great trunk had fallen across the road.

A dozen folk waited for them at the gateway of a palisade dimly seen in the murky night. A cluster of buildings huddled within its safety, but it was too dark to note more than shapes scattered across a clearing. He was hustled into the blessed warmth of a long hall while his companions took the carcass elsewhere to hang. Erkanwulf sat on furs beside the hearth fire, talking to a wakeful child crouched beside him.

“Ma!” The child called to a woman who had led Ivar in from the gate. She pushed back her hood to reveal a face more handsome than pretty. She had an infant bundled against her chest in a sling. “He says he was at Gent! Just like Da!”

“You’re out of Gent?” asked the woman in surprise.

“Nay,” replied Erkanwulf, “I was only there one time, when there was a big battle. That was years ago. I was just a lad.”

“My husband was a refugee out of Gent. Mayhap after that big battle you speak of, the one with the Dragons.”

“They all died!” cried the child happily. ‘All those Dragons! All but one! That was the captain. Nothing can kill him!” he added confidingly to Erkanwulf. “He’s a great warrior, the best who ever lived.”

Ivar was too cold and wet even to work up a smoldering burn at the mention of Prince Sanglant, that most noble and attractive of creatures. It just didn’t seem important.

Erkanwulf smiled at the child, then nodded at Ivar. “You’re a sight, my lord cleric,” he said with a mocking lift of his head.

The woman stopped dead, and turned to Ivar with her jaw dropping open. She had all her teeth and good, clean, healthy eyes. Her grip, when she caught his elbow, was uncomfortably strong. ‘Are you a churchman? We haven’t had a deacon, or a frater even, out our way for years and years. We’ve been wanting… .”