“It will be dark soon,” Bassus said. “We should seek shelter.”
Octa was glad Bassus had spoken. The sun had dipped below the western hills and Octa did not wish to be out in the marsh after dark.
They had made good progress since leaving Breca to his rest, such as it was. Gram had spotted tracks leading into the woods and they had led their horses through the dense woodland while he followed the beast’s trail. From time to time, there were spots of dark dry blood on trees or plants, whether from the creature or from meat he had carried away from Breca and the sheep, they could not tell.
Perhaps, thought Octa, the blood oozed from the head of the boy as it dangled, sightless, from the monster’s grip.
After the thick cover of the trees, the land opened out. Moors led to Bebbanburg to the east and down towards the marshes, pools and dune-studded beaches further south. The night-walker’s trail was clear there in the bright noonday sun. Flecks of dried slaughter-sweat on trampled grass marked the creature’s passing. They could not lose it. They had mounted, cantering south and east. In the distance, the marshland was cloaked in a thin pall of mist.
They had been eager to find the creature and slay it.
Octa had looked about him as they rode towards the fens and ponds of the marsh. The sun had glistened from horse harness and the men’s battle gear. The thrum of their steeds’ hooves beat a solid, implacable rhythm. There, in the sun, surrounded by strong shield-brothers, it had seemed they could not fail in their quest. Five of Edwin’s strongest and bravest gesithas against one creature who had until now preyed upon defenceless travellers and sheep. Octa could already imagine the songs the scops would sing of them when they returned with the beast’s head.
Glory and battle-fame awaited them.
But that had been a long while hence. They had passed no living creature larger than a bird on their ride to the marsh and when the ground began to yield and squelch beneath the horses’ hooves, they had halted.
The horses’ breath steamed and billowed around them in the chill air. Gram had dismounted and examined the ground.
“The trail leads that way,” he said, pointing eastward, into the mist-enshrouded marsh.
Far off in the distance, smoke drifted lazily from some dwelling, unseen in the mist. Octa wondered what kind of people would choose to live here when there was good land close by.
“We should make a camp here,” Unferth had said. He had barely spoken on the journey and his voice croaked in his throat. He coughed and spat a gobbet of phlegm into the weeds that grew in a verdant tangle beside the path. His spittle hung from the leaves like glutinous cobwebs.
“Why should we wait?” Wiglaf had asked. “There is yet much light in the sky. Let us follow this foul creature into the mire, for surely its lair lies within.”
Octa had said nothing. The misty land to the east unnerved him, but he would follow where Bassus led.
Bassus had looked about him at the warriors’ expectant faces, then peered into the veil of mist that hung over the earth.
Octa’s mount had stepped close to Unferth’s horse, which seemed to have the same sour temperament as its rider. Unferth’s stallion had nipped Octa’s horse’s rump, causing it to whinny and leap away. Octa had needed to wrestle with the reins and cling to his saddle to remain mounted.
“We should camp here and wait for tomorrow’s dawn,” Unferth had said, seemingly oblivious of his horse’s actions.
Octa had glowered at the old thegn, but had bitten back his words of retort.
The commotion had seemed to help Bassus make up his mind.
“We will head into the swamp,” he said, ignoring Unferth’s snort of derision. “If we tarry here, who is to say the creature will not once again attack in the darkness? Edwin King would have no more of his people slain by this thing. We should find it before dusk. And slay the bastard.”
It had seemed so simple then. But now, with the shadows long on the mist-swirled ground and the cold marsh water soaking their legs, Octa wished that they had listened to Unferth. They had quickly had to dismount and lead the horses. Their progress had been halting.
Unferth had said nothing when they had made their way into the marshland. His eyes glinted with disdain, but he had kept his thoughts to himself. Now, as they all shivered and huddled in the gathering dusk, he spoke up.
“Perhaps now is the time to make camp, eh?” he said. “Here in this puddle looks like a good spot. What say you, wise Bassus?”
Bassus glared at the older thegn.
“Let us try to reach the dwelling that lies to the south. Look, the smoke still rises above the mist. It does not look so far. We shall find shelter there.”
Unferth let out a barking laugh which turned into a cough.
“Ever one to grasp at the thinnest of chances,” he said. “Very well, lead on, wise one.”
They trudged onwards towards the smoke that must have risen from a hearth fire. The promise of warmth and shelter, and perhaps fresh ale, drove them forward until the light became too faint for them to make out where they were going.
The marsh was redolent of decay; dark and hidden scents, as of death. The warriors’ feet and the hooves of the horses churned the quagmire. Stagnant pools bubbled at their passing. All around them the swamp sighed and whispered like a living thing.
Octa sniffed the air. He could not detect woodsmoke.
“It is too dark to continue,” he said. None of the others refuted his words. “We have already lost the creature’s trail. Now we will have to make camp as best we can and wait till morning.”
They found a tiny mound that was barely large enough for them and their horses. They tried to make themselves as comfortable as possible. They ate bread and chewed on strips of salted-beef they had brought with them. They huddled together and did not even attempt to light a fire. There was no wood to be found and everything they carried was soaked through.
As night drew its cloak about them, Wiglaf grumbled.
“Our byrnies will be eaten by the iron-rot after a day and night in this accursed place.”
From the gloom, which was now so dark that Octa could scarcely discern the shape of his comrades, came the rasping voice of Unferth.
“I would not worry about your iron-knit shirt being eaten.” His words lingered for a moment in the chill air. One of the horses snorted and stamped in the darkness. “I would worry more about camping at night in the domain of the shadow-stalker. We know he has a taste for man-flesh. We should worry more about not becoming his next meal.”