They slept no more that night. They stood for a long while, each straining to see something in the mist, but nothing came. The laughter had ceased and no further sounds came from the marsh, save for the hoot of an owl way off to the north. After a time, the men sat, back to back, on the crest of the small mound.
“Do you think it has gone?” asked Wiglaf.
“Quiet, boy,” rasped Unferth. “If you prattle, we will not hear it should it return.”
And so they had sat in chilled silence, each lost in his own thoughts and fears. It would soon be Geola, midwinter, so the night was long. The darkness dragged on until Octa wondered if it would ever be light. Geola was not a time to be huddled in a swamp. It was a time for warm fires. Hot food and good company. Was it this cold in Cantware, he mused? He could picture his sisters preparing the Geola honey cakes with their mother. Beobrand carrying logs in from outside and placing them on the roaring blaze on the hearthstone. Their father, Grimgundi would be sitting on his fine polished seat, as he often did, dark, brooding and drunk, emanating violence the way the fire gave off heat. In his mind’s eye, Octa could clearly see their faces, red and shadowy from the flames. He missed them.
All except for Grimgundi. He hoped he would never see his father again.
He shivered, pushing thoughts of his father from his mind. Octa felt the usual stab of guilt at having left his brother and sisters behind with the brute, but he could not dwell upon the past. All he could think of was finding some respite from the chill. Seldom had he been so cold. The water seeped from the very earth they sat upon, further soaking already wet breeches. His teeth chattered and he wrapped his arms around his chest, with each hand wedged under an arm for warmth. He had placed his seax on the wet ground before him. Iron-rot be damned. He wanted the blade close to hand should the creature come back.
At last a pale red light began to tinge the fog, mottling the dawn air like the skin of a salmon, all pinks and greys. Octa could imagine the sun rising over the sea to the east, but here, in the swamp, its rays hardly penetrated. Slowly, the warriors rose stiffly, stretching muscles that had grown taut with cold and inactivity. The mists swirled and eddied like smoke as they moved about the knoll, preparing the horses to leave.
“I hope this fog lifts,” said Wiglaf, voicing the worry of all of them.
“The sun will surely burn it away by midmorning,” said Bassus, his voice self-assured and firm. Octa wished he shared his confidence.
No warmth came from the sun. They hobbled and coughed like old greybeards as they readied themselves. Soon the horses were ready, and they looked to Bassus once more to lead them. Unferth’s expression was sour. Bassus was not young, but Unferth was older than the rest. The cold long night must have made his bones ache. Octa expected some reproach from the old warrior, but Unferth kept his mouth firmly shut.
Bassus looked about them. Enough light filtered through the mists for them to travel, but they could not see beyond a dozen paces in any direction.
“Let us try to find those dwellings,” said Bassus. “We saw their smoke and we cannot be that far from them. They were southward and the sun helps us to mark our path in that direction.”
Nobody replied, but they set off into the pools and channels of the marsh, with the sun’s ruddy glow to their left. It was hard going. The water was gelid, with films of ice on many of the puddles and ponds. Octa wondered absently why some were frozen but not others. But he was too chilled to care.
They had travelled only a very short way when Gram, who led them, let out a cry of alarm.
“By Woden, Tiw and Thunor!”
In a splashing chaos they all rushed forward to aid him. Without thinking, Octa dragged his seax from its scabbard and, letting go of his horse’s reins, he half waded and half ran to Gram’s side.