They continued south.
“We should take it… the head… Take it back and bury it with the rest of the boy,” Wiglaf had said before they had left.
Unferth had snorted.
“You can carry that head if you wish. I’ll not be touching it. The boy’s dead. Leave him be now.”
“But… he is not whole…” Wiglaf’s voice had trailed off. None of the others had made a move towards the pitiful-looking head. At last, Wiglaf had turned to follow them, leaving the grisly totem behind.
Octa shuddered, only partly from the cold. The sightless eyes of the boy had unnerved him. They should have done as Wiglaf said. Perhaps Breca’s spirit would never find its way to the afterlife now. Would he forever wander this mist-shrouded marsh in search of his body? But it was too late now. They had splashed and waded quite some way and the fog had not lifted. They could not have returned to the stake and the head even if they had wanted to. They were lost. None of them had said the words, but Octa was sure they all thought it. He was on the verge of speaking up, proposing that they head west towards the hills and dry land, and out of this dismal swamp, when a sobbing cry came to them on the still air.
They loosened weapons in their scabbards and reached for amulets. Unferth spat.
Wiglaf’s horse skidded, its hooves slipping in the greasy mire. The animal slid into the young warrior, knocking him forward. Wiglaf cursed and shook the beast’s reins.
“Quiet,” hissed Bassus.
They stood still and listened.
“There,” whispered Octa, “Did you hear it?”
None of them said a word, but their drawn faces spoke for them. They all heard the crying whimper from the mist-murk.
Bassus slowly pulled his sword from its scabbard. Octa, trusting their leader’s instinct, drew his own blade. The seax felt very small in his hand. He wished he owned a sword like that of the older thegns. One day, he hoped, but for now, the sharp, single-edged dagger would need to do.
Slowly, making as little noise as possible, they moved towards the sounds of distress.
“Wait,” whispered Gram, reaching out his hand to halt Bassus.
The huge thegn frowned.
“What?”
“Listen.”
Again they stood and strained to make sense of what they heard.
“I can hear nothing,” said Unferth, spitting again.
“Your ears are old, Unferth,” said Bassus. “Let the young lads tell us what they hear.”
Unferth glowered at Bassus, but said nothing.
“It is a woman’s weeping,” said Wiglaf at last.
“You are certain?” asked Bassus.
Wiglaf cocked his head and held his breath for a moment. He nodded.
“Aye.”
Octa could hear it too now. The plaintive sobs of a woman’s sorrow.
“Come,” said Bassus, “let us see who this woman is and what she weeps for.”
They sloshed and squelched on once more, the cold fingers of the mud pulling at their feet and legs, as if the very swamp did not wish to see them leave.
Octa noticed that Bassus did not sheathe his blade.
After a time, the ground began to rise. The sounds of crying were clear now. There were other voices too. Now and again they could make out words. As they stumbled out of the chill waters of the marsh, a voice came clear and loud to them. A man’s voice, calling out.
“Wealhtheow!” the voice bellowed. “Wealhtheow!”
For a moment, the warriors stood shivering. There was no reply to the man’s calls. The weeping grew more intense.
“Hail!” Bassus spoke into the mists. “Hail there.”
Silence for a heartbeat.
“Who is it that comes from the marsh? Show yourself.”
“I am Bassus, son of Nechten, thegn of Edwin, who is king of these lands. My companions and I mean you no harm, but we are wet and cold and would ask for your hospitality. Somewhere to dry ourselves, perhaps something to eat.”
No reply.
“We will pay,” said Bassus.
The sobbing had ceased.
“Come here where I can see you then,” said the man.
They climbed the slight slope. The mist thinned and Octa felt sunlight on his cheek.
Before them huddled a small group of huts. Roofed with sods, walls daubed in earth. They seemed to be growing from the ground itself. Woodsmoke drifted from the largest building, mingling with the mist.
The man who had spoken stood brandishing a large axe. He was massive, easily a head taller than Bassus and Octa, who were the tallest warriors of Edwin’s retinue. The man’s face was hidden by a thick thatch of dark beard, and his hair was shaggy and long. Around his shoulders he wore a thick bear pelt. For a moment, it seemed to Octa that they were approaching a huge, axe-wielding bear. He was glad he yet held his seax in his hand. But what good would such a small blade do against this brute with the giant axe?
The man’s eyes widened when he took in their numbers, their horses and their fine weapons. Behind the man cowered a woman, she whimpered and whined as she peeked past his bulk.
Bassus sheathed his sword, signalling for the others to do the same. Octa felt a pang of worry as he slid his seax back into its wood-and-leather scabbard.
“I have told you my name,” said Bassus, “now tell me yours.”
“I am Hrothgar,” he spoke as one who needed no introduction, like a lord in his hall. “This is my wife, Modthrith.” He nodded towards the woman.
The woman was plain of face. Tears had streaked the grime on her cheeks. Her red-rimmed eyes flicked from one thegn to the next, missing nothing. There was a hard cunning in those eyes that made Octa wonder what could cause one such as this to sob and weep like a maid.
“You spoke of payment,” said Hrothgar, his eyes glinting in the sunlight that was pushing its way through the mist.
“We have coin,” said Bassus.
“Coin?” Hrothgar hawked and spat. “What use do I have for a sliver of metal here?”
Octa glanced around them at the collection of hovels that squatted on this small mound in the marsh. Hrothgar had a point.
“I will give you coin, Hrothgar, in exchange for shelter and food,” replied Bassus in a tone that would broach no argument. His hand fell to his sword’s pommel and he leaned forward. “We are cold and hungry and a clever man would invite his king’s men into his home before haggling over payment for the hospitality that is theirs by right.”
For a moment, Octa thought that Hrothgar would refuse them. His gnarled hands clenched on his axe haft, the knuckles whitening under the dark hair that bristled there.
“And,” Bassus continued, his voice softer now, “a wise man would know that he could trade coin for other things of more use to him. A knife perhaps. Good cloth. A jewel for his goodwife.”
Hrothgar’s brows pulled down into a scowl. Eventually he nodded, but he did not move.
“What are you doing in the marsh?” he asked. “Why have you come to this place? Have you come from the sea?”
“No. We are come from the great hall of Gefrin. A creature came there in the night and slew a shepherd boy. We have tracked it back to this swamp.”
Hrothgar looked sharply at Modthrith, who let out a whimper. Octa thought she might swoon.
“You know of this creature?” Octa asked. “This nihtgenga?”
Modthrith’s tears began to flow once more. Hrothgar absently patted her head in comfort. He lowered his axe, resting its great iron head on the ground at his feet, as if deciding that these thegns were not his enemies.
“Aye,” Hrothgar said, “we know of it.” His voice was as a wasteland where nothing lived. “It has stalked the marsh for many nights now. Of course we know of it.”
Modthrith’s crying grew stronger, her sobbing louder.
“Aye, we know it,” the great bear of a man continued. “It came here last night and stole away our daughter.”