It was a small thing to notice in the midst of the chaos of the funeral celebration, for it was hardly unusual for outlanders to come and go in the camp. But the moment Edgtho laid eyes on the Arab in his fine, flowing robes, a cold chill sped up his spine, as if The Sight were being gifted on him for the first time in his life. The dark-haired sentinel stopped where he stood, captured by the sense of *knowing* this man, though they were complete strangers, though he had never heard his voice.

For a moment he was completely mystified as to how this effete, perfumed, silk-swaddled boy could be of any importance in his life. From the kohl-lined eyes to the soft, pampered hands, he had never seen a less likely looking warrior, yet at the same time, there *was* a strength to the Arab. It showed itself subtly in the way he held himself, in the defiant angle of his shaven chin, but it was there for a discerning man to see. There was an air of intelligence to him, as well, and, given the richness of his robes, it was very likely that he was of noble birth and most certainly educated.

Confused, hiding it by instinct and necessity, he broke free of the compelling dark eyes, and went over to Herger, giving first a kick to get the shaggy blond's attention from his carousing, then a jerk of his head to direct it toward the Arabs. There was not a better man in the tent to for them to speak to. Herger's natural good cheer and knack for languages (useful for making the acquaintance of lovely ladies, he claimed often) made him tolerant of foreigners, no matter how strange their custom.

Then Edgtho went directly to his chieftain's side as was his right as sentinel and said quietly, "There are strangers among us."

Though he had more urgent matters on his mind, Buliwyf glanced over at the pair trying to find a common tongue with Herger and asked, "This is important?"

"To me." For a second only, Edgtho looked at the young Arab, then at his chieftain, showing in his gray eyes what he felt.

"After all these years, my friend? And an Outlander?" Buliwyf sounded more sad than surprised, but thankfully not disbelieving.

"I know, I know," Edgtho said tiredly, dragging a hand over his face, fingers tangling for a moment in the hairs of his salt-and-pepper beard. "I had given up on ever finding a companion to fight at my back. That one seems least likely of any I have met, but he touches my senses as none ever has, not even the woman sentinel we met among the Celts."

Still pretending his drunken stupor, Buliwyf lolled forward as if noticing his new guests, shielding the exact direction of his gaze with his long blond hair, and asked, "What will you do?"

An eloquent shrug was all the answer Edgtho had to give, and he stepped back, not willing to risk further distraction for his friend. To his surprise, Buliwyf called to Herger, requesting that their guests tell a tale of glory. More surprising was how quickly the Arab gathered his wits and his poise at the clearly unexpected request. He rose and began to speak, his words flowing smoothly and melodically.

Before he could do more than begin, however, the move that Buliwyf had been anticipating since the king's death came, and if the other heir had expected the young chieftain to be slow and distracted because of the wine and company, he proved him very, very wrong. Three swift strokes from the tall warrior, and there was only one choice left for king.

After that Edgtho was far too preoccupied with the necessities of the funeral itself to be able to do deal with his reaction to the Arab, but the man was never far from his mind. He did worry that the outlanders would seize the opportunity to depart, but for whatever reason - fear of offending their hosts to the point of violence, or simple curiosity at the rites of another people - they stayed.

Before the ashes of the funeral pyre were cold, a boat docked beside their camp, bearing a message for his friend and new king. Edgtho heard the boy's request for aid with dread, and though he knew the task asked of them was inevitable, he was glad when Buliwyf called for the Angel of Death. He hoped the oracle would give them an honorable reason to decline, but that was not to be the case, leaving nothing for him to do but calmly take his place among the others, for he would not let his chieftain ride to battle without him at his side.

The Arab was another matter. The only thing more obvious than his shock at being included among the chosen, was his absolute refusal to go. For a time, Edgtho thought fighting might break out over it, but then the older Arab pulled his countryman aside and spoke to him earnestly. Eventually, looking very much as if he were being sent to clean the privies, the young man gave a short nod of agreement, then swept out of the tent as if he were a king himself.

It took less than half a day to prepare to travel, and the small band set out in good spirits, amusing themselves at the expense of the Arab (who's name and titles turned out to be so long and complicated, Herger simply called him Iben) and his diminutive steed for the rest of the day. For all the notice the young man made of it, though, they may as well have stayed silent. Though he had to know from the looks and grins aimed his way that he was the butt of their humor, he remained withdrawn, rarely lifting his eyes from the pommel of his saddle.

Eventually that wore on the nerves of the others, and by the time they made camp for the evening, Edgtho knew he was going to have to intercede before the warriors found other ways to amuse themselves with the Arab. He bided his time as they drank and ate, sure that sooner or late, one of them would provide him with the opportunity to speak his mind.

It was old Ragnar who opened that door by saying merrily, tossing aside one of his braids as he bit into his meat, "Remind me to thank the Old Father with a sacrifice for providing us with amusement for the journey. It will be a long, cold one, and though that Arab hardly seems strong enough to last, he'll do to keep our blood warm for a while, at least."

To Edgtho's surprise, Buliwyf spoke up in the boy's defense. "I think the Old Father may have more important work in mind for him than that," he said mildly, then addressed the entire group. "What are your thoughts on him?"

"That a stiff breeze would cut him in half as surely as your sword in the hands of a boy," Herger grinned, teeth showing briefly in his beard.

"More likely in the hands of an infant," Ragnar laughed, as did the others.

Edgtho chaffed at their callous disregard of someone he had to struggle not to hover beside protectively, then admitted to himself in astonishment that if one of the band did try to lay claim to the Arab, they would have to fight him to do so. Forewarned by the intensity of his emotions where the young man was concerned, he slipped away into the night where he would not be tempted to interfere by word or action with his friend's plan, whatever it was.

He heard Buliwyf laugh with them, but as soon as they quieted his king added patiently, "Still, I think Odin trusts us to find our own entertainment; unless of course, Ragnar, there is some problem that you have had of late that we do not know of." When the hoots of derision at the older man died, Ragnar guffawing along with the others, Buliwyf added seriously, "We must accept the Arab has some use we can not foresee, an importance that may mean the difference between success and failure against the enemy we travel to do battle with."

"How do we know that the Trickster had nothing to do with him joining us?" Halga argued, his dark hair and beard making him barely visible in the firelight. "It would be like him to burden us with a bumbling child to watch over during a war."

That stopped Edgtho cold; to have waited so long to find his companion-in-arms, then for it to be merely a joke being played on him by the gods.... He shuddered, suddenly as uncertain of what his own senses had been telling him as he had not been since he was a youth. If Iben's presence was only a jest, it could explain why the young man seemed so completely unaware of him, so unconcerned about those he rode with. Resolving to keep his distance from the Arab until he had some idea as to his purpose, he listened back in on the conversation at the fire.

"Unless Loki's the one sending us to fight in the first place," Skeld muttered uneasily, his tattoos emphasizing the glumness of his expression.

"No," Buliwyf said firmly. "I do not believe that. I know well the man who summoned us, know his pride, know his strength for all his greedy ways. If the enemy we ride to meet has that one so desperately seeking allies, we may trust that to fight is truly what must be. If Odin has ordained this battle, even the Trickster would hesitate to meddle in his affairs. So, just as it is the Arab's fate that he must be a part of us, it is ours to determine what part he must play."

"For all we know his fate is to be the first to fall; that is, if he doesn't run at the first sign of trouble," Herger said unexpectedly. "Not only isn't he a warrior, we can't spare a man to watch over him."

"That may be," Buliwyf agreed quietly. "But I think not. Until we meet the enemy, it would be best to give him the opportunity to prove himself to us. Mayhap then we will find it worth our while to set him a guardian, if need be."

Despite it all, Edgtho had to smile; he was sure he was the only one who heard the faint emphasis on the last words. No matter what reason was behind the Arab's presence, Buliwyf knew he already had a guardian, but it would have been easier to Edgtho's mind if his king had simply appointed him to the position. But the sentinel trusted Buliwyf's skill with people far more than his own; he'd wait as he was being silently told - for the time being at least.

Helfdane tossed a last bone from his dinner into the fire and said flatly, "I think you place too much value on the words of the Angel of Death. After all, we're not even sure that we have the right man. 'The thirteenth man must be no Northman;' this Arab was not the only outlander among us at the time."

"Yet he was the one we all looked upon first," Buliwyf pointed out, drawing a murmur of agreement from the others and reminding Edgtho of the cold surety he'd felt when the Oracle had spoken those words. "In any case, what harm can it do to leave the boy alone for a time; to wait and see? At the very least, as Rathgar has said, he'll likely be entertaining."

That renewed the laughter among the others, and they turned to other subjects to joke about. Edgtho listened, but kept a considering eye on the bundle of robes and blankets that was their thirteenth warrior. If the man suspected that he had been the topic of conversation, there was no sign of it, but the alert, intelligent way that he watched everyone around told Edgtho that, whatever was going on behind those dark eyes, it wasn't fired by cowardice or stupidity.

But Herger was right. Though the Arab didn't seem to be having any difficulty keeping up with them or enduring the roughness of their camp, if there were any serious trouble, he was likely to be the first to die. In fact, given the fickle ways of battle, it was possible that the more important he was to their success, the more likely it was that he would be the natural first target in any melee.

By habit, Edgtho walked the perimeter of the camp to make sure all was secure, though he doubted that there was another living soul for many miles in any direction. The local wolves had successfully hunted earlier that evening, to judge by their contented snarls now, and there was no sign of bear, so there was no reason to be on edge, yet he was, because of the Arab. All that made him a good warrior demanded he protect the man, but reason and his king commanded that he not.

He became so absorbed by his conundrum that for the first time since he picked up a blade, he didn't sense that someone was walking toward him in the night. Nearly colliding with each other, he and Iben managed to stop short at the last moment, leaving them scant inches apart and staring into each other's eyes. They stood that way for some un-measurable time, and all Edgtho could think of was that the young man was almost frighteningly beautiful and alluring.

There was nothing about Iben that didn't appeal to his senses. From the fiery life that brightened the dark eyes, to the wholly *male* scent underneath the long robes, to the subtle heat that seemed to reach for him - it all spoke directly to Edgtho's body and he trembled with a wanting so deep and fierce, a single touch would have been all he needed to find relief.

Nor was he the only one so affected. Iben's scent changed, as did the very air around him, as if by simply being alive he made sentinel senses more acute. It didn't take the suddenly fast heartbeat or erratic breathing for Edgtho to know he was wanted in return. It was in the young man's eyes, too; the ancient hunger all but leapt from them, meeting, then surpassing the sentinel's own desire.

Then as abruptly as it had come, it was gone, replaced by heart-deep confusion, and Iben fled, muttering something in his own tongue that sounded like a worried prayer. Edgtho stumbled in the opposite direction, grabbing onto the first tree he bumped into to hold himself up while he tried to remind his knees how to work. A small sound to his left caused him to reach for his weapon, shaky legs or not, but Herger stepped into sight, his usually merry expression seriously sobered.

"I see the Arab has no need for a guardian; he has one already," Herger said quietly.

Shaking his head tiredly, Edgtho said, "No, he denies me. The old ones say that the companion must join to his sentinel in his own time and way. I cannot even fight by his side until he wills it."

Compassion flitted over Herger's expression. "That is why Buliwyf made him everyone's responsibility, then; to give him that chance to choose. What an advantage we would have if the Arab does bind himself to you." Crossing the space between them, he clasped Edgtho's arm and added unhappily, "I know something of Arabs and their Allah. To them the warrior's way is forbidden. No, more than forbidden; it is an abomination of the most vile sort."

Hanging his head under the burden of that, Edctho muttered, "Mayhap Halga was right, and the wrong gods are meddling in our affairs. Who else would bring one such as that to a land where men will see him as nothing more than a weakling boy, convenient for their needs?"

"Or it could be that the lad needs to find his own strength before he can meet yours," Herger argued. "To test the truth of what a man believes in is one way to do that." In a quick change of mood, he threw his arms around Edgtho for a quick, hard hug. "And if he does not find his way, what have you truly lost? None are better than you at tracking and point, and if it's comfort you seek...."

He rubbed against the sentinel suggestively, but the need that had driven Edgtho near to breaking was gone as if it had never been. Pushing his friend away carefully, he shook his head. "While he lives," he tried to explain, but words failed him and he simply shook his head again.

Herger looked truly shocked, but quickly composed himself. "In that case, I suppose the lad should have every chance to outgrown his barbarian ways. An older brother, perhaps... to teach him the life of a warrior."

"I cannot ask that of you."

"Nor are you. I'm volunteering, though I imagine I'll find a way to make you regret that before it's all done." Normal good cheer restored, Herger gave a last clasp to Edgtho's upper arm. "Trust in that." Then he went on his way.

Both relieved and frustrated, Edgtho went back to his patrol, focusing on the simple task to shut out everything but the woods around him and the sky above.

* * *

The first few weeks of travel passed without incident, and not unlike that first day. They made their way north, hunting as they went to make their provisions last longer, enduring the usual foul weather and once sitting back to back with a fire burning brightly when wolves circled their camp, desperate hunger burning in their eyes and in their howls. If the Arab did nothing to show his value, he at least did nothing to slow them down or make the trip more tedious. He endured wordlessly with everyone else, and after a time everyone became accustomed to his silent watchfulness.

Edgtho was positive there was something brewing under that burnoose, however, and one night Iben proved him right. Almost all of them save Herger and Buliwyf had gotten into the habit of casually insulting the man, finding his ignorance at the slights amusing. So when Skeld tossed a casual comment about the Arab's mother, they were all astounded when Iben said haltingly in their own tongue, "My mother....was a pure woman.... of noble birth. And I, at least, knew who my father was... you pig-eating son of a whore."

After a moment of shock, Skeld threw himself at Iben, only to be caught by Rethel, the archer taking the impact easily. It was Herger who demanded angrily, "How did you learn to speak our language!"

"By listening!" Iben shot back, equally angry.

A split second later the entire camp burst into laughter at how neatly the Arab had turned the tables on them, defusing Skeld's anger at the insult

His point made, and perhaps disappointed that laughter had been the only reaction to his feat, Iben stormed away from the fires. Edgtho watched him go from where he stood sentry, thoughtfully turning over this new aspect of the man in his mind. Intelligence, cunning, wisdom - all were respected by his people, and the Arab had just demonstrated all three with a flair the others could not have missed. He proved his intelligence in learning their tongue simply by paying attention and thinking; he showed cunning by choosing to show his knowledge with an exchange of insults, letting everyone know he had not been oblivious or uncaring about the slights they had directed at him constantly. And, at least in Edgtho's opinion, there was wisdom by doing so now, in front of everyone, rather than have each man guess or learn that he understood them when the information could be taken as Iben acting deceitfully.

Buliwyf must have had the same thoughts. He watched Iben go, blue eyes thoughtful and serious, and when the others were occupied by another of Ragnar's tales, he left the fire himself, following the Arab into the night. Edgtho found the young man effortlessly with his sight, guessing he would be tending his horse. The animal didn't really need the attention, and he suspected that it was given more because the rider needed a measure of familiarity and comfort.

A moment after the sentinel spied Iben, Buliwyf stepped out of the shadows behind him, making a small noise so as not to startle the young man. To Edgtho's surprise, the young king's first words were, "You draw sounds?"

Apparently as surprised, Iben repeated questioningly, "Draw sounds?" Then his tone changed to one of confidence, and he said, "Yes. And I can speak them back again."

"Show me."

At those words, Edgtho understood what his friend was doing. Buliwyf needed to prove that he had his own wits about him, so he could earn Iben's respect as a leader, or else the young man might not be willing to obey commands in the battles that lay ahead. So the young chieftain watched intently, plainly memorizing each motion, each line in the sand, as the Arab did as asked. Then he simply left, and Edgtho knew he would bide his time until he could most effectively make his point.

Nodding to himself in approval, Edgtho abruptly decided that he had a point he needed to make, too. Or, at least, a question that desperately needed answering, and he waited until Iben seemed ready to return to the fires to sleep, then moved to where he could be seen. Noticing almost immediately, the young man stopped mid-pat on his horse, but then resolutely returned his attention to the stallion. "You're watching me," he said, his tone making it half a question, and half an annoyed observation.

Stepping closer, hesitantly taking off a glove, Edgtho admitted, "I watch."

"Why?"

"Like you, to learn." Daringly Edgtho gently traced a single line across Iben's cheek with his thumb. "To understand."

The desire he'd seen flicker all too infrequently since they began their journey lit the dark eyes for a moment, then the lids slid down over them, trying to hide that secret, perhaps from them both. Iben took a single step back, reluctance showing in his posture, but defiance on his features. "I am not a warrior."

His words told Edgtho that Iben had seen the members of the band turn to each other for relief during their long trip and believed it to be a required part of a fighter's life. There was only one reply he could make to that half-understood truth. "And I am not an Arab. Yet we are both men readying to fight in the same battle. Can we not at least stand together as willing allies?"

Iben thought about that, then slowly re-crossed half of the small space he'd put between them. "Nothing more than that?"

"That," Edgtho said solemnly, "Will always be *your* decision while among my people. I swear to it." At the sudden, frightened widening of the young man's eyes, he realized that Iben had never considered that he might not have had a choice about what happened to his body. Heart aching for that bit of innocence suddenly lost, and for all that would be ripped away in future days, he retreated, letting the night swallow him back up, but feeling dark, dark eyes on him non-the-less.

Edgtho dreaded the light of the next morning, but it was no different from any other since they began their journey. The only thing of note was that Skeld apparently hadn't forgotten the insult he'd taken from Iben the night before, letting it show by refusing to speak directly to the Arab or acknowledge that he was there. His childishness extended even to purposely bumping into the Iben's horse as he walked to his own, but, to his obvious chagrin, the others chided him for it. Mounting his own steed, face averted, Skeld still said sourly, "Only an Arab would bring...."

Before he could finish, Iben, apparently having had the same line translated for him at the beginning of the journey, finished for him, "...a dog to war. I heard this the first time."

Edgtho felt a quiet thrill of pride at hearing Iben stand up for himself, and he waited expectantly to see what the young man would do when the others picked up the old insult with barks and howls, as if to egg on the Arab and get the reaction they had missed that first day. They succeeded, but none of them could have predicted what would happen. Iben suddenly dug his heels into his steed's flanks, and the two bolted off as if shot from a catapult. The precision of the Arab's mastery over his horse was astounding to Edgtho's mind, with the two of them moving together fluidly, gracefully, as if they shared one thought and purpose. Even Ragnar, who was difficult to impress under most circumstances, although expressionless, couldn't pull his eyes from this show of horsemanship.

Nodding to himself in approval, Edgtho watched as man and horse lightly darted over the field, jumping effortlessly over obstacles in their path. Iben ended his exhibition with a final jump over Weath's horse with the redhead still on it - at least he was until just before the stallion cleared the neck of his mount - proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would no longer passively tolerate insults. And reinforcing his intelligence and cunning by not dumping *Skeld* in the mud for the insult, thus giving that particular North man more reason for holding a grudge.

Not giving the rest of his band a chance to challenge the Arab again, apparently preferring to give them a chance to think about what lay behind Iben's exhibition, Buliwyf commanded, "Come on!" As soon as Iben caught up, he said dryly to assert his own understanding of what was behind the display, "The dog can jump."

Edgtho didn't even have to look back; he could hear Iben chuckling with the rest, plainly feeling that he had made his point. And had earned his place among them.

* * *

Though Iben never joked or told tales as easily and frequently as the others, the rest of their journey to the sea was punctuated with his dry wit, usually only as a sly comment or observation. As the days passed they all grew more at ease at having him along and more willing to answer his seemingly endless questions. Much to Edgtho's relief and jealousy, a true affection grew between Iben and Herger, as well, leaving him confident that friendship would do better than duty at keeping watch over the man while he learned to survive.

That turned out to be a blessing when they reached their boat and put out to sea. The Arab was no sailor, and that was putting it kindly. Though Edgtho himself loved the ocean in all its madness and splendor, standing his watch at the helm with something very like joy, Iben spent the entire trip huddled as close to the center of the craft as possible. He looked so miserable and dejected, even Helfdane felt pity for him and did what small things he could to encourage the man.

During the worst of the wild gale, Edgtho made his way to where Iben was trying to rest and sat beside him, digging his feet into a groove in the wood provided for just that purpose. The young man did not look well; he was far too pale for one of his race, and exhaustion was etching deep furrows around his eyes and mouth. That wasn't surprising considering how often Iben had had to purge himself because of his sea-sickness, and it took practice to be able to sleep when the decks rolled and heaved from heavy seas.

Edgtho caught Herger's eye, and with a bare jerk of his chin, brought his friend to the other side of the Arab. Seeing at once what was needed, Herger cheerfully bellowed above the roar of the elements. "Rest, little brother. We'll make sure that you don't get tossed overboard by a careless wave."

"How can I possibly sleep in this!" Despite having to yell to be understood, Iben's astonishment was clear.

"Because you must!" Herger scooted closer to the robe-covered form, and the Arab instinctively backed away from him, right into Edgtho's muscled body.

There was a moment of instinctive relaxing, as if Iben's body understood what the man himself did not: that he had nothing to fear from the sentinel. But then he tensed again, as if to pull away, and Edgtho whispered directly into a hood-covered ear, "I swore it would always be your choice. You may trust us."

Reluctance clear in his eyes, Iben subsided, letting his weight sag into the warriors so that they both supported and warmed him. After only a few minutes, his eyelids began to droop, and he shifted to his side to make himself as comfortable as he could on the hard, cold deck. Not saying anything, Edgtho did the same, not surprised at all when a soft, strong hand found its way to his waist, and a weight made itself known on his back between his shoulder blades. It was strangely comforting, and he slipped off a glove so that he could cover Iben's hand with his own under the concealment of the fur Herger tossed over them all.

He was nearly asleep himself when Herger said quietly, knowing that he would be heard even over the storm, "He tucked himself against you like a child holding close to his mother for sweet dreams. No small thing for one of his kind."

Unsure what to say to that and unwilling to speak loud enough to be heard lest he wake Iben, Edgtho gave a shrug that could be seen. In answer Herger reached over the sleeping man between them, his fingers creeping over Edgtho's hip toward his manhood. If he could have moved without disturbing Iben, Edgtho would have jerked away, unwilling for some inexplicable reason to let his friend indulge in a privilege he'd given him long ago.

But when the knowing touch slid over his growing hardness, he only sighed and shoved gently into it, giving permission that way. "You need to rest, too," Herger murmured. "And we both know what the dreams you'll have with him so close if I don't do this. You can always return the favor later, if need be."

"Unlikely you'll be without feminine companionship if you wish it," Edgtho said mostly to himself.

As if he'd heard, Herger chuckled quietly, and worked his way under the fastenings of the garments covering Edgtho's erection, then took the place of the supple leather, stroking expertly. It had been too long since Edgtho had indulged with either man or woman, and he arched helplessly into the caress. His sense of touch had always been the most difficult for him to control, and it was rare to find a companion who could give him pleasure, not pain. Herger had always had a knack for it, though, and besides, he was right. Simply having Iben pressed against him so closely was almost enough by itself for satisfaction. The skillful hand on him merely hastened the inevitable.

He climaxed hard, holding in a shout of relief that would have echoed despite the cacophony of the storm if he hadn't. His seed spilled onto the deck, barely noticeable amidst the spray from the ocean, and moments later, even that bit of evidence was gone, washed away by the elements. Clumsily he patted Herger's hand in thanks, then did up his clothes and pulled the furs back over himself, already nearly asleep from the relaxing after-math of generous gift.

It was only when he was about to go under did he realize that the heartbeat thudding against his back was too fast for slumber. Before Edgtho could jerk himself completely awake, Iben wiggled against him as if seeking his heat, and Iben's heartbeat slowed back down to that of a resting man. Too tired to work on the puzzle that the Arab was, Edgtho let himself do the same.

Much, much later, a change in the light and winds around them as the storm died coaxed him out of sleep, but he rose to wakefulness slowly, uncharacteristically lingering in the softness of slumber. There were voices nearby, very nearby, but the unsleeping sentry at the core of him recognized them and announced them as 'friends,' so he simply allowed the sound flow over him. He knew from the taste and feel of the breeze that they were near to shore and that a fog was rising from the land; he'd be called to duty soon enough. No reason not to relax while he could.

He dozed, but the pillow under his head moved, calling to his attention that he rested on Iben's shoulder and he woke completely, just in time to hear Herger quietly ask the Arab to be still. "Buliwyf will need him at his best, and deep sleep is rare for his kind outside of their lair."

"His kind? He's not a Northman?" Iben asked just as softly, with more than a little confusion in his words.

"More that he's more Northman than any of us. Don't you have sentinels among your people?"

"Sentinel...this has to do with his senses, yes?" Iben sounded thoughtful, as if he'd noticed Edgtho's abilities, but hadn't been sure of what he had seen.

"An eagle would envy his sight," Herger said, just a little proud, as if it were his gift, too. "And his hearing and all the rest are just as keen." He plucked at the leather covering Edgtho's arm. "Perhaps, at times, too keen. If he had a shield-mate to be his defense when he used his gifts, he could do far more, nor would he suffer as much when they demand too much."

"Suffer...I have not seen...."

"He's not some court-bred boy who shows every little thing in his face," Herger said roughly, impatience showing in his tone. "It is enough for you to know that even Buliwyf has not called him to duty yet despite the rising mists, because he knows that a blade made sharp by rest is the best weapon to wield. Surely that gives you some measure of what Edgtho lives with every moment of his life."

Iben had no reply to make to that, but gentle fingers brushed over Edgtho's cheek under cover of the furs warming them. "If it is so difficult for me to find comfort in this cold, harsh place," he whispered too softly for anyone to hear. "How much more so for you?"

The compassion was totally unexpected, and without meaning to, Edgtho opened his eyes to find solemn ones staring down at him. There was something more, there, too, something that he didn't recognize, but that was as basic as the lust he'd seen flickering in Iben occasionally. Something that was matched and completed by that desire and which made his chest ache so badly he was grateful for Buliwyf's quiet summons.

Breaking Iben's gaze, feeling it almost painfully on his back as he left, Edgtho scrambled to his feet and hurried into the prow of the ship to look for land. Blessedly the next few hours required all of his concentration and every sense he had. As Buliwyf shouted Odin's name into the fog, Edgtho listened to the echoes, waiting for that subtle change that said earth was absorbing the sound. He watched Rethel's arrows as they arced through the mist, seeking for the changes in shadows as it moved, waiting to hear if it hissed out its life in water or chunked into something solid. Tasting for soil in the droplets, trying to scent it through the wetness, he longed to be able to reach for the tiny change against his skin that proclaimed deep water or shallow, shore line or open sea.

He didn't let himself look at Iben, didn't let himself be distracted that the Arab was yet again asking questions that he knew Herger would only half answer, if at all. Most especially he didn't let himself think of how much easier it would be to guide their ship to safety if he only had Iben by his side, giving him a living star to orient himself by. Instead he did as he always did; focused on the task at hand until he could move onto the next.

Eventually land was sighted, King Rothgar's hold rising above the shifting vapors as if held there by mystical forces. Edgtho snorted to himself in derision; a fancy sight no doubt, but even from where he stood he could see that the keep was all show and no substance. He kept that opinion to himself as they disembarked, except for a softly murmured comment to Buliwyf as they passed each other on deck.

Like always, he was the first off, and Edgtho quickly rode a short distance toward the hold, scanning the woods for signs of men or other dangers. Within minutes he heard a rider, and hurried back to Buliwyf to warn him. As the others scattered to defensive positions, he paid closer attention to the approaching horse, and humor colored his next words.

"Well-fed, on a light mount." A moment later, he added, knowing how the others would react, "Perfumed."

Their derision at the herald was the last amusement any of them had for the rest of the day. The closer they got to King Rothgar's great house, the more they realized far too much effort had been wasted upon his dwelling, and far too little had been spent upon protecting the village. Edgtho let their complaints wash over him; the was a wrongness to this land that grated on him, a wrongness that went deeper than too few fighting men and not enough defenses.

In short order, they were in the great hall of King Rothgar. One look at the ruler's sly, haughty face, and another at the king's entourage, whose expressions were marred with suspicion, told Edgtho that no matter what enemy lay outside, the one inside was as deadly. Though he didn't so much as glance at Buliwyf to share his opinion, he knew that if his king didn't take the initiative now, he would never be able to command the defense of these people.

It seemed Buliwyf realized it as well. The moment he was acknowledged, he rose and strode up to his throne to be face to face with Rothgar - as was his right as a fellow ruler. Much to Edgtho's satisfaction, his king leaned forward, and looking to others as if he were warmly greeting a respected elder, whispered, "What troubles this place, Old Man?" His emphasis on the last two words, plus his boldness, announced that he was no longer a young boy to be ordered about, but an equal with whom the king must deal with openly and respectfully.

Rothgar fell back from him, gasping, as if both suddenly afraid for his own kingdom and relieved that he had garnered more than he had expected from his search for allies. He looked over the band, obviously taking in the lucky number of them, and their apparent strength and experience. Lingering over each of them as he judged their worth in battle, he hesitated for a long time over the presence of the Arab, glancing up at Buliwyf as if to ask what it meant that an outlander was among them.

The months traveled together and shared hardships had forged a bond among the band, and it showed in the easy way they stood with each other, including Iben as if he'd been born to their kin. Wisely, in Edgtho's opinion, Buliwyf did not remark on his unusual warrior, leaving him as a burning question in the old King's mind, as one more element to be weighed and worried about. With a gesture he called his men to him and settled in comfortably, their silence demanding the explanations for why Rothgar had sent for him.

The tale of death and woe spun out quickly, fueled by a steady stream of mead supplied by the slaves. Through it all Edgtho watched, judging not only the King's words, but the scents and heartbeats of those around him. When it was done, Buliwyf excused himself and his men, and led them out into the daylight, to Edgtho's mind not wanting the dark shadows and dismal air of the great hall influencing them. Despite the gloom and lack of fighting men in the surrounding countryside, the warriors were obviously not inclined to believe that it was indeed the Wendol who were slowly destroying this place.

Buliwyf didn't argue about the identity of their foes; he simply instructed Edgtho, "Be in the mist."

Thinking that he, at least, would have something constructive to do while the others debated uselessly about who the enemy was, the sentinel mounted and rode off to scout as stealthily as only he knew how. Behind him he could hear the others argue, but didn't really listen until he heard Iben interrupt them a few moments later. "Gentlemen," he said firmly.

Pausing, Edgtho turned in his saddle and looked back in time to see the Arab move away from the group, obviously trying to understand something that had caught his eye in the distance. Herger and Weath joined him and Edgtho focused on where they were looking. It turned out to be a very young child, naked and screaming, running for the keep. Without a word, they all scrambled for their horses, and Buliwyf shouted through the doors of the great hall to let others know what they had seen, waving at Edgtho to tell him to go ahead.

Rothgar's queen, Weilew, ran out to join them, tying a cloak about her shoulders and calling out orders to the slaves of the hold. As adeptly as any member of their band, she mounted and rode off with them, keeping their rushed pace easily. Though he'd had a head start, Edgtho had barely dismounted and caught the boy when the rest of the band pounded up behind him.

He didn't try to question the hysterical child, but held him firmly and waited patiently for the boy to realize that he meant no harm. Under the coating of blood and dirt, he didn't see any injuries, but the mindless terror in the young face was all he really needed to know about what happened. Weath wasn't as patient. He ran to them and then shook the child, shouting his questions with a shade of fear underlying them that spoke volumes.

Before Edgtho could stop his friend himself, the queen intervened, telling them she knew where the child's home was. With her guidance they sped toward the homestead, but he knew as they arrived they were likely too late to do any good. The dwelling was too still, too quiet, and, catching Buliwyf's eye, he shook his head. In reply, his king signaled for him to scout around the edges of the dwelling to make sure it wasn't a trap, though he led the others onward.

As silently as he knew how, Edtho rode sentry, looking for trail sign and obscurely grateful he wouldn't have to enter the small farmstead. The scent of blood was so thick in the air, he could taste it, and beneath that smell was another that raised the short hairs on the back of his neck. Adding to his unease was the eerie sensation of being watched, which was so strong that he had to force himself to keep his eyes on the ground rather than peer about like a novice hunter.

In his peripheral vision he thought he saw an un-naturally shaped shadow move slowly, keeping its own vigil over the small farmstead. But when he tried to look for it directly, there was nothing, making him want to question the evidence of his senses. Resolutely he kept to his task, taking in every nuance of the forest around him, and when the trail finally faded into the rocks a few miles away, he quickly headed back, not surprised by the grim expressions that greeted him.

With an unwanted pang of concern he noticed how pale Iben was under his natural duskiness and caught the smell of vomit. Not that any of the others really looked any better. Even Herger seemed to have lost his habitual good cheer, and Edgtho knew that there was no longer any doubt that it was, indeed, the Eaters of the Dead they faced.

"The trail?" Buliwyf asked.

"Dies in the rocks. Two miles off."

"So they're clever," Herger said flatly.

"And cautious," Edgtho agreed. "And there's more."

Without discussion Buliwyf ordered his men to their horses, then they all wordlessly followed the sentinel out of the woods and into the cleared land around the keep. "To the right; the ridge near the watchtower" he said. The others looked, not moving their heads too markedly and give away their vigilance, in time to see a deer bolt from the woods as if spooked by something - or someone - within them. "And to the south; the edge of the trees near the ridgeline."

More deer fled, and Herger half-explained to the Arab without being asked, "Something drove them out." When Iben tried to shield his eyes to see what had done so, he added sharply, "Put your hand down, Little Brother."

Invisibly bristling at the tone, but understanding the urgency behind the terse lesson all too well, Edgtho took up the explanation. "I believe they watch us...even now."

"If we chase?" Buliwyf said tiredly, apparently expecting the answer.

"They melt." There was no reason to think that except for the cleverness the Wendol had used to that point, but Edgtho was sure of it, regardless, and his voice reflected that.

"They come to us?" Herger wondered out loud.

"The farmers say they come in the mist," Ragnar said.

"So, if there is a fog," Herger said flatly. "They will come."

Since there was no point in disputing that, Buliwyf kicked the flanks of his horse and led them back toward King Rothgar's hold, sending Edgtho off to sentry duty with a single gesture. He went willingly, more than glad to escape the banquet that hospitality would require the old king to give. The evening was bound be spent in endless tales from the local earls and fighters of the battles against the Eaters of the Dead, all of them depressingly hopeless in their assessment of the newcomer's chances.

That Edgtho could do well without, but not nearly as much as he could do without the politics of the court. His wits had never extended to the subtle, sly, nearly cowardly way that noblemen maneuvered against each other to gain favor and power. Buliwyf was much more skilled in that sort of intrigue and was more than likely expecting at least one out-spoken heir or sycophant to oppose him, worried that the young king would dispose them all.

True to his expectations, when he returned to the keep and climbed over the barricades into the main hall, he arrived to hear whispers of the King's son storming off because his father had supported Buliwyf in a verbal sparing match and not him. Not commenting on his king's vague air of satisfaction, Edgtho bent and said into his ear, "There will be fog."

The grim thought of what the night would bring was all that it took to put the petty politics of the kingdom in perspective, even for the King Rothgar. He groped for his courage, or at least a public show of it, and for a moment Edgtho could see the warrior he must have been in his youth. Those days were long past though, and Buliwyf tactfully edged him away from battle, which all the men of his court seemed to use as an excuse to leave the hall to the Thirteen that had been called to defend them.

They finished fortifications to the main hall of the keep, such as they were, then all that was left to do was wait. With the wisdom learned quickly during combat, all bedded down in a loose circle to get what rest they could, save for Rethel and his boy who walked the ramparts, arrows ready. Edgtho hesitated, however briefly, before taking his accustomed place to Buliwyf's right; every instinct he had wanted him beside Iben, as if the smaller man's presence near him would make a difference in how the battle went. And lingering on the back of his mind was how it had felt that morning - had it really been only that morning? - to wake with his senses filled with Iben.

That was neither here nor there, he told himself savagely, pretending it didn't bother him to see Herger take the place he wanted beside the Arab. His self-derision didn't stop him from listening in on their conversation, and he couldn't help but wonder if his old friend was speaking to him as much as to Iben. "The Old Father wove the skein of your life a long time ago. Go and hide in a hole if you wish. But you won't live one instant longer; your fate is fixed."

Taking that reminder that he could nothing but live his life in the moment, Edgtho bedded down, dozing lightly as only he could, senses wide open. In the darkest hour of the night, when the fog was filled with strange shadows of its own making, he jerked fully awake, weapon already in hand. A small, hidden nudge woke Buliwyf, as well, and they lay there, listening to the tiny sounds that betrayed the movements of their enemy. Mere minutes later the barely there light fitfully brightening the cracks between the barricades grew strange shadows of its own.

By that time all of the band were awake, but regardless of the nearness of the enemy, they lay calmly upon the floor of the great hall, with perhaps one exception, more than ready for what was to come. Or as much as they could be for men readying to fight demons known to them only through superstition and fearsome tales. But warriors count on more than courage and luck in battle; they rely on a tightly woven blend of skills and instinct, honed by experience. If any could stand before demons and win, Edgtho knew it would be the thirteen waiting for the fight to begin

When the madness of battle finally erupted, they were on their feet, swords ready, before the first crash of shattered wood finished sounding. As always there were some moments impossible to clearly recall later, and others impossible to forget. Hulking black shapes came from everywhere, moving incredibly fast for their size, difficult even for the sentinel to see clearly. Almost instantly blood scent sang through the air, and drops of it rained over them all. From the corner of one eye, Edgtho saw Iben flying through the air as if he were a child's doll, but the man's heart kept its steady if rapid beat, and he marked where the Arab landed with the tiniest portion of his attention.

The rest were fully occupied by the tide of monstrosities pouring from every direction. Thankfully the Wendol seemed to depend more on sheer numbers and brute strength than on ability; unfortunately, they had plenty of both. In short order they had overrun the defensive circle the thirteen had made, and it seemed their deaths were assured. Then, as suddenly as they had come, they left, withdrawing into the night that had spawned them.

Edgtho stood at Buliwyf's side, staring out into the darkness, panting, already sure that the Wendol had left because they'd accomplished what they'd set out to do. They now knew their enemy's strength, knew their fighting skill, and knew they could bide their time. A handful of men, no matter how well-trained, could never hold off an entire army of such brutish strength. A few minutes later he learned that they had taken more than information with them.

Both Ragnor and Olaf had fallen, and their heads were missing. As unpleasant as that was, it was far more disconcerting when Halfdane noted that that none of the Wendol could be found. All of them had killed at least one of the demons, including Iben, who muttered dryly, "He had some life left in him."

Buliwyf calmly deflated the growing sense of dread among his men with a bland, "Their blood looks real enough." There was nothing to be said to that, and they all wearily began a day that would undoubtedly see more of them dead before its end.

The eastern sky had barely begun to brighten when they woke the villagers to start work on defenses, meeting a strangely silent willingness to do as told. Edgtho did not like it, and liked it even less when his Buliwyf ordered him to stand sentry at the watchtower. Neither of them thought the Wendol would return by day, but if it were possible for anyone to discern their movements through the surrounding forests and find the meaning in it, it was the sentinel. Conceding to the wisdom of that didn't make it any easier to ride away, and he hesitated, finding excuses to check the tack on his horse.

As if sensing his unease, Iben paused by Edgtho, studying the too solemn women, men and children as they picked their way through the mud. "Is it normal for them to be this quiet?" he asked softly.

Frowning, Edgtho said, "No, there should be relieved laughter and merriment that they have another day to enjoy. At the very least they should be anticipating the funeral feast. But all I hear are frightened whispers; all I see are furtive glances of fear."

Sturdy fingers closed over his wrist, and, startled, he met the Arab's concerned gaze. For once the desire between them was below notice, leaving only something that Edgtho didn't understand and had no reason to trust, and he started to turn away.

"It has been said," Iben said carefully, stopping the sentinel with his words as much as his grip, "That I ask a great many questions. I doubt that anyone would notice if I ask a few of the villagers."

Edgtho considered his offer, then agreed. "Tell what you learn to Buliwyf, even if it seems a small thing to you. He may be able to make much use of it."

"Done." Releasing his hold with apparent reluctance, Iben stepped back, finally dropping his eyes, as if suddenly ashamed of the contact.

Refusing to take it as a rejection, but rather as prejudices slowly being eroded away, Edgtho mounted and rode off, thoughts endlessly circling around a hope that he didn't want to admit. When he arrived at the watchtower, he tried ruthlessly to force away anything except the job at hand, but it seemed every small thing would bring Iben back to him. The soft whisper of the wind over his skin reminded him of the tentative touch; the warmth of the sun on his face felt like the cautious trust growing between them.

He grew angry, first with Iben, then with himself, though neither could be to blame, not that he could convince his ire of that. Eventually, when the day's shadows were growing long, Edgtho beat his unreasoning irritation down, but when he saw the Arab racing over the cleared fields toward the watchtower, his answer to the shouted summons was much sharper than he meant despite himself. Iben seemed to take it in stride, though he cast his eyes down after he delivered the food he'd brought, not acknowledging Edgtho's simple gesture of raising the food to say thank you.

Surprisingly he didn't leave immediately, but stayed where he was, turning to look out over the fields, as if sensing that he should stand watch with the sentinel until the distraction of the meal was done. At something of a loss because of his un-characteristic show of temper, Edgtho tried to concentrate on his dinner, willing to let silence set between them instead of trying to make up for his harshness. Iben wasn't as willing. Still not looking at the other man, he said in what could have been a conversational tone if Edgtho hadn't been able to hear the uncertainty under it, "It's going to rain."

"Surf," Edgtho said quickly, grateful for the Arab's attempt to bridge the unease between them. "Three miles off there's a cliff. Tide's right, the waves make thunder. Farmers call it the thunder cliffs."

Iben glanced up at him, then quickly away again, as if to judge whether he could speak of what was really on his mind. Apparently not thinking so, he said, "The mist is forming."

"I see it." He thought for a second, then decided to make his own overture toward something... friendlier, so that Iben would stop glancing away from him, as if unsure of his welcome. Before he could speak, they both heard what could only be called battle horns, and looked up toward the peak of the nearest mountain.

"The wyrm," Edgtho breathed, a superstitious dread he didn't want to acknowledge freezing his spine. "They roused the fire wyrm."

Training took over and he slid down the rope he had strung between his perch amidst the trees and the watchtower. Barely waiting until he had regained his balance, Edgtho struck the gong, warning the village and his own people that the enemy was upon them. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to do when faced with a deadly monster, Iben waited for him to finish sounding the alarm, then rode back to the keep with him, keeping pace with the heavier steed though he could have hurried ahead.

Once there Edgtho was swept into the last minute preparations for battle, the usual blood lust building rapidly, mercifully sending his senses into a shut down. Buliwyf had given him defense of the east side of the keep, but before he could run to his post, he heard Weath warn the others of a child in the fields below their new fences. He whirled to see for himself, then froze in place as he saw the Arab swing himself into his saddle and race for the blockade. Skills, experience, innate abilities all came to a complete stand-still as he watched Iben hurdle the gate, jumping over Herger and Skeld to do so.

Seeing the young man, powerful in spirit and mind, but so fragile in size and strength, go against such an overwhelming enemy on his own broke something inside Edgtho. Though he had begun to respect Iben, even admire him for his wit and cleverness, his feelings for him apparently ran much, much deeper than he thought. Deeper even than the loyalty and allegiance that dominated his relationship with Buliwyf; he had expected to fall in the service of the young chieftain since the day he'd thrown in his lot with him.

He didn't want to die for Iben, though. He wanted to live for him, and with him, and for the first time in a life dedicated to battle and the glory of a good death, Edgtho felt fear for the loss of what was and could be. The very concept was so alien to him, so contrary to what he believed, that he couldn't move or think, and simply stood where he was until the Arab was back inside the compound, almost casually describing the fire wyrm as cavalry.

Herger's sardonic reply that he rather preferred a dragon was all that it took to yank Edgtho back to the reality of what lay ahead of them. More than likely, all that either he or Iben could expect was the mercy of a useful death; it was all any of them had to look forward to. Abruptly the dull fury that he'd been suppressing roared through him, giving him back his ability to move. Focusing on what needed done, he threw himself into spurring the villagers into readying themselves for battle, vaguely surprised when they obeyed him willingly and promptly.

After that there was only the slow gathering of the night, the anticipation of the enemy's assault, and then the mad, mindless dance of death that both lasted forever and only a few heartbeats. Edgtho fought as he had never fought before; spinning and whirling, thrusting and stabbing, feeling as light as a feather and stronger than any enemy that came at him. His body seemed tireless and invulnerable, and he completely lost track of how many Wendol fell before his blades.

At one point he heard Buliwyf command "On me!" He did his best to obey, but by the time he fought through the beasts between them, his king had already formed a barrier of hand-held pikes to stop the horsemen marauding behind their defenses. Iben was beside him, obviously terrified and just as obviously intending to stand his ground despite the horsemen thundering toward him. Too late to join the line, Edgtho did the next best thing, and defended their flank, as did Weath, on the opposite side.

It succeeded beyond anything Edgtho could have anticipated. The moment the last of the horses reared and fell, spilling their riders and their blood into the muddy ground, the battle horns sounded and the Wendol retreated. For a moment he saw one standing apart from the horde, a demon with horns sprouting from its sides who seemed to be saluting Buliwyf before vanishing into the flame-colored mists. Buliwyf returned the salute, then spun back into the waning battle as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

By the time the last echo of retreating hooves was gone, the battle madness had faded from Edgtho, too, leaving him weary beyond belief, but unable to rest until he had the measure of the damage done. Nearly half of the village was on fire, though King Rothgar's keep had survived mostly unscathed, with no help from either him or his son, who had turned and ran at the first sight of blood. They had lost fewer peasants than he had anticipated, too, but as Edgtho helped move the bodies to the funeral pyres, he found too many of his own people among the dead.

Four more of the Thirteen had fallen, and the half-formed belief that the Wendol were gone for good faded. "Why?" he muttered to himself. "Why did they withdraw? They could have easily overwhelmed us."

"Perhaps," Buliwyf said unexpectedly, stooping to place Rethel's bow beside the body where it waited for the fires, "It was to honor our bravery. Perhaps it was because the cost of defeating us was becoming too dear. We took so many of them that they were forced to leave bodies behind, this time. Perhaps it is so that our fear of them will grow through the day, making our next battle an easy victory for them. In truth, my friend, does it matter?"

"No." Edgtho set Rommel's helmet at his head, absently wiping off a smudge of blood from the face plate. "What matters is that we have that day. No defeat is ever inevitable; no victory is ever assured."

"I thought you would see the way of it." Straightening, Buliwyf looked up to the sky, apparently judging how long until dawn. "Go rest while you can. When morning comes, we will speak more on how to wrest victory from the Wendol." He clapped Edgtho once on the shoulder, hard enough to stagger the sentinel, then strode off into the smoky darkness, his hound following faithfully at his heels.

As alluring as need for sleep was, the urge to see for himself that Iben had survived relatively unscathed was moreso, and Edgtho picked his way through the bloody mud in search of him. Not far from where he had seen the Arab last, he ran into Herger, who offered him a large cup of mead, then slung an arm around his waist companionably. "Not a scratch on him," he said merrily, leading the way to a barn. "And already bedded down with a serving girl. See?"

Smiling at the faint scent of sex in the air, Edgtho leaned on the frame of the building for a moment. "Good," he said softly. "He celebrates life after battle. A proper Northman."

"Come, let them be." Herger urged him away, to another part of the keep where he had tossed blankets and furs into a comfortable looking pile. "He fought like a proper Northman as well, all fury and determination." Chuckling, he threw himself down and stretched hugely. "Though like everything the Arab does, he did it in his own unique way. Did you see what he did to the sword I gave him?"

Sitting tiredly on the edge of the pallet, not sure he could deal with his friend's good humor tonight, Edgtho said shortly, "No."

"Turned it into one of those curved blades his people use. Actually talked Skeld into helping him do it." With a shout of laughter, Herger waved in the general direction of Iben's sleeping spot. "Weath said, 'Give an Arab a sword and he makes a knife.' Then when Iben showed him how easy the thing fit into his hand, how much easier it was for him to use it, Weath added, 'When you die can I give that to me daughter?'"

Edgtho couldn't help but smile at the image that created, and some of his tenseness drained away, letting him believe he might actually be able to sleep tonight. "He has learned our language, how to live among us. But Iben will always be true to himself first," he said, not ashamed of the hint of pride in his words.

Though he didn't answer at first, Herger put his hand on Edgtho's thigh to let him know that he had heard. "At times I think he will always be a mystery to me," he finally confessed. "I know that those who believe in Allah also believe that their god has wonderful afterlife for them; yet Iben fights against death as if that is his only true enemy."

He fell silent for a moment, then went on reflectively. "Today he persuaded that wench he is lying with to tell him what troubles the villagers. Turns out they feared we would bring the Wendol's wrym down on them. Yet, they feared us more. Feared we'd destroy what was left of their lands by warring with King Rothgar and his kin." Edgtho stiffened slightly, and Herger chuckled again. "Your thought to spread his questions through the village?"

"In part."

"A good one. Iben went straight to Buliwyf, told him the king's son, Wiglif, is trying to turn him against our band."

Interested despite himself, Edgtho lay beside his friend, turning to his side and pillowing his head on an arm. "Our king would not have confronted Wiglif or his poison directly. Who did you challenge to give that toad something to think about?"

With a snort, Herger said, "You know me too well. The tall red-head with the callouses on his knees who was always at the prince's side."

"No match for you, though you made a good show of it, I'm sure," Edgtho said wryly.

"Thing is," Herger said thoughtfully, not directly admitting to what tactics he used. "Iben raged against the duel, not wanting me to fight, and going so far as trying to interfere when he thought I was near beaten. Buliwyf had to hold him back."

A week ago, a day ago, a few short hours ago, Edgtho would have been as mystified. Now he understood all too well what motivated the Arab. "He does not fear death, but does cherish this life more. And those who share it with him."

Herger shot him a bewildered look. "Which will not gain him - nor me, nor any one else dear to him - another moment more. Our hours were set before we were born; the only choice is whether we die bravely so that we may live forever in Valhalla."

"Even a god's heart may be moved," Edgtho said quietly. "Who are we to say that a few days, a few weeks more may not be gifted upon us, for the right reason, for the right cause."

Shaking his head in disagreement, Herger rolled to his side, yawning hugely. "Who knows what moves a god?"

*Or the heart of an Arab,* Edgtho thought, but he didn't say anything because he didn't want to wake his friend.

He closed his own eyes and willfully sought his rest for himself, thankfully sliding into it almost immediately. When his eyes snapped open some time later, Buliwyf was bending over him, the hand extended to shake him awake still over a foot away. Above the young king the sky was bright with the light of a new day, and Edgtho rolled to his feet, body much less stiff than usual for the day after a battle.

Buliwyf blinked in mild surprise, then stepped back. "Come. There is much to be done."

"Tracking?" Edgtho asked, sniffing the air for hints of the weather.

"The Wendol did take all their dead this time, and the villagers do not want to touch the bodies. Bring one to the main hall for all to see; burn the rest."

"Done."

There was a cluster of peasants around each of the four Wendol corpses, with a few brave souls (mostly children) poking at them with sticks. At first they fell back, faces filled with terror, when Edgtho shoved one over to take a good look himself, but then they inched closer, seeing for themselves the man beneath the fierce image of a bear. After that, it was no problem recruiting help to throw the bodies into a pyre, and he slung the last over his shoulder to bring into the hall.

The surviving members of the band were there, though each had already drawn their own conclusions about the nature of their enemy. Iben was especially definite in his opinion that the Wendol were only another kind of man, though there was a thread of something underneath his words that Edgtho couldn't interpret. Still, seeing what lay under the guise of a beast made it easier to bear Buliwyf's decision to track the horde to their lair, not that there was really any other choice in the matter. They and the village could endure another direct attack, and at the very least, it was the last thing the Wendol would expect, surprise giving their troupe the only advantage they had.

Unexpectedly, Queen Weilew gave them another. She led them to an old woman who lived among the kobolds, an oracle it seemed, from the sound of her, in Edgtho's opinion. He stayed back with the others while Bulywn, Herger and Iben spoke with her, having no problem hearing her rambling advice, though it made no more sense to him than it apparently did to his king. But then oracles always spoke in riddles and parables, the meaning becoming clear only in hindsight. *Providing you live that long,* he thought as he swung up on his horse once the witch had fallen asleep, leading the way back to the keep. Once there, he snatched up some food, checked his blades for their sharpness, then paced restlessly around the upper balcony of the keep, waiting for the order to move out. A part of him wanted to simply get on with it; the part that had ruled his life until an Arab showed him there were other ways to look at his own life. To his own surprise, what he wanted most was simply to stand and look out to the horizon and feel the soft touch of the sun and wind on his face and think of how it might compare to Iben's caress.

The command to move out came, and anticipating Buliwyf's order to scout, Edgtho rode ahead of the remaining Thirteen, though a child could have followed the trail the Wendol left for them. The track wound up into the mountains, into the layer of clouds and fog that clung tenaciously to land except on the sunniest of days, and there was no evidence along the way of sentries. Finding the arrogance in that unnerving, Edgtho didn't let down his own guard, not sure there wasn't a trap hidden in the shrouded gloom.

He found what seemed to be their main village, and hurried back to Buliwyf to report, only to have his king ask, "Are there caves?" A moment later he connected the query to one of the old woman's remarks, and hid a smile, somehow certain it was Iben who had seen the link. They dismounted and sent Halfta back with the horses, then crept their way to the one spot he'd seen that could perhaps house the opening to a cave. At first it seemed there wasn't one, but the Arab saw what even Edgtho had over looked - that a bridge generally had to lead to somewhere besides a blind rock face.

Entry was almost frighteningly easy. They simply killed the first guard they came to and Edgtho threw its beast disguise over himself, allowing him to get close enough to the ones on the far side of the bridge to take one out while Herger shot the other with an arrow. From there they crawled past the Wendol living on the first level of the caves, though they were forced to abandon their armor to be able to do so silently enough. There was a moment of relief once they made it past that initial obstacle, but it lasted no longer than it took for them to finally learn what happened to the heads that the Wendol took from their victims.

The very floor was carpeted with the bare skulls of more humans than Edgtho had believed lived in this part of the North, with still more piled as high as the roof in some places. All were apparently some macabre tribute to the huge statue of the 'Mother' of the Wendol that filled one side of the cavern. An atavistic shudder hit Edgtho. Men these beings might be, but they were demons as well, who saw the people who shared this world with them as only food and trophies.

It was a relief to leave that chamber behind, and they descended ever deeper into the earth, coming to yet another level, this one as well populated as the ones above. They stopped underneath a waterfall that fell past the only clear path downward, and looked down into a cave that seemed to lead even farther into the earth. There was no concealing outcroppings to hide behind, nor any obvious path that led around the Wendol lounging around the fires lighting the area.

Edgtho peered through the darkness, looking for anything that might be of use to them, but Buliwyf said softly, "Down the wall. Then we swim." A quick assessing glance of the rock face over them, and the sentinel nodded shortly, pointing out an anchor point they could use for the ropes. In short order they had the first one rigged, and he swung over to huge rock pillar they would use to cover their climb down from anyone coming behind them on the entry way. Once there, he secured a second rope, then positioned himself to help Weath as he landed. When Weath was in safely situated, he slid down to the water, and watched as every one else followed suit.

For a moment he thought disaster would fall on them. Buliwyf had to help Iben make the crossing, then just after the Arab started down the rope to the water, a small party of Wendol came up behind them. Everyone froze in place, hardly breathing, but Iben's grip failed on the rope, and he slid halfway down before managing to stop his descent, swing wildly in mid-air. Luckily none of the demons noticed, and a moment later he was in the water, hissing silently at the rope-burns on his palms. Releasing the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, Edgtho waited until all were on his side of the falls, and began swimming for where he sensed air currents were moving downward.

There were even more of the their enemy there. From the numbers and the fact that they were involved in some elaborate ritual immediately in front of opening that had decorations all around similar to those they wore, Edgtho guessed that they had reached the heart of the Wendol. Buliwyf agreed with him, and with a narrow-eyed glance, told him to strike.

The surprise was so complete that the first ones died before the other Wendol knew they were in danger. All too quickly the alarm was given, though, and Edgtho couldn't help but wonder if he and his friends had any chance at all of surviving this battle. In the distance he could hear warning cries rising, sounding panicked, astonished and, amazingly, terrified, the emotions ringing clearly through the rough, harsh language of the Wendol. The crash of many feet, many fighters rushing to the aid of their Mother became loud enough for any to hear it.

Above the clatter of death and fighting, he heard Herger shout to Buliwyf, "Go! Kill her! DO IT!"

For an instant he saw his king hesitate, clearly not wanting to abandon his men, but in truth, if this journey into the den of the Eaters of the Dead were to have any meaning, the Mother *had* to die. Of all of them, Buliwyf was the best at stealth and cunning in battle; who knew what other obstacles lay between them and her? A heartbeat later he accepted that and ran deeper into the caverns.

Though his thoughts went with him, Edgtho had all he could do to survive the onslaught of Wendol pouring in from several directions. Again their greatest asset was that the man-demons did not fight with skill - simply brute strength and sheer numbers. For the briefest of moments, he thought that they might prevail. All within reach were dead, and there was one of those lulls that could happen during the most intense battles.

Leaning on a wall, panting harshly, Edgtho saw Buliwyf come back through the passage, looking as exhausted as he felt. Straightening, he studied his king, his heart giving a painful leap that had nothing to do with his exertions; Buliwyf looked more than exhausted. He looked like a dead man walking, as though he had already tasted his last breath and heard his last gasp.

Edgtho took an abortive step forward; Buliwyf looked up into the gallery overhead, and muttered, "A hard fight to get clear of here." The sentinel cast a glance upwards himself, gripped his blades tighter, and hastily looked around for a retreat. A drift of colder, damper air touched his cheek and he turned toward a small opening in the rock wall the same moment Weath said, "Hey, there's a passage leading down."

Of one mind they all threw themselves down the water-created tunnel, running so fast Edgtho barely had time to judge where to place his footsteps. The hope of escape ended abruptly; the stream that they had been following on the belief that it had to come out on the surface somewhere, disappeared under a massive rock fall. Not sparing the air for cursing, he quickly listened back the way they came, sorrow touching him as he heard Halfdane fall, screaming defiance at the Wendol as he died.

He scented despair, then nearly choked on it as Buliwyf fell to one knee, clearly suffering from some injury they could not see. Hastily he bent over him to look for the wound, and without hesitation Herger took charge, moving back to the small cleft that led into the room they were in. "We fight by twos. Give the other pair a chance to rest." He pulled out his knife, obviously intending to be one of the first set.

Iben automatically stepped to his friend's side, and Edgtho felt a thrill of pride in how far the Arab how come, how powerful his courage was. "Here they come," Herger said.

"Go on, make it worse. Now it's going to rain," Weath said, then laughed nervously.

"It's going to rain," Iben repeated absently, then once again with a new meaning in the words. "It's going to rain." Over their sharp laughter, he said roughly, "Wait, wait, wait! Thunder!"

"Waves make thunder," Edgtho said, seeing instantly where the Arab was going. "The thunder cliffs." He nodded his understanding.

"Surf, surf." Iben bent over to look more closely at the pool of water where the stream disappeared. "Out there."

"Do we swim it?" Edgtho asked. "Do we drown trying?"

With more confidence that Edgtho thought he really felt, Buliwyf answered, "Try it."

Ruthlessly they all stripped off anything that might weight them down, and Weath jumped into the water as Edgtho helped Buliwyf in, then he splashed in himself, taking several deep breaths before diving under. Almost the instant he submerged he felt a powerfully flowing current drawing him toward an underwater crevasse, and he kicked for it eagerly, already seeing a distant faint glow that could only be daylight.

He pushed Buliwyf and Weath on ahead, confident that the current would pull them along until they could see the sea exit for themselves. Waiting until Herger swam past to be sure that he found the opening as well, Edgtho swam through himself, aware that Iben was once again behind him, as if they both felt that should be their respective positions. Pulling himself along by hand-holds on the rock as much as he actually swam, he aimed for the light he saw, lungs beginning to burn from the need to breath.

Willfully believing that the glow wouldn't be so bright if the surface weren't close, he kept his pace steady and unhurried, aware that haste could have fatal results when swimming in an underground stream. Thankfully the tides were with them; the drag of the current upwards was unmistakable, aided by the subtle tug of incoming waves. If the tide had been going out, the water would have been surging inward, forcing them to have to fight against its power to make their escape.

Rather like fighting the Wendol themselves, he decided wearily as he broke through the ocean's surface, dragging in a lung full of necessary air. Anxiously he turned tightly to where he expected Iben to appear, not making for the beach until the Arab had reached the surface. The moment he did, Edgtho kicked for shore, already dreading the long run back to the keep. Once they were all on land, he panted out, "I'll go ahead, bring back the horses."

Herger nodded agreement, kneeling next to their king and peeling back the cloth covering the shoulder that Buliwyf was clutching to show a shallow scratch with angry red edges. Edgtho bent over it, took a sniff, then said flatly. "Poison."

Without looking up from where he was probing the flesh around the wound, Herger said, "Better hurry. We'll met you on the way."

Kicking himself into a trot that he could keep going all day if necessary, Edgtho ran for the keep, trying hard not to measure the time it would take to make the round trip or think about how fast the poison could work. Too many hours later, he reached the barn, and without so much as a word to anyone, gathered together their mounts and rode back to the surviving members of the band. They had only covered a short distance in the time it had taken him to go and return, all of them clearly husbanding their strength with grim determination.

Until that moment Edgtho had not thought about how the Wendol might react to the death of their Mother. He had no doubt that, demon or man, they would not let the invasion into the heart of their sanctuary go unanswered. It was only a matter of when. Putting that aside for later worry, he waited patiently until his king painfully pulled himself astride his steed, the led the way back to Rothgar's hold.

It was late afternoon by the time they were all seated at King's table, hot food inside them and mead dulling some of the aches and pains. Edgtho looked deep into his cup, unable to stand the sight of Buliwyf, gray-faced and sweating, fighting the effects of the poison, Queen Weilew doing her best to make him more comfortable. Iben was less successful at hiding his distress, and though he apologized when gently chastised for it, he did not pretend that Buliwyf's fate didn't matter to him. The young king deserved a better death than slow decay, deserved to have more to take with him to the next world than the clothes on his back. Even if these people did fall to the Wendol, it wasn't for lack of courage and cunning on Buliwyf's part, and it hadn't even been his battle to start with.

Not that it had mattered to Buliwyf, Edgtho knew; it was a fight such as a true warrior and king could not walk away from. With the last hours of his life the chieftain wasn't regretting that he had come to these lands, nor even that it had cost him everything he had, including the armor and sword that he had carried, leaving him a pauper of all that really mattered to a man. He said as much, and Rothgar immediately offered to bury him as the king he was, giving him his own blade in promise of that.

Buliwyf was gracious in accepting the offer, but to Edgtho's mind, it wasn't what he wanted. He said slowly, meaningfully, "A man might be thought wealthy if someone were to draw the sounds of his life."

Iben looked up sharply, nodded once to himself, and agreed, eyes on the table in front of him to hide the hurt in them. "Such a man might be thought wealthy indeed." Then unable to take any more, he abruptly left, undoubtedly seeking what small solace he could find in Herger's company.

Watching him go, a small, understanding smile in place, Buliwyf summoned Edgtho to his side, taking advantage of Queen Weilew stepping away for a whispered conversation with her husband. "Sentinel," the young king said formally, but nearly silently, startling his old friend because there had never been rank or status between them. "Have you thought of who you will serve now?"

In answer, Edgtho slid a glance toward Rothgar, and gave a minute shake of his head to say he would not give that ruler his loyalty. Then he shrugged, for in truth, he had no idea who would fight for if, impossibly, he somehow managed to survive the Wendol's wrath.

"Then I charge you to take the Arab back to his own people, if that is what he wishes, or to ride with him until he no longer desires your presence." Buliwyf slumped slightly, clutching his new sword tightly. "Somehow I think he will have need of you." He forced himself to sit straight again, lines appearing around his tensely held mouth as he did. "Perhaps even as much as you have need of him."

Edgtho went to one knee, a last promise of obedience, and whispered, "You order me to do what I would have done anyway. Why?"

"So that you will have a reason to give him that he will understand." Going very still, as if holding in a cry, Buliwyf finished hoarsely, "He has learned much. Not enough to accept what should be."

"Mayhap he will not," Edgtho tried to say carelessly, as if it were no great matter.

"He will. If given time." Smiling as if he were very pleased with himself, Buliwyf leaned close, lips nearly at the sentinel's ear. "I stand between this world and the next. I see as an oracle would, though I understand very little of it."

Edgtho pulled away, lips opening in a ready protest that it was only the poison doing things to his friend's mind. But there was an other-worldly glow in the young king's expression, and he forced himself to swallow his own words and simply listen.

"You and the Arab are part of a line of sentinels and guides that reaches from the past into the future. Every generation that sees your kind, sees stronger warriors, a stronger bond between companions. It is as if you are born over and over again, learning more, becoming more with each life. You must do everything you can in this one not to break that line." Buliwyf sat back in his chair, nearly unconscious from the effort he'd spent to speak.

"I see a great hall," he murmured to himself. "Far greater than Rothgar ever dreamed. All light and glass, reaching far into the sky. I rule there, looking out over a vast city, made of more towers of glass, protecting it with you by my side. And the Arab, and Herger, and so many more friends, but all wearing different faces, even different skin." He slipped away into an uneasy rest, and Edgtho reluctantly rose to leave him to it, and to the privacy to die if it came to that.

He hadn't gone more than four steps when the battle horns of the Wendol shattered the late afternoon, and he rushed to the fortifications, scrambling along with the others to do what he could before the enemy reached the hold. It wasn't much, and the air of defeated desperation didn't bode well for how well the villagers would hold out against the fury of the vengeful Wendol. Weath spoke for them all, when he wished for Buliwyf to lead him, but Herger voiced the truth, staring out into the field where hundreds upon hundreds of cavalry advanced quickly. "It's a small matter."

Behind them, Iben did something Edgtho had never seen the Arab do in the entire time he'd traveled with them, probably out of respect for the average Northman's dislike and superstitious fear of spoken prayers. In the style of his own people, he knelt in the mud and spoke to his god, not in his own tongue, but in the one they all spoke, as if to allay whatever disquiet his actions might arouse. His words rang true for all of them, as if he said what was in the heart of every surviving man of their original thirteen.

When he was done, they all simply stood there, none knowing what to say or do next, and all of them unwilling to turn and face the enemy as yet. Then Weath said, "Look there," and Edgtho turned to see Buliwyf stagger onto the field, dragging his sword. As shocked as he was at seeing him standing, he was more shocked when the young king pull himself together, straightening to his full height and lifting his weapon as if he suffered not at all.

"Lo, there do I see my father and mother," he said solemnly, reciting the beginning of the funeral service, reminding them all that if they were brave, death was only a doorway to Valhalla. "Lo there do I see my sisters and brothers. Lo, do I see the line of my ancestors reaching back in time. They bid me join them in the halls of Vahalla. Where the brave may live forever!"

As if his last word was signal of some strange sort, the Wendol attacked, pounding toward them fast and furious, clearly intent on battering them down from the sheer force of numbers. There was no time to think, only to respond, and Edgtho spun into battle, blades flashing as if alive and fighting on their own. His body kicked into high gear, ruthlessly using the last of his strength and wanting nothing more than to take as many of them as he could before he fell.

Abruptly there was a roar such as he had never heard, one that tore at the ears and mind, leaving the bones shaking as if a blow had been taken. He spun to find the source, barely in time to see Buliwyf pull his sword from a Wendol that had horns protruding from the sides of the bear skin he wore. The leader then and the sound was a cry of disbelief that echoed in the throat of every man-demon on the battlefield. As one, the Wendol turned and ran, their spirit as slashed and dead as their leader, and, in a state of disbelief themselves, Iben, Herger, Weath and Edgtho watched them go.

How long they stood like that, there was no way to know, and it took the mournful howl of Buliwyf's hound to yank them back to themselves. Automatically Edgtho turned toward the sound, and saw his king sitting amid the fortifications, as if they were a throne, the only one he had ever truly sought or desired. Between the glazed eyes and motionless chest, there was no mistaking he was dead, and for a moment Edgtho felt his own heart falter in sympathy before latching onto Iben's and matching it.

The last of the band gathered around their fallen king, not hearing or seeing the last few of the Wendol retreat, not noticing that the surviving villagers gathered around them in silent sympathy. Acting as one man, they carefully took Buliwyf's body down and carried it off to where it lay in state until the rest of the funeral preparations could be made.

All too quickly they were done, and his king was ash, the most vital part of him in Valhallah, greeting all those that went before him. Despite the joy he should feel for Buliwyf's arrival there, all Edgtho wanted was to mourn quietly and deal with the loss of the one man he had trusted above all others. He made his way down the beach from where the boat was burning, finding a small craft turned to its side and facing out to sea.

He pulled the sail out of storage and draped it over the boat to make a shelter against the rain, and sat inside, finally giving into his exhaustion and sorrow. Night closed around him, the darkness fitfully lit by the last flames of the pyres, the falling rain shutting out all sound except for the occasional hiss as it did its own battle against the fires. The air was fresh with the salty spray, though, and the taste of it killed the dreadful taste of the smoke. Knees childishly almost up to his chest, Edgtho hugged his legs and let himself drift, dangerously close to losing himself in one sense or another.

It would be so very easy, and such a relief from a grief that he couldn't express without disgracing himself and dishonoring a man who deserved better from him. Closing his eyes, he laid his cheek on his upraised knees, the dirt and dampness in the leather covering them dragging at his senses enough to keep him from losing himself. At least it was peaceful here, far away from the keep and the merriment disguising the people's astonished relief at not being eaten by the Wendol.

The many demands of the past few days on his resources hit him hard, now that he wasn't worried about living through the day, and Edgtho began to fall asleep, Buliwyf's last words to him echoing through his mind. He could almost see the glass tower himself, see Buliwyf standing in front of him, wearing the dark skin and tightly curly hair of a Nubian, but Buliwyf for all that, laughing with Iben. This Iben had the blue eyes of a Northman, and red in his hair, but the lively, questioning spirit was intact.

So real was the image that he half-reached to brush the shoulder length curls away from the full lips, only to find Iben's clean-shaven jaw instead. Edgtho blinked, and the world resolved itself back into a small boat over-turned on a rainy ocean shore, complete with one Arab staring at him with too-wide eyes. He had taken off his chain mail and gloves, leaving only the soft brushed leather of a tunic and breeches covering him. The dark material let him blend into the darkness, even to Edgtho's sight, with only the burnished gold of his skin revealing his presence.

That, and his too-rapid heartbeat and breathing, both of which had Edgtho reaching for his weapons, looking around for the enemy that had his companion so alarmed. Iben caught his hands mid-reach, holding them in his own and looking them over, as if seeing them for the first time. The Northman's were longer, leaner for all the power in them, and pale against the Arab's; both were trembling, though, and that small thing touched Edgtho as nothing ever had in his life.

As gently as he could, he caressed the backs of Iben's hands, and asked, "Why are you here?"

"Because tonight," Iben said haltingly, not lifting his head. "I *am* a warrior. And last night I learned that sometimes a woman's softness is not enough for the fierceness for life that a warrior can feel."

"What happens between men is very different in some ways," Edgtho warned, but he didn't pull away.

"And for one of your gifts?"

"Not so different, but there are few things you may learn, if you wish."

Finally looking up and smiling for the first time, Iben said, "I've grown accustomed to learning about Northmen. I think perhaps I will enjoy this lesson more than others." He leaned forward and touched his lips to Edgtho's, barely tasting, questioning whether the touch was welcome.

It was more than welcome. It was heat and softness, nearly intoxicating and thoroughly arousing. More quickly than Edgtho would have thought possible given the weariness owning him, he grew hard, body trembling with an ancient need that went deeper than the one for release. But he didn't try to make the kiss deeper or stake his own claims, fearful that he would startle Iben away if he saw just how very hungry he was for him.

Nearly panting, Iben pulled back, eyes bigger than Edgtho had ever seen them, then he was kissing him again, this time his own desire rising between them. He pushed the sentinel to his back, bending over him and hesitantly exploring the dark curls on his head and his soft beard with shaking fingers while their mouths stayed locked together. When Iben began rocking against a long, corded thigh, unconsciously seeking the relief they both had to have, Edgtho cried out softly and broke their kiss.

"What? Did I hurt you?" Iben asked anxiously, suddenly still.

"No, no. Only pleasure. So much pleasure." Wrapping his arms around the Arab's slight form, Edgtho pressed their lengths together, both erections throbbing at the contact. "Almost too much."

Chuckling quietly, Iben rested against him, head fitting into the hollow of Edgtho's shoulder as if made to nestle there. "I do not know how Northmen tend to these matters. To spill into one's clothing as if a boy does not seem.... right."

"There are many ways," Edgtho rumbled contentedly. "For now - the simplest, perhaps." He traced the erection under the suede trousers with a fingertip, then flicked open the fastenings so that it could spring free, tip rosy and wet with excitement. It was different from any than he had seen, and curiosity over-rode his passion for a moment. A moment's examination found a slight scar where the foreskin must have been removed, a very long time ago to judge from the nearly intangible line of tissue.

"Part of the covenant Allah places on us," Iben explained, the last word nearly a sigh as Edgtho began stroking him. Then he duplicated what had been done to him, making the sentinel whimper soundlessly as his manhood was brought out into the cool air, then warmed by a newly calloused palm. All it took was a few cautious tugs, each learning what the other loved best, then they were kissing again, using each other's hand urgently. It was too arousing to last long, and Iben jerked his mouth away, only to find a shoulder to bite into as his seed flowed. Small as the pain was, it was the sharp contrast of it to the dull ache of lust in his groin that set Edgtho's essence free in sharp jolts of ecstasy.

When his mind cleared, Iben was holding onto him with all his strength, face hidden in the curve of Edgtho's neck, wet with tears and quaking with suppressed sobs. Understanding all too well, wishing he could find release for his sorrow as easily, the sentinel cradled his new lover close, turning them to their sides so that he could use his hands better to comfort and soothe.

Eventually Iben took a deep, shaky breath, then said tiredly, "What we will do now?"

"I think Herger will stay here, at least for a while. As will Halta." Edgtho indulged himself by digging his fingers into Iben's short, curly hair, enjoy the soft slide of it over the pads. "There are hardly any grown men here. Many women to enjoy, many boys to teach. He'll be content, and Rothgar will be generous with lands and treasure for saving his kingdom."

"Weath has a wife and children, he told me," Iben said reflectively. "He'll take whatever spoils he can find and head for home. No Northman ever has his fill of fighting, but for a time, I think, he wants only peace."

"And you, will you go home now?" Edgtho asked, trying to act as if the answer was of no importance to him.

"Without at least going to the Bulgars and presenting myself as ambassador? I would lose my head the moment I stepped foot in Baghdad," Iben said wryly. "No, I have only added to my journey; not ended it."

The thought of Iben facing the many hardships such a long, long trip alone was painful, and Edgtho confessed, "Buliwyf charged me to see you safely back to your own lands."

"Why would he do this?" Iben sounded bewildered, and he leaned up on one elbow to look into the sentinel's face.

"I cannot speak for what was in his mind," Edgtho said quietly. "Only what he asked of me. Nor can I say that I find the task an unwanted one."

"I am.... glad." Iben brushed his thumb over Edgtho's cheek. "Not because of this, though if you wish more, I am willing."

"As am I." He leaned into the light caress, his breath catching in his lungs as a new surge of desire hit him. "And... Yes."

"Yes?"

Capturing a hand and pressing it to his renewing arousal, Edgtho said again, simply. "Yes. Now?"

"Oh, definitely, now."

* * *

"Across seas of demons and forests of monsters we traveled. Praise be to Allah, the merciful and compassionate. May his blessing be upon pagan men who loved other gods, who shared their food and shed their blood that His servant, Ahamed, might become a man, and a useful servant of God." Iben set aside his pen, then looked up at the tall, fair skinned man whose hair had gone nearly all gray, standing in the shadows nearest the window, watching both him and the city below, and smiled. "And may He bless the one who guards me and holds my heart," he whispered so that even a sentinel might not hear.

*finis*