Eostremonad, 878 AD

He ran like a wild animal, like a boar from hounds. Chest heaving-lungs straining-legs burning, his pounding feet threw up gouts of muddy water as he plunged off the track and into the marsh. In one hand he clutched a fine piece of woven cloth, rounded and tasseled. The image on the material was difficult to make out, drenched and stained with blood as it was. In his other hand he held an even finer blade, nearly three feet long, his arm now sagging with exhaustion and coming dangerously close to ending his own flight. If he was found with either one of these objects, he'd be put down like a dog. Both – well, he was running for a reason. He glanced back frantically as he slogged through the vegetation, hearing hoofbeats drumming closer, and shoved the cloth into his mouth, hoisting the sword above his head two-handed in an attempt to move even faster. He knew this land well, although he was somewhat new to the area; a fen was a fen after all, and if he made the hillock across this stretch of water before the horseman caught sight of him again, and if the ripples from his passing had settled, and if they were too angry to pay attention –

If, if, if. He hoped they were just stupid.

But the horse would work to his advantage. Noblemen didn't like to get their feet dirty, did they? He spat to the side at the thought, slowing down to a quick jog and taking the cloth back out of his mouth. They'd stay in the saddle, and marshland suffused from the recent spring rains was not the place for a horse. Encouraged by the thought, he paused briefly atop the hillock to check on their progress.

He swore and started running again when he saw the lone horseman galloping along parallel to the marsh instead of through it, they were going to try and cut him off before he reached the fort-he crooked a finger as he picked up speed and sent up a prayer that the goddamn Danes didn't know how to handle an English swamp. He smiled nastily when he heard the resulting shout of surprise and the slow sucking sound of inexorable mud. The time it took the warriors to free their friend would hopefully buy him enough to make it to freedom. If only this accursed cloth wasn't preventing him from leaping! He would have made it to the fort in an hour instead of a day. If it didn't matter so much he would have sunk the damn thing before he even left the coast.

And who knew what awaited him when he reached the island of princes? He resolutely did not look at the sword he was now nearly dragging through the mire. He changed directions and kept an ear out for the horse, laughing bitterly to himself. If he could get far enough ahead of the Danes to make it clear he was being pursued, maybe he'd avoid being shot by the fortress guards long enough for them to execute him later for what he was carrying.

He crested the next hillock, and with a burst of powerful relief finally sighted his goal not half a mile distant.

He was just coming down the slope and onto flat ground when, with a thundercrack of hooves and a furious scream, the horse whipped around from the blind side of the hill. It was on him in the blink of an eye, rearing, and only by throwing himself aside convulsively did he avoid having his head stove in. He tumbled across the ground, thrusting the sword he carried away from himself as he rolled. He staggered up and darted around the horse, which champed its bit and tried to shy away, eyes rolling. The rider chopped down at him as he slipped by; at the same time the horse, spooked out of the rider's control by him running so close by underfoot, reared up again. This time its front hooves struck him squarely in the back and side, sending him sprawling forward and causing the sword-strike to miss.

He just managed to roll with the blow, coming to his feet again. He took off running, but the sudden grinding pain that dragged at his lungs made it difficult to focus and his pace was slow. Almost immediately the advantage he'd gained from the rider having to calm his horse down was lost as the man dismounted and came after him, leaving the animal for his fellows to catch.

They both splashed into the mire to one side of the bridge that led to the island; he glanced back and found the Dane only a few dozen feet behind. Upon seeing him looking the Dane pointed his sword at him, the meaning obvious. Gritting his teeth, he turned back and slogged faster. He wouldn't risk using wiccung this close to the island; even now a mocel on the bridge had spotted them and was alerting the rest of the fortress. He swore and tried to pick up speed yet again but he was reaching the end of his endurance; the spots flashing in his vision were multiplying and he tried to squint past them to see the bridge. It turned out to be quite a bit closer than he anticipated and he choked on muddy water as the ground suddenly dropped out from under him, sliding into deeper water. He heard the splash only seconds later as the Dane entered the pool much more gracefully. Out of options, he shoved the hand holding the cloth underwater where the mocelas couldn't see and desperately yanked downward, but while the Dane did disappear under the muck behind him, he shot up again immediately, shaking his sopping hair out of his eyes-

They were at the bridge now and he managed to heave the sodden cloth up onto the floor timbers. It landed on a pair of boots; there was an indistinct shout of surprise but he didn't hear it, as the Dane finally caught up to him and they began to wrestle for the sword he still held in his right hand. He struck out with it but the other man slammed his head into a bridge-post and his vision failed entirely for a moment-

The ringing in his ears turned to a roar as he was forced underwater; he bore down and held onto the sword for dear life – he hadn't come all this damn way with it for anyone to take it from him now. He began to thrash and thrust the sword blindly upward-the Dane jerked although he didn't think he had actually hit him-

The sparkles were morphing into a solid, rushing wall of blackness. He faintly felt a hand grasp his collar as if from a great distance-

He woke hacking up silty water, narrowly avoiding ruining a pair of very finely made leather boots that stood in front of him. Rolling away, he gritted his teeth at the screaming pain in his side, thumping an elbow on wooden planks as he struggled to get his feet under him. As he stood, he found a slim man, richly dressed, not much taller than himself and perhaps ten years his elder gazing calmly back. When the man didn't say anything, just looked at him, he took the chance to observe his surroundings. There were no guards near them in the middle of the bridge, but the Dane lay a few feet away with an arrow sprouted neatly from his eye. Next to his body lay the sword and cloth, both wiped free of mud.

"Now tell me how a Welsh slave in Mercian style comes to be running eastward in Wessex, chased by Danes."

The command was posed quietly, but something about the fiercely intelligent look in the man's eye put his hackles up. That, combined with the hand the man unconsciously held to his stomach made him suspicious. He caught the man's eye and delved into his mind, furiously suppressing the urge to cough.

He was rebuffed moments later, which was singularly impressive in its own right for a wicce, let alone a mocel. But he had skimmed enough of the surface thoughts, tinged with a strong undercurrent of worry and an echoing whirlwind of plans and schemes, to glean his identity.

"King Alfred." he said, and bent a knee to the mocel who stood alone between Anglaland and the horde threatening to overrun her.

Alfred of Wessex crossed his arms, tapped his mustache with a finger, and fixed him with that piercing gaze.

"I may not be one of you, but I do recognize wiccung when I see it. I should have you killed immediately for entering my mind like that, let alone approaching this stronghold with a naked sword in your hand. Your disregard for the laws of this country is troubling indeed. However, as I am sure you know, what you have brought to me far outweighs your transgressions." and here he reached out and lifted the rounded and tasseled cloth from where it lay over the sword. The king held it taut, and the sullen sun shed a little light on the exquisitely detailed raven embroidered thereupon. The bird turned and blinked a baleful eye at the two men.

"This is the war banner of Lothbrok's sons, and it represents the hope of that great heathen army which has so plagued us these last few years. You have stolen their fighting spirit and brought me a lever beyond any other to use against Guthrum. Many things are clear now that I know for sure these Danish kings we face are wiccas."

The king now tapped the sword with his boot.

"And whose sword is this?"

The banner-thief, still bent on one knee, answered.

"Ubbe's, lord, the Frisian dux."

The king turned and looked sharply at him.

"And he is dead?"

A nod.

"By your hand?"

"Yes."

The king studied him for a long moment.

"You have incurred great personal cost to bring me these things, knowing that it would mean your life if you were caught by Danes or English before you reached me."

Here he paused.

"Yet you do not strike me as a patriot. What is it you want in return?"

When the kneeling man was slow to speak, the king gestured impatiently.

"Speak up, man, there is much to do."

"Lord, you see clearly. There is a village north an' east of here, held by Godric, known by many as gerefa-hinder. We in Godric's hal are lately come as refugees from Mercia, as you said. It's a cruel title, passed down from his father, sir." he said, when the king raised an eyebrow at the surname. "He holds on to the name out of a sense of familial loyalty, lord, but to be honest his father was a coward. He strives to do deeds of valor an' bravery to improve his reputation but the name has stuck."

"And?"

"...an' I would ask that you take him into your service as a noble of Wessex, thus bolsterin' his status and clearin' his name."

"You risked your life to come to me, yet you ask for another man to be given favor?"

The banner-thief shrugged.

"I have no love for the Danes. And what matters more in life than what tales men tell of you?"

King Alfred laughed.

"And little enough for the English, I wager. How old are you, boy?"

"I'll be eighteen years at this Samhain."

"And is this Godric of Mercia your master?" asked the king.

The banner-thief hesitated briefly, but then raised his chin.

"I am in service to him, yes."

The king smiled at that.

"Well, that boon is within my power to grant. You, however, will not immediately see the benefits of your master's rise in station."

The banner-thief rocked back onto his heels.

"Lord?" he said suspiciously.

Alfred sighed.

"You should be lauded as a hero for what you've done, but you and I both know that was never going to happen. I will not gladly harbor a king-killer in my country, not even a killer of pagan kings. I will absolve you of the crimes you've committed, and grant a title to your master, but there are things you must do for me first. After all, who better to help drive out these wiccas than another of their kind?"

The banner-thief opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it again. He looked down at where his hands had clenched into fists on his thighs. It was worse than he had hoped for, but better than he had feared. This was not the first time men in power had taken more from him than they gave, and it would not be the last.

He stood, trying hard to seem cool and unaffected, his mind already racing ahead. He could turn this to his advantage, he just had to find the new angle...

"What d'you want me to do?"

Alfred straightened and stepped around the dead Dane.

"You may take whatever you want from him and then join me in the fortress to discuss these matters."

The king had gone perhaps twenty paces when he stopped and called back.

"By the way, what is your name, boy?"

The crouching young man paused in his search of the dead man's clothing and looked up. He paused a moment, as if considering what to say, but then answered.

"My name is Salazar."