“Trade.” Adrian took the wild boar tusks from his pack and placed them before the old merchant.
The man examined them briefly, then tore off roughly four feet of fine linen and folded it twice.
He added a small square of coarse burlap, wrapped the two pieces together, and handed the bundle over.
Adrian squeezed the cloth between his fingers.
The fine linen would serve as a lining, while the burlap could be sewn into a bag.
It was enough.
He placed the fabric in his pack, slung it over his shoulder, and made another circuit of the market.
There was nothing else he particularly needed to trade for.
Trading, however, was not the only reason he had come.
He passed the stalls selling wool and beets and continued toward the southern edge of the market.
The farther he went, the fewer sheds he saw and the filthier the ground became.
Mud mixed with animal dung and rotting straw clung to his boots with every step.
Several abandoned ox carts lay crooked beside the road.
Their wheels had been removed, and most of the floorboards had been torn away for firewood, leaving only skeletal frames behind.
People huddled beneath them, wrapped in tattered blankets.
Some leaned against one another for warmth, while others lay curled up alone without moving.
Since the Vikings had swept through Northumbria, people like these had appeared every day.
They had lost their lords, their land, and nearly everything they owned.
All that remained to them was life itself.
They gathered in the mud along the southern edge of the market, waiting for someone to hire them—or simply waiting to starve.
Adrian rested his right hand on the hilt of his sword.
While he had been trading, several pairs of eyes had lingered on his pack.
In a place where nearly everyone was hungry, food was worth almost as much as silver.
He needed help, but he could not simply bring an adult man back to the cabin.
Even a starving vagrant still possessed strength.
Once properly fed, that strength would return, and during the night he might creep inside and split Adrian’s skull open with a hoe.
The cabin, smoked meat, iron nails, and salt would all become his.
Adrian needed someone capable of working, but more importantly, he needed someone who was unlikely to attack him while he slept.
He stopped beside the rotting wheel of an overturned cart.
A boy of fourteen or fifteen crouched beneath it.
He was broad-framed, but hunger had reduced him until his cheekbones protruded sharply and his cheeks had sunk inward.
He held a piece of gravel and used it to scrape dry bark from a branch.
Every few moments, he pushed the shavings into his mouth and chewed them.
An even younger girl huddled beside him.
Her face was sallow, her eyes were half closed, and one hand clutched tightly at the hem of the boy’s clothing.
Adrian took a small piece of smoked meat from inside his tunic and placed it in his mouth.
He chewed slowly.
The rich, smoky aroma drifted through the air.
The boy’s hand froze.
The piece of bark slipped from his fingers and fell into the mud.
He raised his head, nostrils flaring, and swallowed hard.
“Can you farm?” Adrian asked.
The boy’s gaze moved first to the sword at his waist, then to the clay jar visible behind his shoulder, and finally to the chainmail covering his body.
“I worked at the baron’s mill,” he replied.
“I also helped in the strip fields.” As he spoke, he quietly pushed the girl farther behind him, concealing her in the shadow of the cartwheel.
Adrian crouched and gripped the boy’s shoulder.
Through the thin burlap shirt, bone pressed hard against his palm.
Hunger had weakened him, but it had not completely hollowed out his body.
Adrian removed two small pieces of smoked meat and tossed them into the mud at the boy’s feet.
The boy lunged forward.
He seized one piece and immediately pushed it into the girl’s mouth.
Her cheeks puffed out, and she began chewing before her eyes had fully opened.
The boy snatched up the second piece and stuffed it into his own mouth, along with the mud clinging to its surface.
His body trembled as he chewed.
Adrian stood.
“Come with me.
There will be meat broth to drink and earthen walls to sleep behind.” He paused and looked down at the boy.
“But if your fingers are too quick, I’ll hang you from an oak tree in the forest.” The boy pulled the girl to her feet and stumbled after him.
One of her straw sandals slipped off after only a few steps.
The boy bent down, lifted her onto his back, and continued following Adrian.
When they returned to the stout woman’s shed, she was still seated and fanning herself.
Her expression shifted slightly when she noticed the two filthy children trailing behind him.
Adrian lowered his pack, took out the final string of meat included in their bargain, and handed it over.
The woman weighed it in her palm, counted the pieces again, and carried it into the rear of the shed.
Three sacks of rye stood beside the entrance.
Adrian nodded toward the boy.
“You carry one.” He lifted a sack and settled it across Oliver’s shoulder.
The boy’s knees buckled under the weight, but he managed to steady himself.
The girl pressed herself against his leg, clutching his clothing with both hands.
Just as Adrian prepared to lift the other two sacks, something near the blacksmith’s stall caught his eye.
An iron shovel leaned against a wooden crate beside the anvil.
Its head had been newly forged and still bore a layer of dark scale, while the cutting edge had been polished bright.
The wooden handle was straight and smoothly carved.
Adrian walked over, lifted the shovel, and tested its weight.
It felt solid and comfortably heavy in his hands.
“Will you trade for it?” The blacksmith was pulling a glowing piece of iron from the furnace and did not look up.
“Leather only.” Adrian took the final silver coin from his pouch and searched through his pack for the remaining scraps of hide.
They were only trimmings left over from earlier work, but together they formed a respectable bundle.
He placed the coin and leather beside one another on the edge of the anvil.
“One silver coin and these scraps.
Will that do?” The blacksmith plunged the heated iron into a bucket.
White steam rose with a loud hiss.
He turned, sorted through the leather scraps, and weighed the silver coin in his palm.
“Fine.” He pocketed the coin, pushed the leather beneath the wooden crate, and handed over the shovel.
Adrian returned to the front of the shed and lifted the remaining two sacks of rye, one onto each shoulder.
His pack held the salt jars, iron nails, and linen.
He secured the shovel beside it, leaving the long handle protruding behind his shoulder.
Oliver followed with the third sack, while Lucy stumbled along beside him.
As they crossed the market square, the guard still leaned against the gatepost.
He moved his spear aside and gave Adrian a respectful nod as they passed.
The dirt road stretched northward, bleached pale beneath the afternoon sun.
Adrian walked in front.
After some time, he stopped to adjust the load.
Both shoulders burned, and he shifted the sacks until their weight rested more evenly.
Oliver followed behind, breathing heavily.
His steps had become slower and more labored, but he had not fallen behind.
“What are your names?” Adrian asked.
The boy took two ragged breaths before answering.
“Oliver.
She’s Lucy.” Adrian did not look back.
“Keep up.” He continued northward.
They needed to cross the first ridge before nightfall.
When they reached its base, Oliver stumbled.
His knees struck the mud, and the sack slid from his shoulder before landing beside him.
He remained on all fours, his back rising and falling violently as he struggled for breath.
After a long while, he pushed himself upright and reached for the sack.
His fingers closed around one corner, but even after two attempts, he could not lift it.
Lucy crouched beside him, uncertain what to do.
Adrian stopped and lowered his own sacks beside the road.
He walked back and looked down at the boy.
Sweat and mud covered Oliver’s face.
The skin over one cheekbone had been scraped open, and small beads of blood gathered along the wound.
His fingers still clutched the corner of the sack, his knuckles pale from the effort.
Adrian seized the bag, lifted it, and placed it back across the boy’s shoulders.
Oliver’s knees buckled once more.
He gritted his teeth, tightened his jaw, and jerked the sack upward until he managed to steady himself beneath it.
Adrian returned to his own load and lifted both sacks again.
He began walking.
Behind him came the sound of Oliver’s footsteps—heavy and sinking deep into the earth with every step, but never stopping.