The birch forest eventually came to an end.
Ahead lay a gently rolling slope.
The grass had not yet turned green, and the withered stalks from the previous year lay tangled against the earth, flattened by the wind.
Farther away, layers of hills rose beneath a gray haze, blending into the sky until it was impossible to tell where the mountains ended and the clouds began.
Adrian stopped at the edge of the woods.
He shifted his arming sword from his right hand to his left and flexed his fingers.
The hilt had rubbed the skin between his thumb and forefinger raw during the journey, leaving his hand aching.
“My lord.” The squire stood behind him with his own sword pointed toward the ground.
“Where shall we go?” Adrian did not answer immediately.
Instead, he turned his gaze toward the north.
That was the direction from which they had come.
Following the road back, crossing two mountains and a river, would eventually bring them to Baron Reed’s fief.
It was an ordinary baronial domain consisting of several villages and a wooden fort surrounded by a palisade.
Inside that fort lived the man who had fled on horseback that morning.
What would be the point of returning?
Was Adrian supposed to continue serving a baron who had abandoned his foot soldiers to save himself?
If the man could abandon an entire battle line today, he could do the same again tomorrow.
Such a lord was no longer worthy of his service.
Moreover, everyone who knew the baron had fled the battlefield was either dead or had escaped.
If Adrian returned alive, he would only become a thorn in Baron Reed’s side.
“We’re not going back,” he said quietly, almost as though speaking to himself.
The squire heard him.
His fingers twitched around the hilt of his sword, but he said nothing.
Adrian turned and faced south.
Layers of hills stretched before them.
There were no visible roads, no smoke rising from hearths, and no trace of human habitation.
Nevertheless, Adrian knew what lay in that direction.
Mercia.
Farther south lay Wessex.
There were still places there where the Vikings had not yet set foot, lords in need of knights, and land from which a man could make a living.
They would head south.
He would become a wandering knight and seek a new lord to serve.
In times such as these, men who knew how to fight rarely went hungry.
As long as a man carried a sword and wore armor on his back, someone would eventually be willing to take him in.
Adrian set off, stepping into the withered grass covering the slope.
The brittle stalks snapped beneath his boots with faint, crisp sounds.
Alfred followed behind him, occasionally adjusting the bulging cloth bundle hanging at his waist.
The two walked one after the other, separated by only a few steps, across the desolate early-spring hillside.
The wind blew from the north, pressing against their backs.
It carried a faint smell of smoke, though Adrian could not tell whether it came from ships burning on the battlefield or from some nearby village that had been set ablaze.
After they had walked for roughly an hour, Alfred spoke from behind him.
“My lord.” Adrian did not slow his pace.
“When we reach the south, whom shall we seek?” “Whoever is willing to feed us.” Alfred remained silent for a moment.
His boots continued to crunch through the dry grass behind Adrian.
“Then, this knighthood of yours…” He hesitated.
“Will you still be a knight?” “A knight does not simply stop being one because he says so.” Adrian rested the sword against his shoulder, and the hard ridge of the wooden hilt pressed into him even through his chain mail.
“Not unless I remove this armor myself or die on the battlefield.” “Baron Reed knighted me, that much is true, but he has no right to take my title away.
A knight remains a knight until death.” Silence followed.
Then Alfred spoke again, his voice softer than before.
“Then I am still your squire.” It was not a question.
He seemed to be saying it more to himself than to Adrian.
Adrian gave no response and continued walking.
By the time the sun began descending toward the west, they had crossed the first ridge.
Below it lay a narrow valley, where a shallow stream trickled between cracks in the rocks.
Adrian stopped beneath a tree and leaned the pickaxe against its trunk.
“We’ll rest here for a while.” Alfred crouched down with visible relief and placed his sword beside his feet.
He unfastened the waterskin from his waist, removed the stopper, and offered it to Adrian first.
Adrian accepted it and took a long mouthful.
The water was cold and carried the taste of the leather pouch, sending a shiver down his throat as he swallowed.
He handed the waterskin back.
Alfred tilted his head and drank several mouthfuls, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.
When he had finished, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, replaced the stopper, and hung the waterskin from his waist again.
He then pulled the half loaf of rye bread from beneath his tunic, broke off a small piece, and put the rest away.
He placed the bread in his mouth and chewed slowly.
It was completely dry and produced a faint rustling sound between his teeth.
Adrian also broke off a piece of his own bread.
The two crouched beneath the tree, chewing in silence while listening to the stream flow through the rocks.
The setting sun shone diagonally over the ridge, dividing the valley between golden light and gray-blue shadow.
Its light fell across Alfred’s face.
The young man’s cheeks were red from the wind, and a streak of mud marked one cheekbone, though he seemed unaware of it.
Once the bread was finished, Adrian brushed the crumbs from his hands and stood.
“Alfred, how long have you been with me?” Alfred looked up, surprised by the sudden question.
He lowered his head to think, his fingers unconsciously running along the hilt of his sword.
“Three years, my lord.
It will be exactly three years once spring ends.” Three years.
When Alfred had first come to him, the boy had barely reached Adrian’s shoulder.
His sword stance had been completely wrong, and correcting it had taken several months.
Now, at last, he looked like someone who knew how to handle a blade.
“Let’s go.” Adrian rose, and Alfred stood as well, gripping his sword.
They stepped out from beneath the shadow of the trees and entered the final patch of sunlight remaining in the valley.
The stream reflected the sunset, breaking the light into countless fragments of gold as it murmured past their feet.
The valley soon came to an end.
Ahead stood another ridge, taller than the previous one and covered in thicker patches of withered grass.
Adrian did not stop.
He walked directly toward the slope and began climbing.
The setting sun shone from behind them, casting their elongated shadows across the hillside ahead.
The two shadows stretched side by side, slowly climbing the ridge with each step.
By the time they crossed it, darkness had already fallen.
Beyond the ridge lay a deeper valley containing a stream, a small forest, and a flat bank carved out by the flowing water.
Thick wild grass covered the ground, with the previous year’s dead stalks tangled among the first new shoots of spring, creating a patchwork of yellow and green.
Adrian stood at the top of the ridge and looked down for a moment.
“We’ll spend the night here.” Alfred acknowledged him, placed the sickle on a stone, and crouched to gather firewood.
It was completely dark by the time they managed to light a fire.
The flames reflected across the surface of the stream, their glow trembling with the current.
Alfred crouched beside the fire and prodded the burning wood with a branch.
Sparks drifted upward, only to fade before they could rise very far.
Adrian sat with his back against a tree trunk.
His arming sword rested beside him, while the pickaxe leaned against the tree.
After poking the fire for some time, Alfred suddenly stopped.
“My lord.” “Yes?” “Will the lords in the south truly want us?” “Yes,” Adrian replied, his voice flat and steady in the firelight.
“Men who know how to fight are always in short supply.” Alfred nodded, lowered his head, and began poking the fire once more.