Adrian lay on the muddy ground, staring at the gray-white sky as he waited for the throbbing pain in his head to gradually subside.
He had no idea how much time had passed—perhaps a long while, perhaps only a few moments.
The patch of sky above him blurred and cleared, then cleared and blurred again, until he finally tried to sit up.
A sharp pain tore through his left shoulder, causing his vision to go black.
When he looked down, he saw that the shoulder section of his chain mail had been completely torn apart, with burst rings and snapped iron wires hanging loosely around the wound.
The linen lining underneath was soaked with blood and stuck tightly to his skin, its color having darkened from deep red to brownish-black.
Using his right hand, Adrian lifted one corner of the lining and found a wound in the hollow of his shoulder, more than two inches long.
Its edges had turned outward and whitened after being soaked in river water.
The wound was not especially deep, but fresh blood seeped from it whenever he moved.
He released the lining, braced his right hand against the ground, and slowly dragged himself toward a drier patch of earth.
Once there, he leaned back against the trunk of a fallen tree and remained still for a long while, breathing heavily.
Then he thought of Alfred.
Adrian turned his gaze upstream.
The river flowed out from a forest beneath a dull gray sky, but there was no smoke, no shouting, and no sign of anyone.
He did not know how high the ravine had been, how far the current had carried him, or whether Alfred was still up there—or even alive.
A seventeen- or eighteen-year-old youth with a broken left arm, a wound in his thigh, and blood covering his face had been left alone in the ravine with nothing but a sword in his hand.
Adrian rested the back of his head against the dead tree, closed his eyes, and forced himself to stop thinking about it.
He could not save Alfred in his current condition, and he did not even know whether he himself would survive until nightfall.
His stomach felt painfully empty, his mouth was bitter, and a layer of dried saliva coated his tongue.
The taste of blood still lingered in his throat as he looked around the riverbank.
Several clumps of wild grass grew nearby, most of them withered, though a few green shoots had begun emerging close to the ground.
Adrian recognized dandelions and water celery, and the foreign memories inside his mind recognized them as well.
They were edible.
He braced himself against the dead tree and slowly stood.
The movement pulled at the wound in his shoulder, sending another burst of pain through him, but it was still bearable.
He remained upright until the black spots faded from his vision, then crouched and gathered a small handful of wild plants with his right hand.
White sap seeped from the stems when he snapped the tender dandelion leaves.
Nearby, he also found a clump of wild garlic, its bulbs no larger than his fingernail.
He rinsed everything in the river before stuffing it into his mouth and chewing.
The dandelion was bitter, while the wild garlic was sharply pungent.
After chewing them into a pulp and swallowing, his throat tightened unpleasantly, but he gathered another handful and ate it, then another.
He stopped only when the hollow pain in his stomach had weakened slightly.
Adrian sat beside the river for a while, waiting for his body to recover from the sudden exhaustion, then began checking his belongings.
His arming sword was still with him, though the scabbard had disappeared somewhere in the current.
The exposed blade had several small nicks along its edge, but it had not broken, so he tucked it beneath his belt.
The short axe was also still there.
Its ashwood handle had darkened after being soaked in water, and the blade was covered in mud.
Adrian wiped it clean against his trouser leg before securing it behind his waist.
The pickaxe and sickle still hung from his belt as well, having survived only because he had fastened them so tightly.
His helmet had remained on his head, though the metal beside his left ear had been dented inward and pressed painfully against him.
He removed the helmet, examined the damage, and put it back on.
Uncomfortable or not, he had to wear it.
It was still better than having no protection at all.
Adrian reached behind his waist and pulled out the leather pouch he had taken from the scarred Viking.
The water had softened its opening, and the drawstring came loose with a firm tug.
Inside were several silver pennies and a small piece of scrap silver, which he secured again before tucking the pouch beneath his tunic.
After rising, Adrian turned and began walking downstream.
His left shoulder sagged with every step, so he bent his arm and tucked his hand beneath his belt to reduce the strain on the wound.
His boots were filled with water and made wet, squelching noises as he moved.
His toes had turned pale from being soaked, but he did not stop to remove them.
The riverbank was mostly covered in smooth pebbles, though sharp stones were scattered among them, and cutting his feet would make continuing the journey far more difficult.
Adrian carefully chose the smoothest stones, making certain his weight was steady before taking each step.
After walking for roughly an hour, he reached a bend in the river where several dead branches carried down from upstream had become tangled along a shallow shoal.
Something was caught among them.
It was dark red and swollen from the water—a round shield covered in leather.
A piece was missing from its edge, and several deep cuts marked its surface, but it had not completely fallen apart.
The shield belonged neither to Adrian nor to Alfred.
Perhaps it had belonged to one of the Vikings.
He waded into the shallow water and pulled it free from the branches.
Water streamed from the leather surface and dripped back into the river as he pulled his left hand from his belt and tried to slide his arm through the grip on the back.
The movement tugged at the wound so violently that sweat immediately appeared across his forehead.
Gritting his teeth, Adrian adjusted the strap until he could carry the shield on his back, arranging it so that most of the weight rested against his body rather than hanging entirely from his injured shoulder.
Then he continued downstream.
The sky gradually darkened, shifting from gray-white to charcoal and then slowly toward gray-blue.
The forest on both sides of the river became denser, and the treetops closed overhead, blocking most of the remaining daylight.
Adrian eventually stopped beside a tree whose roots bulged from the earth.
He lowered himself against them and placed the round shield beside his leg, unable to walk any farther.
The wounds across his body had still not stopped bleeding, and he needed to rest.
He leaned the back of his head against the roots and stared up at the canopy.
After a moment, he turned the shield over and slid it beneath himself, keeping his back away from the cold, damp ground.
He drew the arming sword from his belt and placed it on his right side, within easy reach.
Adrian then carefully began sliding his left arm out of the leather strap.
It scraped across the back of his hand and pulled at the wound, forcing him to draw a sharp breath and pause before continuing.
Once the strap came free, he felt the lining beneath his shoulder grow wet again.
It was not river water; the moisture felt warm against his skin.
Adrian did not touch the wound, because touching it would accomplish nothing.
He pressed his right shoulder into the tree roots and positioned the trunk between himself and the wind blowing from the river.
When he turned his head, his cheek brushed against the bark, which felt rough and cold and carried the scent of damp, rotting wood.
The shield beneath him pressed uncomfortably against his spine.
Its leather covering had stiffened after being soaked, and the damaged edges dug into his back, so he shifted it slightly until he could rest against a smoother section.
His consciousness slowly sank toward darkness, only to be pulled back halfway by the instinctive alertness of his body.
His ears continued listening to the river, the wind, and the occasional faint noise from deeper within the forest.
Even as he drifted between sleep and wakefulness, his fingers remained wrapped around the hilt of his sword.
He did not know how much time had passed when a faint noise finally reached him from deep among the trees.
It was the sound of dead leaves being crushed beneath someone’s feet.
Adrian opened his eyes, tightened his fingers, and gripped the hilt of his sword.