Eorling Mead Hall

[Folwren]

Thornden’s fight was short and fierce. His sword helped him little at such close range and the man was practically savage in his attacks with the knife, but Thornden was taller, stronger, and heavier. This outlaw’s best chance had lain in surprise, but Thornden had recovered from that surprise.

In less than a minute, he had overcome the man and thrust his own dagger into his heart. Thornden got up and stood for a moment, looking around him for some plant who’s leaves he could hold against his sliced palm. The blood was flowing freely and it burned like fire. He had no cloth to bind over it.

His eye spotted a small, leafy plant that grew close to the ground. His mother had often pointed it out to them when he was young. It grew beneath bushes and trees and rarely grew more than two inches high, though it spread it’s leaves in a broad diameter on the ground. He knelt and plucked several of these leaves, furry and soft, stuff them in his mouth, chewed once or twice, and then pulled it back out and laid it across his palm. Then his fingers curled down over them and he stood back up. He sheathed his sword and picked up the long bladed dagger. That would be a better weapon in this tightly woven wilderness of vines and thicket.

It took less time to do these things than it takes to explain them. In seconds he was up and on his way again, running forward, this time, instead of walking. He had to find Eodwine. The danger was thick here, and Eodwine in the most danger of all, for he was weaponless.