The next thing he knew, he was being taken and hauled up by two or three men, from panic he grabbed the axe with both hands and held it close, he realized that he was shaking. As quikly as he realized it, he steadied himself. Look at you, you stupid bastard, a couple of years hiding out in some damn ditch and you've forgotten your business. He recomposed himself and realized he was being dragged, led, more like it as he regained use of him estremities and began limping, through the rear gates of the fort, "God be thanked," said a priest in passing, "The Pagans have been killed." Callen moved his hand to try and cover his wound, partly to try and stop the bleeding, and partly to seal it off to a fat fly that had been buzzing around him for the past few minutes. God be thanked you had the damn sense not to send the women out for water earlier. He thought to himself before wincing in pain, for his wound was beginning to hurt beyond relief, he supposed the cut was deep enough to have made him bleed as much as he was, but not so deep that his guts had poured out of him, and he kissed the old wooden cross that hung about his neck. God be thanked, Lord Almight God be thanked. He thought to himself again.

 Then, as he was led on, he saw his sword, and thought to try and grab it, but what he saw at that moment caused him to wretch and vomit on the spot, and the realization of what had happened made him wish dearly that the Dane had killed him. His blood covered sword was sunk into the chest of a man who lay dead and motionless on thr ground in a pool of his own blood. The man, no, the boy, was Raibert Gòrdan, and there was no doubt, none at all, that the sword that had crushed his chest and heart, the sword that had killed him, was Callen's own blade. He had killed his master's son, Callen Crombail had killed Raibert Gòrdan.

 Out of the fort's original malitia, which had consisted of one hundred and seventy fighting men, nintey two now lived, and of those nintey two, more than half were injured, and of the injured, twenty were so close to death that the able-bodied men were ordered to dig the extra graves now so a funeral could be done speedily. Callen counted himself lucky that he was neither among the dead nor the gravediggers, as the soil was hard and almost impossible to dig graves in.

 Not every Dane had been killed, four or five had managed to escape, and one had actually been captured, the one who had been captured sat alone brooding in a small and dark and cold cell somewhere under the fort's church. Ravn took a bite of the bread that had been tossed into the cell a few hours ago, it was hard and chipped his tooth when he had first tried it, and he wished he had saved some of his ale. He laughed bitterly. Ale? What good would Ale do you now, you worthless piece of goat shit?

 He sat and thought, he thought about how they would choose to kill him. He thought of where the men would go who had managed to escape the slaughter. He tought of how much mold he had swallowed with his last bite of bread. He thought of his axe. He thought of Revenge.

 And the smile slowly crept back onto his face.

 Callen spent two weeks in a small infirmary that was once a small feasting hall next to the small monastary within the fort, as he supposed, the injury was not life-threatening, though it had very nearly become so, but the priests of the monastary were old, and had seen much death, and so were advanced in the arts of medicine, so with two weeks of care, he was able to walk again, and so long as he had the dressing clean, he was told that he should live, but he still wished he could die.

 Though he woulnd't go so far as to have called Raibert a friend, they had drannk together often enough and Callen had in fact grown fond of the young man, and in the ten weeks of training the men of the fort, he had personally instructed the boy in much of the sword play that he himself had acquired in his years of service to the stronger noblemen, and that had forged a bond like family, the bond between a teacher and student is something tht is as sacred to those bonded as any religion, and moreso than that when it weighs on the heart, to break that bond and oath is to forever maim yourself beyond any limit of repair, and in a small way, Raibert had even reminded Callen of his son, who had been killed in a raid into Northumbria when he was only twelve and had just been given his first sword, an old Mercian blade and thin from years of previous service, and albeit a crude balde in forge to begin with, but a sword is prescious to the man who uses it, and for a boy of twelve there is no greater joy than to own one, even now Callen remembered his son's face, clean and plump, with his mother's bright blue eyes, his short brown hair, and the look of innocence that all children carry before they witness horror, before they kill, and killing is the only way to lose it; all to often Callen wold look upon farmers of priests, men who must be at least seventy years of age, and their old haggard faces would still have that same innocence of a child.

 It tore him apart.