***
Someone or something was hiding in the reeds. A sixth sense warned Fury. After five moons in the marshes, he was alert to the slightest disturbance. He sniffed the air and detected the familiar odour of poorly cured sealskin, rancid fish oil and human sweat: the unmistakable stench of a marsh man.
They'd been shouting his name, saying they had something to give him. Fury knew why they were looking for him. He had sneaked up to their camp during the night and heard them talking. Ardolf had placed a bounty on their heads. The top price would be paid for Balduur's head but he would also give good money for Alison's. Only Miralda was to be spared. She was of royal blood and the sister of King Pius.
Fury let the coracle drift. There was a presence in the reeds. Someone was perched on an old log near the outlet to the estuary. He didn't have to see the man. He could smell him. Fury knew he was there and he was a threat. The marsh men had bows. They used them to hunt birds and people. Fury doubted if any had a bow equal to his. His had belonged to Alvero. It was a crossbow, manufactured to the highest standards of the Imperial Army. At the touch of a trigger he could unleash a deadly iron bolt.
He watched and waited. Time and hardship had changed him. He no longer called himself Little Bear. His name was Fury Ap-Cronwyn. And Alison was no longer Little Cat. He'd learnt the strange name she'd been called in her former life. When he placed his hand on her belly he could feel the baby. He now had three people to care for: Alison, their unborn child and Miralda.
And they still had Balduur's head. They were custodians of the old warlord's soul, which remained trapped in his decaying skull. It was the burden he and Alison had to bear for transgressing the sacred pathways to be together. Miralda had spoken of the burden. She said it wasn't just a matter of taking the head from one place to another. It was the journey that mattered ... and that journey was nearing its end.
Fury glanced down to make sure the crossbow was properly concealed under his cloak. His first shot had to reach its mark. He wouldn't have time to reload. If he missed, he'd have to fall back on the throwing axe that hung from his belt. He still hated violence but was prepared to use it to protect those who depended on him. His features had hardened and his once flowing hair was tied in a tight plait that hung down his back. His hands were rough and scarred from gathering mussels and setting traps for fish and eels.