Smoke filled his nose, burning his lungs as he breathed it in, almost suffocating him until he blew it out in a long wheeze that left him dizzy and nauseated. But his body was so starved for air that he breathed in again almost immediately. A cough tore through his chest, wrenching him sideways, though he could barely move because his arms were caught under an unidentified weight. Slowly he opened his eyes, the heaviness of an extremely long sleep making even that simple task difficult and causing his head to feel muddled and full of cobwebs.
An orange blaze filled his vision and he closed his eyes against the sharp pain that stabbed through his temple. Belatedly, he became aware of the heat warming his body, almost blistering in its intensity because he was far too close to the fire. Turning his head away, he forced his eyes open again only to stare into a pair of grotesque eyes, their lids open wide, the irises clouded over, unseeing. Dead eyes. He’d seen dead eyes before. A tangled memory of dead bodies came to him. He moved his head away as far as his body would allow to see the rest of the face. The head’s mouth was open in a silent scream.
He opened his own mouth to call to someone, but nothing came out save a hoarse cry of anguish. He jerked back but was caught by that same unidentifiable weight as before. Only now he knew. Now, as he looked around him, as he took in the sheer magnitude of the eyes staring at him, he knew what that weight was.
He was in a death pile. Slain warriors had been stripped of their clothing, their identity, and piled high to be burned. It would save the hassle of burying the bodies and keep the vultures at bay.
He had no memory of how he’d come to be here. No memory of a battle and he didn’t recognise the men. The only thing he knew with any real certainty was that he wasn’t dead, but he would be if he didn’t get away. Wrenching hard on his arm, he managed to pull it free from the man lying on it. The force of the movement made him roll to the side, landing in a heap on the dirt next to the bodies. He lay there for a moment, fingers pressed to the ground as he tried to get his bearings.
Taking stock of his body, he made sure that all of his limbs were in good working order. Aside from some scratches, everything seemed to work. He was nude, but he’d have to deal with that later. It hurt to breathe, though. Now that he was opposite the fire, he could take his first breath of fresh air. It still burned going in. Pushing himself up to his knees, he groaned as a wave of pain moved through his head. His hand went to his forehead and found a crusty gash there. The blood had matted in his hair.
He pulled his hand away and the world went dim before it tilted and started to spin. He had to press a hand back to the ground to stop himself from toppling over. Now that he was aware of the injury, a constant pounding had begun in his skull and wouldn’t let up. A wave of nausea moved through him and he groaned as he fell forward, retching into the dirt. Nothing but bile came up.
He ran a hand over his chest and it felt grainy, as if his skin was covered in a fine powder. Bringing his fingers to his nose, he smelled cold ashes. How long had he been asleep? What battle had got him here? Trying to remember only made his head feel clouded and dark, so he stopped trying to remember. Ignoring the lurch in his belly, he forced his head up to look around the clearing just to make sure no one was there. Right now he needed to get to safety. Whoever was in charge of these bodies probably wouldn’t be happy to see him alive when they returned.
A path led away from the fire through the trees. He’d go the opposite way, through the forest, and put as much distance as he could between himself and this certain death. But he couldn’t stop himself from taking one last look at the dead. If he’d battled with them, one of them should at least look familiar, but he didn’t recognise any of the faces he could see. They were strangers. Walking around the pile of men—there were at least a score of them, maybe more—prodding as he went, he hoped one of them would still be alive, but their flesh had already hardened.
Dead flesh. Dead eyes. There was nothing but death here.
Glancing around the clearing again, he saw nothing he could take with him. Their clothing had all been taken, burned probably or scavenged by the victors. There were no weapons. The large fire caught his gaze again, the bright light making his eyes water.
Turning, he made his way through the woods, stumbling from tree to tree as he fought to keep himself upright. His legs were weak and he was having trouble keeping his balance, probably from the head wound. He needed to find somewhere safe to rest for a couple of days. And he needed water to cure his parched throat.
The night was cloudy, obscuring the stars from him. Not that it mattered. He didn’t know where to go, where he’d come from, his own name. Trying to call up memories left him with a dark void. Frustration threatened to make his head pound harder, but he pushed the thoughts away. Right now he needed to find safety to recover. The rest would come once he’d had a chance to heal. It had to.
Up ahead the sound of water rushing over rock made his heart pick up speed in his chest and his legs gained new strength as he followed the sound. The back of his throat tingled at the very thought of water as his legs powered him forward to reach it. Pushing away from the final large oak that bordered the stream, he slid down the muddy embankment and landed in the stream, the smooth pebbles at the bottom biting into the soles of his feet. He lunged face forward into the stream, drinking in the cool water as if he hadn’t had a drink in years.
Even though it was cold, it burned going down and he tasted smoke. Before he could stop it or fight against it, his stomach heaved, expelling the water and leaving him in a knot of agony, his hands pressed to his head as the world swam around him. Falling back against the bank of the stream, he lay still, the water freezing as it knifed through his flesh, but he was afraid that the cold was the only thing keeping him conscious, so he wouldn’t chance leaving it just yet. When he opened his eyes, blackness hung around the periphery of his vision, but he refused to give in to it and forced himself to sit up. This time when he drank, he cupped it in his hands and took small sips, just enough to ease the ache.
‘Halt!’
The word came out of nowhere, splintering his mind with a thousand shards of pain. It was followed by others spoken in a harsh, tangled string that he couldn’t even begin to unravel. A single man ran towards him, emerging from the forest at the exact spot near the ancient oak that he himself had. He must have followed him from the death pile. It was too dark to see clearly, but he was dressed in a dark-coloured tunic, with a sword held in both hands across the front of his torso.
He had no choice but to fight the man, but with no weapon, armour or even clothing, he was at a distinct disadvantage. Rising to his feet, he gritted his teeth, determined to keep himself steady as he backed into the stream to lure the man down the embankment. There was no way he could fight an opponent with a sword barehanded on solid ground and win, especially not while injured. The freezing water came up to mid-thigh, where he stopped, daring the man to come forward.
The man stopped at the edge of the water, sword raised high, but still too far away to pose an