TWELVE
LONG MARSTON, 580 AD
She stood, nothing more than a loosely wrapped bag of bones, not in the least intimidated before her chieftain. Her skinny finger pointed at the warlord. “You will not harm a hair of his head, Stoppa, lest you wish the wrath of the gods to descend on us.” She followed this with a hideous cackle, revealing the gaps between the stumps of her blackened teeth. Her finger swung round to point at Jake. “This is no enemy, no spy, but the saviour of the Vale. This man is sent by the gods to defeat the ravishers of the land.” Never once did her penetrating eyes leave those of the Anglian chief, but he was of stern mettle and challenged her magnetic presence.
“Have you lost your mind, crone? Saviour of the Vale? Pah! Just look at the wretch! Where is the strength of ar
