but he just stood there, glaring at the crowd like a slighted immortal, committing these acts to memory, as if for some future and terrible use. Lamenting in his heart of hearts the sorry ways of men.

Presently, a bus entered the station, and many of those who were seated got up and stretched and headed toward the gate, but he just stood there, glaring at the crowd like a slighted immortal, committing these acts to memory, as if for some future and terrible use. Lamenting in his heart of hearts the sorry ways of men.

They sat together on the floor of the station, eating noodles from paper bowls. Bella told him of the town and its people and the places she had been, while Guillard listened impatiently, slurping at his food. He had already made his way through two oranges and a moon cake and an egg that had been steeped in tea, and the rinds from the fruit lay strewn about his person, like so many fallen leaves. As though he himself were deciduous in nature.

Across the aisle, several old men squatted flat-soled in sandals, with their elbows on their knees and their forearms turned out, in what appeared to be a posture of either offering or defeat.

The creature’s jaw unhinged and dropped wide as a mouthful of sharply pointed fangs emerged from within.

His face spattered with the blood of the beast, the guard captain glared at Aethelred as Alfred came down from his throne and marched across the room to confront the priest, who had not stopped smiling during the whole bloody episode, and who smiled still.  “Did you enjoy the demonstration, Sire?” asked the Archbishop.  “I did not,” hissed the King through gritted teeth, struggling to hold back his anger.  Aethelred’s smile arched wider. “The Danes will enjoy it even less, I suspect.”

The pig, who had been happily devouring the apple, suddenly dropped it as its jaw went slack, drool seeping onto the floor. Its neck twisted and turned, head rotating in an unnatural circular motion, as though being tortured by some infernal sound only it could hear.

For a short while, Alfred had considered surrender, and with good reason: the Norsemen were notorious for their brutality and their mercilessness. The other English kings who had not fled before them, or had refused to yield, had been tortured to death when their walls inevitably fell.

Alfred was tired. It had been a long, hard war, and though he had won it, he had barely rested since, knowing that the peace would not last long. For an English king, he had learned, it never did. There was always another war.