Impatient to get on with my journey, I sleep lightly and wake up just as the sun is rising. A few fishermen prepare nets and check their boats, waiting for the tide to favour them, but otherwise the village is quiet. I walk towards the river.

“Travel well, return soon,” sings one of the fishermen, nodding towards the bag slung over my shoulder. I smile and nod, trying and failing to think of a reply. I pause by the river to fill my water-holder, then begin to make my way up the hill. I’m going to reach the top, find the path, and keep walking. No lingering, no waved farewells.

I’m halfway up when I hear movement behind me. I stop and turn. Two men have appeared out of nowhere to block the path. I see dark, travel-stained leather clothes, boots, scrap-armour. Lean, scarred faces. Watchful eyes. Their expression is clear: you won’t escape us, don’t try. One of them taps a finger on the hilt of a blade. He doesn’t even need to draw it, I know he could have that blade at my throat in a moment.

These are the men that appeared to me yesterday, cold and hard and real. I’m a simple fool, a hopeless idiot. I should have trusted the vision, I should have warned the people.

I consider throwing myself down the hill, but that would lead them towards the village. Perhaps it’s me they want. Maybe I can get to the top of the hill before them. Maybe I can…

“Be calm,” whispers a deep voice behind my ear. I flinch as if I’ve been stung, and a strong hand claps me on the shoulder. “I said, be calm. Be still.”

I force myself to be still, breathing quickly. I notice that the hand that’s holding my shoulder-bag is shaking uncontrollably. The grip on my shoulder turns me around effortlessly, as if I’m a child’s doll. He’s standing above me on the hillside, looking down at me. I see a full beard, shaved head, eyes that pin me down. One look at his face, and I know I am facing the leader of these men. He has the pick of the armour, the longest blades, the finest clothes.

“How many men in the village?” he asks. His tone is polite and measured.

“Why should I-” I begin. His fist whips out quickly and my head snaps backwards. I don’t even feel the pain yet, but I stumble backwards and fall into the men behind me. They step quickly aside, and I tumble end over end down the slope, losing my bag and whatever shred of dignity I had left.

The leader is crouching next to me as I lift my head from the ground. “How many men in the village?” he asks again. “Quickly now.”

I shake my head. “I haven’t counted. Thirty? Forty at most.”

“You’re not one of them,” he says. Only then do I realise that I can comprehend their words without any effort at all. Their language is the language of my inner voice, my thoughts..

“What weapons do they use?”

I begin to rise into a sitting position, but a rough hand between my shoulderblades pushes me flat again with an extra shove at the end that suggests it could easily have been a punch. My cheekbone throbs. “They don’t,” I begin. This is madness. I should be running, screaming a warning, but I’m meekly keeping my face towards the grass and answering their questions. “They don’t have weapons. They have fish knives and nets and fish hooks.”

“They’re good with boats?”

“Very good,” I say. Then I muster my courage. “Just leave them alone. They’ve done you no harm.”

“Get up,” says the leader. “If you disobey me, I will cut your tendons and you’ll have to continue your journey on your hands and knees.”

I don’t doubt him. This is no thug. He knows I was making my way up to the path. Another thought strikes me: he probably saw me yesterday, and was waiting for this chance. They’re fighting men, warriors. They could have raided the village overnight, but they didn’t. I don’t understand why. I get to my knees and raise my hands in submission. “Please, just tell me what you want.”

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He doesn’t reply, but instead looks past me. I hear movement behind me but I don’t turn to look.

“We have four,” says a voice. “Two women and two kids.”

The leader nods. “Bring the children along. Keep the women where we agreed. Five to guard in turns, two on constant watch.”

I hear a grunt of confirmation and the rustle of feet in undergrowth. If they’ve grabbed two of the net-making, fish-gutting women from the village, they’ll need at least five men to control them. I smile inwardly at the thought.

I dreamt they call themselves the Fighting Twenty. With five men hiding somewhere and three here, that leaves twelve. The people of this village might be hard and strong, but they can’t stand against that many blades, even if they have the advantage of numbers. Keeping the women hostage is an evil twist.

“Up,” he says, and lifts me from my knees by the scruff of my shirt. “We have business. Listen, you call me Aldur, right?”

I nod.

“If they have a word that means lord, or king, or the like, you use it when you refer to me.”

I nod again, but I have no idea whether the fishing people have any such word.

“Every time you fail me, one of those women loses a finger. If you do your job, they’ll be back here weaving nets in no time.”

“What do you want me to do?”

His mouth smiles. His eyes do not. “Exactly as I say. Get used to the smell of my sweat. Until this is done, you don’t leave my side.”

We walk back towards the village. Aldur rests his arm across my shoulders as if he’s walking home from the tavern with an old friend, the two others flanking us. They stroll casually, like friends taking a little fresh air together. The quayside is busy with sixen-boats being prepared for the day’s fishing. A man coiling a rope notices us and pauses.

“Visitors,” he sings. I detect uncertainty in his tone.

“Visitors,” repeats another, his head popping up from within the nearest sixen-boat.

The word ripples through the quayside until every face is turned towards us. I feel like a plague-carrier. One of the older fishermen stands up, hands his fish-knife to a fellow crew member, dusts his hands off, and steps forwards. I know his name. Olvin.

“Your people come to visit?” he sings. “Visitors?”

We stop walking. There’s a gap between us and the villagers. It may as well be a mile wide. Aldur looks at Olvin, looks around, looks at the boats. The seconds pass uncomfortably.

“You speak their language,” says Aldur. It’s a statement, not a question. I nod. “Tell them what I tell you.”

He walks me a few steps forwards, then: “We need your help.” I hesitate. This is not what I expected. “Tell them,” growls Aldur.

“Help needed,” I sing, falteringly. “Help needed by you to men.”

Olvin nods, shrugs. “We help.” He’s wary. Several other men have downed tools to come and stand next to him. Women are shooing children back towards the village huts. I notice raised voices from amongst the women.

There is movement at my side. Two children, barely more than five summers’ of age, appear at Aldur’s side. One of them is sobbing. The other looks petrified. Olvin’s face darkens. One of the women screams, calls their names. I know her, she’s a weaver. Her name is Elba, a quiet woman seldom seen on the quayside. They call her House-Elba, as she is never on a boat. She’s about to run towards us and I fear for her life. The fishermen feel the same way, and one of them catches her arm.

“Tell them we found these two,” growls Aldur.

“Men found children,” I sing, desperately trying to make my voice heard over the voices and sounds of rising anger. “Men found children!”

Aldur grabs the two children and strides forwards. Their tiny legs struggle to keep up with him. He closes the gap in moments, pushes through the crowd to Elba and thrusts the sobbing children towards her. She drops to her knees and gatherers them into her arms. Without a word he turns and walks back, passing within arms’ reach of Olvin and the other men. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look at them.

“Men hurt children,” shouts Olvin, emphasising each word with a jabbed finger. “No help. You leave.”

I begin to translate back to Aldur. “I understand enough,” he says. “Tell them we found two of their women also.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. I feel sick. Head down, I sing. “Men found women, men found women.”

A hush falls. Aldur’s men - less five, I assume - are fanned out either side of him. Every one of them is garbed in armour of some kind, armed in some way. The way they are standing makes it clear that the captured women are not here.

Aldur waits until he’s certain the message is clear, then he dictates words to me. I sing them to the village.

“If you try to harm us, you will never see your women again.”

Aldur touches his temple with a finger, and the gesture is clear. Think on my words.