From the place where he had come upon the dead warbeast, Mark walked steadily upstream.  He traveled the riverbank in that direction for another hour, still without meeting anyone.  By that time he was feeling acutely conscious of the blood dried on his clothing and his hands, and he stopped, long enough to wash himself, his garments, and at last the sword as clean as possible.  The washing had limited success, for by now spots of his brother's blood had dried into his shirt, and there was no getting them out by simply rubbing at them and rinsing them with water.  The sword in contrast rinsed clean at once, dirt and gore sluicing from it easily, leaving the smooth steel gleaming as if it had never been used.  Nor, despite all the shredded chainmail and the cloven shields, were its edges nicked or dulled.

Yes, Mark had known all his life that the sword called Townsaver was the work of Vulcan himself.  He'd known that fact, but was only now starting to grasp something of its full meaning.  But maybe the sword would rust...

Dressed again, in wet clothes, Mark hurried on.  He had made no conscious decision about where he was going.  The path was so familiar that his feet bore him along it automatically.  He kept putting more distance between himself and his home without having to plan a route.  From hunting and fishing trips he knew the way so well here that he thought he'd be able to keep on going confidently even after dark.  At intervals he waded into the shallow stream, crossing and recrossing it, sometimes trudging in the water for long stretches.  If the Duke's men were going to come after him with keen-nosed tracking beasts, it might help...

He feared pursuit, and listened for it constantly.  But when he tried to picture in his mind exactly what form it would take, it looked in his imagination rather like the militia that Kenn had had to join and drill with periodically.  That was not a very terrifying picture.  But of course the pursuit wouldn't really be like that.  It might include tracking beasts, and aerial scouts, and cavalry, and warbeasts too... again Mark saw, with the vividness of recent memory, the mangled body of the catlike creature that had tried like some hurt pet to crawl away and hide...

His thoughts never could get far from the burden that he was carrying, the awkward bundle tucked at this moment under his right arm, wrapped up in a blanket newly stained.  Townsaver, let the gods name it whatever they liked, hadn't really saved the town at all.  Because it was not the town that the intruders had been trying to attack.  They had been after the eminent visitor, and nothing else.  (And here Mark wondered again just what a seneschal might be.)