A few wore armor, however. One from the lead boat walked toward the assembled villagers. He was a large, stout man, almost bald, with a thick mustache and beard and a strong, stern face. His armor had clearly seen many battles, and above one shoulder rose the hilt of a massive sword. But in his arms he carried not weapons but two small children, and several more hurried alongside him, clinging to the warrior's armor, belt, and scabbard. Beside him walked a strange man, tall and broad—shouldered but slender, white—haired but with a strong stride. This one was dressed all in tattered violet robes and a worn rucksack, and carried a child across one shoulder while leading another by the hand. A third figure moved with them, a youth, brown—haired and brown—eyed and barely aware of his surroundings, one hand holding the large man's cloak like a small child clinging desperately to a parent's hand. His clothes were richly made but stiff with sea salt and worn from hard use.

"Hail and well met!" the warrior called out, approaching the villagers, his broad face grim. "We are refugees, fleeing a terrible, terrible battle. I beg you, any food and drink you might spare, and shelter if you can, for the children's sake."

The villagers glanced at one another, then nodded, weapons lowering. They were not a wealthy village but they were not poor either, and they would have to be far worse off to let children go unaided. Men came and took the children from the warrior and the violet—robed one and led them to the church, their largest, sturdiest structure. Already the village women were stirring up pots of porridge and stew. Soon the refuges were camped in the church and around it, eating and drinking, sharing donated blankets and coats. The mood would have been festive if not for the sorrow evident in every newcomer's face.