Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (3 page)

Wyrd—fate—had turned against Paeda in the end. Rumor had it that Alchflaed, the flame-haired beauty Paeda had wed, had slain him while he slept, before fleeing into the wilderness.

Wulfhere pushed aside thoughts of his brothers and focused his attention entirely upon his destination. He could not afford to let himself be distracted now. He would discover soon enough if Aethelred coveted the throne for himself.

Ahead, he glimpsed a gap between the heavy oaken and iron gates. Wulfhere grinned, relief turning his mood from wary to jubilant. He need not have worried.

Inside, two spearmen awaited them. One of them stepped forward to greet Wulfhere.

“M’lord,” he whispered urgently. “The high gate is also open. We must hurry before someone raises the alarm.”

Wulfhere did not need warning twice. He nodded and motioned to the men behind him that it was safe to enter. Then, on winged feet, like Thunor himself, Wulfhere took off at a sprint up the main way that led to Tamworth’s inner palisade. Mōna ran at his side, as silent as a shadow.

Ahead, the Great Tower of Tamworth shone silver against the pitch black of the night sky. In daylight, the tower was a less prepossessing sight: dirty gray stone encrusted with lichen. A shiver went through Wulfhere as his gaze traveled down it. He was home.

No light shone from the tower’s thin windows. Everyone inside slumbered. Wulfhere smiled once more and increased his speed, his soft-soled hunting boots barely making a sound on the roughly paved street.

As promised, the high gate was also open.

“Ready, milord?” one of his warriors asked, his voice a low rumble. The man’s name was Elfhere. The tall, blond warrior had left Tamworth after the Northumbrians took control of it and had sought Wulfhere out in the wilderness. Elfhere limped slightly, from an old injury, but he was still one of Wulfhere’s best. Wulfhere was glad to have him at his side.

“Aye,” Wulfhere replied, flashing him a fierce grin. “Let’s send these Northumbrians to meet Nithhogg!”

The thought of the great serpent, which resided in the underworld, feasting on the flesh of his enemies, caused a thrill to course through his veins. His bloodlust had awakened. No Northumbrian who came within reach of Shield Breaker tonight would be spared.

Once it was done, he would wed Ermenilda.

Even a year later, he could still picture her clearly. He had wanted Ermenilda from the moment he saw her. Young and slender, the Kentish princess radiated ethereal beauty, and it had ensnared him. Long, straight blonde hair, a few shades darker than his, flowed over her shoulders, framing a delicately featured face and soulful eyes the color of walnut.

The girl had a demure manner, yet she had held his gaze unflinchingly at the door to her father’s hall. He had seen the way her face flushed when he stared at her, the way her breathing quickened. The image of how she had looked that evening remained with him. Ermenilda had been radiant as she entered, with rosy cheeks and snowflakes in her hair.

She was just one more reason he had to retake Tamworth.

Wulfhere reached up, his fist closing around the small iron spear he wore on a leather thong around his neck; it was the spear of Tiw, the god of war. He had not yet renounced the old gods, although the time was coming when he would have to do so. Wulfhere was not sure he would ever truly cast them aside, for the gods of his ancestors meant a great deal to him.

Tonight, Tiw would guide his sword and help him regain his birthright.

They stormed the tower in a fury, a tide of angry men surging into the Great Hall. One or two oil-filled clay cressets still burned around the perimeter of the hall, giving them enough light to discern friend from foe. Wulfhere had ordered his men to light the torches inside the doors as soon as he entered.

He wanted to see the look on his enemies’ faces before he killed them.

Aethelred had sent descriptions of the two stewards. They were both powerfully built men, their arms glittering with arm rings. Wada was blond and Alfwald red haired. Wulfhere’s brother had assured him they would be easy to spot—and Wada now slept high above the rest of the hall upon the King’s Loft.

Wulfhere crossed the hall amid cries of the men, women, and children who had been sleeping upon the rushes. He saw Aethelred emerge from his alcove. His brother was fully dressed and gripped a seax.

Their gazes met and Aethelred grinned. Wulfhere knew that grin well—he had seen it often as a child, when he and his younger brother got up to mischief. He grinned back realizing that his fears for his brother’s loyalty were unfounded. Aethelred would not betray him.

Wulfhere’s men fanned across the hall. Three Mercian ealdormen had joined him: Immin, Eafa, and Eadbert. They were powerful, respected men, who had brought their own warriors with them. Wulfhere met Immin’s eye as the hulking ealdorman with a mane of grizzled blond hair stepped up beside him.

Immin grinned. “Fire in your belly yet, milord?”

Wulfhere smiled, showing his teeth. In truth, he was more than ready. He longed to spill Northumbrian blood, to cut down those who had no right occupying his hall or commanding his people.

Some of his men had already engaged the Northumbrians. He spied Elfhere grappling with a warrior near one of the fire pits—but it was Werbode, the captain of Wulfhere’s band, who led the charge. Tall and strong with a shock of black hair and a neatly trimmed beard, the warrior was a fearsome sight. Clad in boiled leather, Werbode howled his rage as he slashed his way across the rush-strewn floor.

Wulfhere turned his attention away from the melee and strode across the hall toward the ladder to the King’s Loft. Men and women scrambled out of his way. It was not just Wulfhere they were frightened of but also the huge white wolf that stalked at his side.

Leaving Mōna to guard the foot of the ladder, Wulfhere sheathed his sword and drew his seax. Then, he clamped the blade between his teeth so that he could scale the ladder quickly.

Wada was scrambling out of the furs when Wulfhere reached the platform. He was naked. A young slave girl, the iron collar around her neck gleaming dully in the flickering torchlight, cowered behind him.

Rage twisted Wada’s bearded face, whereas the slave had gone the color of milk.

“So the upstart pup has returned.” Wada snarled, reaching for his sword that lay beside the furs. Even on the defensive, the Northumbrian ealdorman did not show a trace of fear. “Come home for a whipping have you?”

Wulfhere held Wada’s gaze. He did not bother to reply to the insult—the steward was just trying to bait him. Instead, he inclined his head slightly and favored the Northumbrian with a cool smile.

Beneath them, the roar of battle shook the Great Tower of Tamworth to its foundations. The platform beneath Wulfhere’s feet vibrated from the force of it. It was as if the gods were raging, and Wulfhere could taste the bloodlust in the air.

Wada lunged, but Wulfhere had anticipated him. Two steps took him up against the ealdorman, beyond the reach of his sword, where Wulfhere drove his seax blade up under Wada’s ribs.

Wada inhaled sharply, his breath wheezing as if Wulfhere had punched him in the stomach. As the warrior struggled against him, Wulfhere withdrew the dagger and deftly slashed the Northumbrian’s throat open.

The slave girl screamed, as the ealdorman slumped to the fur-covered floor, gurgling and thrashing.

Wulfhere let him fall. Ignoring the blood, which had splattered over him, he cast a glance at the cowering slave. Tears streaked her thin face.

“Please . . . ,” she begged, her voice quaking. “Don’t kill me . . .”

Wulfhere dismissed her; he was not interested in killing defenseless slave girls. There were others more worthy of death this night. He turned away and quickly descended the ladder to the main hall.

Mōna was savaging a Northumbrian warrior, who had tried to climb the ladder in an attempt to come to Wada’s assistance. The man’s screams echoed high into the rafters as the wolf pinned him to the ground, her huge jaws ripping at his flesh.

Wulfhere moved around them, leaving Mōna to her task, and stepped down onto the floor.

Men fought with seaxes, boning knives, or their fists. Although it was customary to leave your weapons at the door inside the Great Hall, many of the Northumbrians were armed. Surrounded by Mercians, they wisely carried their swords and seaxes everywhere.

Alfwald, the red-haired ealdorman, slashed at any Mercian who came within reach, the blade of his sword running dark. He strode now, toward Aethelred, who had just used his seax to kill one of the ealdorman’s retainers. Alfwald’s curses rang across the hall.

“Oath-breaking maggot!” he roared. “Come taste my blade!”

Aethelred spat on the floor and stepped forward to meet him.

Alfwald spied Wulfhere, and his face twisted with rage. He quickly forgot about the younger brother and turned to Wulfhere.

“Princeling,” he growled. “So you show your face at last.”

Wulfhere sheathed his seax and drew Shield Breaker.

“Aye,” he replied with a chilling smile, “and this face will be the last thing you ever see.”

***

A terrible hush hung over the Great Hall, broken only by the wet gasps of dying men.

Wulfhere lowered his sword and looked about him, taking in his surroundings for the first time since the attack had begun. Unarmed folk—men, women, and children—cringed against the sides of the hall or peered out at him from the alcoves. A carpet of bodies spread out around him, both Northumbrian and Mercian. The air stank of blood, offal, and fear.

It had been a bloody fight. The Northumbrian king had left his best men to rule Tamworth as his stewards, and Wulfhere’s men had not expected to find them armed. Even so, the Mercians had prevailed.

Alfwald lay dead at his feet, while a few feet away, Aethelred wiped the blade of his seax on the cloak of the Northumbrian warrior he had just slain.

The brothers’ gazes met and held.

Aethelred’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “What took you so long?”

Wulfhere answered with a cool smile of his own. “Vengeance tastes best when it is savored. It did us all good to wait.”

He retrieved a handful of rushes from the floor and cleaned Alfwald’s blood off Shield Breaker. Then he sheathed the blade.

It’s done.

Two years of waiting, planning, and anticipation were finally over. He stood inside the Great Tower of Tamworth, with the men who opposed him dead at his feet.

The fog of battle lust cleared from his vision, and he was aware that he had sustained a cut to his forearm—a blade had sliced right through his leather bracer. It was beginning to ache dully and, although not deep, would need attention.

Werbode approached him. The warrior was breathing heavily, still recovering from the fight, and bleeding from a shallow shoulder wound. Nevertheless, he was grinning.

“You did it, milord. Tamworth is yours.”

Wulfhere returned his grin. “Aye,
we
did it.”

The reality of matters was beginning to sink in. No longer would he have to hide in the woods like an outlaw. No longer would he live in tents and thatched hovels. He, the eldest surviving son of Penda of Mercia, now stood in his rightful place.

Elfhere also approached him. The warrior’s face was splattered with blood, making his eyes look even bluer than usual. However, he appeared uninjured.

“What do you want done with the rest of the Northumbrians?” he asked, motioning to the men who stirred on the floor behind him.

Wulfhere’s gaze shifted to the injured men. One of them was pulling himself across the rushes on his belly, in an attempt to reach a discarded seax. Wulfhere frowned; he could not afford to be merciful.

“Scour Tamworth for any Northumbrians who managed to escape the hall,” he ordered, “and kill any of Wada and Alfwald’s men who still breathe.”

He turned to where a group of pale-faced slaves huddled against the far wall. “Clear the dead from the hall and tidy this place up,” he commanded them. “By noon, I want no sign the Northumbrians were ever here.”

Wulfhere sank deep into the hot water and let out a long sigh.

It was so long since he had taken a proper bath he had almost forgotten the sensual pleasure of it. The scent of lye soap—a smell that reminded him of his childhood—filled the alcove where he bathed. This small space had once been his mother’s, and before that, his sisters had slept here. These days, it housed a huge cast-iron tub that took slaves many trips to fill.

The hot water soothed away the aches and pains of battle. He had rinsed the blood off his injured forearm, but no healer had yet looked at it. The wound ached, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

Beyond the tapestry that shielded him from the rest of the hall, he could hear the sounds of industry: the clatter and thud of pots as the cooks began work on the noon meal and the sounds of sweeping and scrubbing as slaves washed the hall clean of blood.

Smiling, Wulfhere closed his eyes and relaxed into the hot water. Moments later, a tremulous female voice interrupted him.

“M’lord . . .”

Wulfhere’s eyes snapped open, and he inclined his head to where a young woman had slipped into the chamber. He recognized her as the slave he had found with Wada. The girl was small and thin with a shock of golden hair. Unlike earlier this morning, she was now clothed, clad in a worn homespun tunic, girded at the waist.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Your brother, Lord Aethelred, commanded me to attend you, m’lord,” she murmured. “He told me you wanted your back scrubbed.”

Wulfhere smiled. “Did he? That was generous of him.”

The girl stared at him, her blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. He could see she was shaking.

“What’s your name, girl?”

“Asha, m’lord.”

“You’re new to the Great Hall—I don’t recognize you.”

“I came here at Winterfylleth,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “My father killed one of Wada’s warriors. They were drinking in the mead hall, and an argument got out of hand. I was part of the wergild he had to pay.”