The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (17 page)

“You have used a blade before,” Hengist said, intrigued. “Who taught you?”

Beobrand swung the langseax through the air in a flourish, flashing a grin at Hengist. “My uncle, Selwyn. He was a great warrior and trained Octa and I to use a sword.”

Hengist rubbed his beard, watching Beobrand’s stances. “Well, he taught you well,” he said.

After only a couple of days with the langseax, Beobrand was able to vanquish Hafgan three times out of four. And a few days after that, he beat Dreng for the first time.

The older warrior made the mistake of letting his guard down in an attempt to draw Beobrand in, but he had underestimated the young Cantware warrior. Beobrand made a feint towards the exposed area, as Dreng expected. Then, at the moment Dreng committed himself to hit Beobrand’s extended right arm, Beobrand spun fully around, landing a brutal blow to Dreng’s rump with the flat of his langseax’s blade.

Dreng fell sprawling to the ground while the others burst into peals of laughter. Dreng pulled himself up and rubbed his backside and smiled sheepishly, but the look he flashed at Beobrand was dark and murderous.

“That was a risk to turn your back on an enemy, boy,” Dreng rasped. “I wouldn’t do that again if I were you.”

The laughter died down and Beobrand thought that Dreng’s comment was more a veiled threat than a tip on his fighting technique. He swallowed hard and vowed not to let Dreng out of his sight.

CHAPTER 9

After Geola, the longest night of winter, Hengist started to withdraw into himself. He talked less and was no longer interested in training Beobrand. The others were wary around him. Only Dreng seemed at ease in his company. After Hengist had one of his increasingly frequent outbursts, screaming at Artair for burning the tiny squirrel he’d been roasting over the fire, Dreng smiled and said, “Getting bloody again, he is. We should move on tomorrow.”

The next morning it was bitterly cold. The trees creaked and cracked around them, settling themselves for the harsh weather to come. Dreng silently started to pack up the camp and the others joined him, rolling up their blankets and squeezing their few provisions into bags. Hengist sat some way off, cloak wrapped about him, his back to them.

They set off, following the stream southward, which surprised Beobrand. Perhaps Hengist had changed his mind over their destination. He wondered if this change of direction had anything to do with the chance encounter with Galan.

They had not been travelling long when they smelt wood smoke. They stopped, each sniffing the breeze, listening intently for any sound that would indicate where the smoke was coming from. After a few moments, they heard a horse whinny off to their right, someway in the distance.

They stealthily unslung their weapons and placed their bags on the frozen earth underneath a huge beech tree. With no words spoken amongst them, they silently moved forward, like wolves on the scent of a newly-birthed lamb. Beobrand was not sure what they planned to do, but he felt his blood rise at the anticipation of action. He’d trained these last few months, now perhaps he could put what he’d learnt to good use. He carried his spear and shield, and still had Hengist’s langseax hanging from a loop of leather on his belt.

Hengist’s face was a picture of concentration. His eyes sparkled, his mouth was slightly open and his breath plumed around his face as he signalled to them all to move forwards. They crept towards the sound of the horse, using the boles of the trees for cover, spreading out into a skirmish line. They had only taken a few steps when the still of the forest was rent by a shrill scream. This was followed by the sounds of battle: metal against metal and shouts of anger and pain.

Beobrand, Hengist and the others paused for a heartbeat and then made their way forward more quickly.

They came to a clearing. A large oak had fallen in some past storm and its roots now stuck out in an earthy, tangled web. Where the tree had fallen it had cleared a sizable piece of ground, taking a few smaller trees with it. With the shelter provided by its upturned roots, it was a perfect campsite, and there was a small campfire built there.

Two horses were tied to the fallen oak and there were eight people in the clearing. Six of them were engaged in combat and two more were prostrate on the ground. It appeared that two of the people, a young woman armed with a short spear and a man wielding a broad-bladed seax were defending the camp. It looked like their four assailants, men armed with seaxes and spears, had ambushed them. The two figures on the ground seemed also to be from the camp, probably killed quickly as the four brigands attacked with the element of surprise.

Beobrand didn’t pause to think. The cold of battle descended upon him. His instant reaction was to help those who were outnumbered. He didn’t question this, he simply took a step into the clearing and threw his spear overarm with such force that it took one man in the chest and lifted him from his feet. The spear’s metal tip disappeared between the man’s ribs, and he was dead before he had hit the frigid forest loam.

Beobrand did not stop to watch the flight of his spear. He was sure that enemy was dealt with. He turned his attention to the next man, drawing his borrowed langseax and rushing out of the trees to meet him. He let out a bellowing cry and chopped into the second man’s collar bone with a vicious downward blow. Blood fountained out of a severed artery, splattering Beobrand’s face and hands, as the man fell sideways.

The two defenders of the campsite fell back, providing this crazed warrior from the woods with space. Beobrand’s savage onslaught had given the remaining two attackers pause. A moment ago, they had outnumbered their foe two to one. Suddenly their advantage had disappeared in a frenzy of violence that had come as quickly as it was unexpected.

Before they could make up their minds to attack or retreat, Hafgan stepped from the trees and flung a javelin at the man furthest from Beobrand. The javelin struck the man in the hip, spinning him round. He stumbled and then fell onto his hands and knees.

The last man looked at his fallen comrades and then back to the warrior who had burst from the forest. Beobrand looked like an apparition from the underworld. Blue eyes burning from a mask of blood, his langseax dripping and steaming with gore.

The man turned to flee. Dreng walked out of the cover of the trees to block his path. The man made a desultory effort to raise his seax to fight the old warrior. Dreng swatted the blade away, stepped inside his reach and buried his blade deep into the man’s entrails. He held him upright for a moment, the man’s face as close to his as a lover’s, then plunged his blade several more times into the man’s stomach, before finally letting him slump forward onto the earth.

For a moment the glade was still. Then the injured man tried to scrabble away on all fours. Beobrand made a move towards him but Hengist called out, “Wait, don’t kill him!”

Hengist strode quickly to the injured man. He’d realised he could not escape and had rolled over onto his back so as not to have his attackers behind him. He was now frantically trying to free a knife from the scabbard on his belt. He got the blade out just as Hengist arrived. Hengist stamped on the man’s wrist, pinning the knife to the ground. He then fell onto the man’s chest, immobilising him.

A broad grin shone from his bearded face. He looked truly happy. “Thanks for leaving one of them alive, Beobrand,” he said. “You’re much too efficient with your killing. Where’s the fun in that?”

The man underneath Hengist, a young man with ratlike features, started to babble. Hengist looked down at him for a moment contemplatively while the man’s pleading whines grew in volume. And then, apparently not wishing to hear any more, he began to rain blows into the man’s face. Hengist put a lot of his weight behind the blows. It wasn’t long before the young man was silent, his face a battered, bruised and bloody mess.

“He looks like you now, Beobrand,” laughed Hengist “I’ll save him for later.” He got up and turned to look at the survivors of the camp. “What have we got here?”

The woman and man stood side by side. Their backs were as close as possible to the roots of the fallen tree.

The man was middle-aged and heavy-set. He wore clothes of fine quality, a bear fur cloak over a woollen tunic. He had greying long hair and a fine moustache. He held his broad seax at his side. Wary, but not threatening.

The woman was younger, only a little older than Beobrand. Despite the fear and shock that contorted her features, she was beautiful. She sported a blue thick wool cloak over a cream mantle and brown tunic. Her head was covered by a cap and her blond hair fell in a single long plait down her back.

Her gaze flitted around the clearing, looking at each man in turn as they stepped from the cover of the forest. Her eyes settled on Beobrand last and there they lingered. He stood panting, his breath billowing with each ragged breath, sweat beading his blood-drenched face despite the cold. He was as suddenly spent of energy as he had been consumed with the cold lust for battle. He looked down absently at his hands and was surprised to see them shaking.

“My name is Cynric,” said the man in the bearskin cloak. His voice was shaking as much as Beobrand’s hands. “This is my daughter, Cathryn.” He placed a protective hand on her arm. “Thank you … for rescuing us,” he tried to maintain his composure, but his voice caught in his throat. “Now, we must attend to our fallen.”

Cynric fell to his knees next to the two bodies of his companions. He touched them, seeking signs of life. When he found none, with increasing urgency he shook the bodies. Cathryn knelt beside him, tears streaming down her face and darkening her mantle. She put her arm around her father. He shuddered convulsively and began to sob.

They clung to each other for some time, lost in a grief that Beobrand understood all too well.

Later, after the dead had been tended to and were lying covered by their cloaks, they all sat around the fire and Cynric told their story. They were travelling from Pocel’s Hall, about two days travel to the south, and heading for Gefrin, in Bernicia. They had family there and had heard that Eanfrith’s court was Christian. Pocel’s Hall had been sacked by Cadwallon’s forces. Cynric and his three children had fled with as much as they could carry. They had been travelling more slowly than they’d have liked, having only managed to take two horses with them.

Both of his sons had been struck down as the ambush began. They’d had no chance to resist.

Hengist appeared uninterested in the personal woes of Cynric and his family. “How many were in Cadwallon’s warband?” he asked. “Which way were they headed?”

Cynric looked bemused, but answered as best he could. “I don’t really know. It seemed to me that the Waelisc were fleeing westward. I imagine Osric of Deira had taken to the field and was in pursuit of them.”

Throughout all of the conversations, Cathryn sat silently at her father’s side. Her eyes shone from her tear-streaked face. Beobrand was in a kind of stupor. All energy had fled and he sat morosely listening to Cynric’s words, not really taking in what was said. He frequently looked at Cathryn, and he often found her looking back at him.

Hengist was alert and interested in the news of troop movements and the shifting of power within the northern kingdoms. The recent fighting seemed to have settled him temporarily, but there was an undercurrent of tension in him. From time to time, his gaze flickered over to the unconscious brigand who still lay where he had left him.

Dreng, Tondberct, Hafgan and Artair were all content to sit and stare at Cathryn. They were all openly admiring of her looks and her shapely figure. Whenever she got up from the fireside, their eyes tracked her movements. If it made her uncomfortable, she did not show it. Cynric was not oblivious to the attention his daughter was attracting, but didn’t know how to stop it. Six heavily armed killers sat by his fire. They’d rescued them from certain death, or worse in Cathryn’s case. Letting them ogle his daughter was not such a bad price to pay for their protection.

As the sun fell in the sky, the forest rapidly became dark. Hengist agreed with Cynric that they would all travel together to Gefrin. Perhaps Hengist and his companion warriors could find favour with King Eanfrith there. Beobrand was surprised to hear this. He was sure they had set off south that day and he could not imagine how they would be received after Hengist’s confrontation with Galan, one of Eanfrith’s men. But it was good to hear Hengist openly speak of their destination.

They readied the camp for the night. Stocking up on firewood, agreeing the watches, and preparing a sparse meal from their supplies and what little game they had left from Hafgan and Artair’s most recent hunt.

Beobrand roused himself and went down to the stream to wash off the dried blood that covered his face and hands. The bitterly cold water snapped him out of the languor he’d fallen into after the fight at the camp. The blood was congealed and dried, difficult to remove. His skin soon ached from his frenzied rubbing and the freezing water.

It took longer to scrub away the blood and stench of death than it had to kill the men in the clearing. Beobrand splashed more icy water on his face. It was hard to believe the ease with which he had taken the lives of the men.

He had not been away from the camp for long, when he heard a gurgling scream pierce the still night air. It came from the clearing of the fallen oak. He jumped up and ran back to the camp. He stumbled over roots and fallen branches in the gathering gloom.