The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (21 page)

Dreng looked around furtively. He licked his lips. The rain stopped falling abruptly, throwing a blanket of eerie silence over the village.

Hengist smiled. “We will kill the boy if you try to attack. We can take him with us. Ride away from here. You’ll never catch us.”

Beobrand saw the truth in Hengist’s words. A shiver ran down his spine. It was not brought on by the cold wind on his rain-soaked clothes. He had to stop them from leaving with Coenred.

“You came here for a death. Let him go and face me instead.”

Hengist’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I want to do that?”

“To prove you can best me. I have beaten all the others, but you have never fought me. I wonder if you are craven.”

“As soon as I release him, they will set upon us. You think I’m a fool?”

“You have my word that if you beat me in single combat, they will let you leave in peace.” Beobrand turned to Alric. “Swear an oath on whatever you hold sacred that your people will let this man go if he beats me.”

Alric appeared troubled. He looked Beobrand in the eye for a long time. Beobrand gave a slight nod.

“Aye. I swear on the bones of our Lord Jesu Christ that you will be given free passage should you beat Beobrand in combat. But first you must let the boy go.”

Hengist hesitated. Dreng shuffled his feet in the mud. Coenred looked from Beobrand to Hengist.

Beobrand broke the silence. “A coward it is then. Too scared to face me? Unbelievable. The great Hengist is scared of the boy he trained.”

“Let him go.” Hengist waved at Dreng, but his eyes never left Beobrand’s. There was murder and death in that stare. Madness too. Fear suddenly gripped Beobrand. He’d seen what Hengist was capable of. He was no match for the older warrior. His stomach tightened.

Dreng pushed Coenred away. Hengist sheathed his knife and drew his sword slowly from its plain scabbard.

All eyes were on the blade as Hengist pulled it out with great ceremony. He held it aloft for a moment, and then pointed it at Beobrand. The shimmering patterns from the forging of the blade made it look like the skin of a serpent. Or the rippling waves of the ocean. It was a thing of beauty and great value. It was a noble blade.

“Where did you get that sword, Hengist? Why do you never unsheathe it?” asked Beobrand, readying himself for the attack that would come all too soon. He sensed the men behind him back away, giving them space to fight. A glimmer of emotion passed over Hengist’s face, sowing a seed of a thought in Beobrand’s mind. “Did you steal it?” he asked. Hengist’s eyes widened. Then, almost as an afterthought, Beobrand said, “Like the coward you are.” To the onlookers, he seemed calm, in control. Inside he churned with pent up emotion. And fear.

Hengist’s jaw clenched.

“I am no coward, Beobrand. It was I who saved Edwin. This sword is named Hrunting and it was my wyrd for it to be mine. I didn’t steal it. I brought the justice of the gods on them both!” Beobrand didn’t understand Hengist’s words, but he had clearly struck on something to rile his foe. He needed any advantage he could get, so he pressed on.

“Your words make no sense, Hengist. Are you spirit-touched? You talk of justice. What do you know of justice?”

“I know that betrayal should be paid for with death. That is why I killed Elda,” spittle flew from Hengist’s mouth. He was working himself up into a rage. “And why I killed Octa!”

Without warning Hengist charged.

Despite being prepared for the attack, Beobrand was startled. He threw up his shield to ward off Hengist’s long-reaching lunge but he did not feel the impact of metal on the leather-bound wood. Hengist skipped to the side, lithe and agile, sure-footed even on the muddy ground. As he moved, he flicked out the tip of his sword behind Beobrand’s shield and opened up a cut on his arm. Beobrand staggered backwards. Off balance. Feeling clumsy. His arm stung. The warmth of blood trickled inside his sleeve.

His mind was in turmoil. Had Hengist really killed Octa and Elda or was he trying to make him lose concentration? Beobrand could not allow that to happen. He pushed the thoughts from his head. He was going to need his full focus and everything he had learnt if he was to have any chance of surviving this fight. He regained his footing and resumed the fighting stance Hengist had taught him.

Hengist laughed. “Come on then, Beobrand. Show us what you’ve learnt.”

They circled each other. Beobrand tense, keeping his guard up, Hengist relaxed and loose, his shield held at his side, his sword dancing in intricate patterns. The watchers were silent. Coenred held his breath.

Hengist attacked again. He led with his shield, crashing boss against boss. He followed through with a cut to Beobrand’s feet, but this time Beobrand anticipated the move and leapt backwards.

They circled again. Each looking intently for signals that would give away the other’s next move.

Beobrand was biding his time. He hoped more than anything for Hengist to make a mistake. He kept his shield up and continued to mirror Hengist’s movements. His shield arm was tiring. The pain from the cut was getting worse. He would have to attack soon.

As fast as a cat, Hengist attacked once more. They clashed shields again, Hengist using his forward momentum and strength to lever Beobrand’s to the side and down. He sent a probing cut with his sword over the shield’s rim, aimed at Beobrand’s face. Beobrand twisted his body and was able to parry the strike with his langseax. Though how, he was not sure. He had barely seen Hengist’s attack. Sparks flashed briefly in the dim light as the two blades collided.

They parted. Beobrand went on the offensive almost instantly in an attempt to catch Hengist by surprise. He wielded his langseax with all his strength and skill, landing a flurry of blows upon Hengist’s shield. Hengist effortlessly deflected all of Beobrand’s attacks. He laughed again. “Is that the best you can do?”

Beobrand could feel his strength sapping. The cut on his arm must be deeper than he had originally thought. Soon he wouldn’t be able to lift his shield at all. He could see no way of breaking down Hengist’s defence. Beobrand had been walking all day, then he had run and now he was losing blood. Hengist was hardly out of breath.

Every time they moved Beobrand could feel his feet shifting and sliding, making him clumsy, slow to react. Hengist seemed unaffected by the poor condition of the ground.

They exchanged more blows, ending up shield to shield. For a moment they were staring at each other. Hengist’s eyes were full of malice, a gleeful violence. Then he gave a shove, lifted his sword up and under Beobrand’s shield, cutting into his side, beneath his ribs.

Beobrand let out a cry and jumped back. Hengist did not press home his advantage; content to watch his young adversary suffer some more before delivering the killer blow.

The pain in Beobrand’s side was excruciating. He wanted to probe it with his fingers to find how bad it was, but he could not risk letting his guard down for a moment. The warmth of his blood soaked into his woollen jerkin. He scanned the faces of the people watching the fight. It looked as if everyone in the village had arrived while he had been fighting Hengist. Now they would all be able to witness his death. At least they now so vastly outnumbered Hengist and Dreng that there was no chance of the two escaping.

“Octa died a coward’s death,” said Hengist. “Alone in the dark. No sword in his hand.”

If Hengist hoped to unnerve Beobrand, his words had the opposite effect.

“You mean you murdered him in the dark when he was not prepared to fight you,” Beobrand panted. “There is no dishonour for my brother. But you are craven. The worst kind of man.”

The pale face of Coenred caught his eye. The young monk was staring at him earnestly, worry etched on his features. But something else too. Could it be pride?

Beobrand said, “It is not dark here and I am armed and ready, Hengist. Come to me and let us finish this.”

Hengist let out a roar and took three bounding steps towards Beobrand, lunging forwards with his sword point, hoping to strike inside Beobrand’s guard.

Beobrand was slow to react. His near exhaustion, coupled with his loss of blood, made him sluggish. He moved to meet Hengist’s charge, but he was too late. Hengist’s sword was aimed at his right shoulder and there was no way he would be able to lift his shield in time. He attempted a desperate leap to one side, but his left foot slipped in the slick mud. He fell, sprawling into the mire.

His timing could not have been more perfect if he had made the move intentionally. Hengist’s sword slid safely over him. Instead of running him through the shoulder, it pierced thin air. Hengist’s speed carried him forward, unable to slow himself down or adjust his attack. His feet crashed into Beobrand’s thighs. He lost his balance and he toppled over on top of Beobrand.

Beobrand instinctively raised his langseax to ward off Hengist’s falling form. His blade sliced into Hengist’s unprotected face. The sharp blade opened up a cut from Hengist’s chin to his left eyebrow. He dropped the sword, let out a shriek and rolled away from Beobrand, clutching his face with both hands.

Beobrand staggered to his feet, not quite sure what had happened. The onlooking crowd let out a ragged gasp. Dreng moved to Hengist’s side. Helped him to his feet. Blood was streaming from the gash in his face. Hengist clamped his right hand to it. His left still clutching his shield. His right eye stared balefully at Beobrand.

“What have you done, you bastard? By Tiw, I’ll eat your heart!” Beobrand stood his ground, swaying slightly, his legs weak. Alric and some of the villagers took a few steps forwards.

Dreng pulled Hengist towards the horses. He helped Hengist onto his horse, then mounted his own. “Come, brother,” he whispered, “You cannot win this fight today.”

“This hasn’t finished!” screamed Hengist. “I will have my revenge on you, Beobrand. I swear it on all the gods.” He had dropped his hands to the horse’s reins, his face a bloody ruin. “I’ll kill you and take back Hrunting. Your life and the sword are both mine.” He turned his steed, kicked his heels to its flanks and galloped away northward.

Dreng followed him, his horse flinging up gobbets of mud in its wake.

A stillness fell on those watching. They stared after the two horsemen until they had been swallowed up by the gloom of the forest road.

Beobrand could not quite believe what had just transpired. He silently thanked Woden, father of the gods. For surely the gods had guided his hand and caused him to slip at exactly the right moment. To think it had been blind luck was too frightening. He began to tremble. He could feel the strength ebbing from his limbs. Perhaps he could go and lie down in the dry of Alric and Wilda’s hut, when a strangely familiar voice penetrated his foggy senses.

“Well, Edwin said you’d be a mighty warrior!” roared the voice.

Beobrand spun round, dizziness blurring his vision. Striding towards him was the hulking figure of Bassus, King Edwin’s champion and Octa’s best friend. He was resplendent in his war gear and leading a chestnut horse. There were several other riders dismounting behind him.

The huge warrior tossed the reins of his horse to Coenred, who was standing looking dumbstruck. Bassus stooped and picked up the beautiful, patterned-bladed sword from the ground where it lay and walked to Beobrand, smiling broadly.

Beobrand was confused. “What? How are you here?” he blurted out.

“Well, there I was thinking you might actually be pleased to see me. I have to say I am pleased to see you. I was sure you were with Octa, drinking in the hall of the gods.” He gave Beobrand an appraising look. Beobrand’s face was gaunt from a winter of sleeping rough and foraging off the land. He had a scar under his left eye. His left arm and side were stained crimson from his injuries. He was soaking wet and covered from head to foot in cloying mud.

“From the look of you, you haven’t got far to go to join your brother.”

With his cloak, Bassus wiped Beobrand’s blood from the sword’s blade, admiring the workmanship. “Well, I never thought to see this sword again. It seems it has chosen to be reunited with the kin of its previous owner.” Beobrand looked at Bassus, confused by his presence.

He proffered the sword to Beobrand, hilt first. “Hrunting was gifted to your brother by King Edwin. It seems it was not lost in the sea after all.”

Beobrand took the sword. “Hengist murdered Octa. I must avenge him…” His voice trailed off.

Bassus placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “We can talk of this later.”

Beobrand was in no state to have a conversation. He was wavering on the verge of consciousness. Bassus turned to the assembled crowd. “My companions and I are travelling north. We mean no harm. We seek refuge here for the night. We will pay well for food and shelter.” The tension eased from the villagers. “But first, let’s get young Beobrand here somewhere warm and dry and his wounds tended to.”

Alric stepped forward. “He can come to my family’s home. Come, Beobrand.” He placed his hand on Beobrand’s arm.

The glazed look left Beobrand’s eyes and he turned to Coenred. “Well, I make us even now. That’s twice I’ve saved you. I told you a son of Grimgundi always repays his debts.”

Bassus stretched his feet out to the fire. He had ridden all day and for many days prior to that, and riding always made his feet cold. The weather since leaving Cantware had been foul. Wind and rain most days, and freezing nights. Still, it was better than travelling by ship, which is what Queen Ethelburga had wanted. He hated sailing more than he hated riding. It was not natural for men to get into fragile wooden boats and travel over vast expanses of endless ocean. Every year, when ships were lost at sea, or wrecked on the rocky coastline of Northumbria, Bassus couldn’t help but feel that the sailors had got what they deserved. You could fall off a horse and get back up with a bruise or a broken bone. Fall out of a ship and you were never coming back to dry land. Ethelburga had said that by sea he would get the message he was carrying to King Eanfrith of Bernicia sooner than if he travelled by road. Bassus had replied that if he drowned, Eanfrith would never get the message, so he would ride.