The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (31 page)

It was cool in the shade of the trees. Pleasant after the hot sun that had beat down from the clear sky. The sweat cooled on his brow. The pungent smell of wood smoke was stronger now. As they drew near to their destination, the cart’s right wheel slipped off the path into a hollow. The cart listed abruptly to the side and Strang was pleased it hadn’t been piled high with charcoal; he’d have lost much of the load. He hadn’t been paying attention, relying on the ox to follow the path. He’d been lulled into a thoughtful reverie by the silence and shade of the woodland track.

Silence.

Strang was suddenly aware of the hush that was on the forest. On a warm spring day there should have been many sounds surrounding them. The song of birds. The rustle of the movement of animals in the trees. The quiet buzzing of insects flitting in the undergrowth. But there was no sound. They were close enough to the clearing that he should have been able to hear the charcoal men talking.

A feeling of unease settled on Strang like a cloying mist.

The ox had stopped as the cart tipped to the right and Strang now made his way back round to the wheel. He used his bodyweight and strength to push the cart upright, at the same time clicking his tongue and giving the ox the order for walking forward. He had to push for some time and raise his voice before the ox did as instructed. Eventually, the cart was lifted from the ditch and was once more on the path. The small keg of mead had fallen over and Strang righted it. He also picked up his large axe that had been resting in the back of the cart.

Tentatively now, unsure of what to expect, but unsettled by the stillness, he urged the ox forward once more. He pulled it to a halt just before they reached the clearing. He could see the fires were burning. There were three large, earth-covered mounds in the clearing, each seeping smoke, making the space between the trees hazy in the midday sun. He could see no people. Strang knew that the fires needed constant attention to make sure that the burning wood was not consumed in its entirety, so the absence of the charcoal men was not only unusual, it was unheard of.

He gripped his axe with both hands and stepped into the clearing.

“Hail!” he called. Hopefully the men were off in the trees for some reason and would now come back to meet him. He felt foolish to be so nervous.

Then he saw the feet. Protruding from behind the closest mound. He took a small step forward to get a better look. His knuckles were white on the axe handle.

The hair on his neck bristled. The feet belonged to one of the charcoal men. An elderly man who Strang had known for years. His body was contorted in an unnatural position. His death had been violent. Blood covered his soot-smeared clothing. The red wetness of it almost shone in the hazy light. Fresh blood.

Movement behind him made Strang spin around, letting out a small, involuntary gasp of surprise.

Several men made their way out from where they had been hidden behind the mounds or in the trees. They were a rough looking bunch and all were armed. Some even wore pieces of armour and carried shields. The man closest to Strang held a seax which was smeared in recently-spilled blood. He was old, and when he licked his lips, Strang saw he had only a few rotten-looking teeth in his smiling maw.

A voice from behind him made him spin around again.

“Well, welcome to our little feast. Thank you for bringing along something to drink. It’s been thirsty work.”

From between two of the charcoal mounds stepped a tall warrior. He walked with the relaxed confidence of one assured in his power. He was clad in leather and metal, his hair was dark and unkempt. He exuded strength and malevolence in equal measure.

Strang stared at the man’s face. If he needed any further proof of what had happened and what was soon to pass, that face took any doubt from his mind. It was hard, with dark shadows veiling the eyes. And it was horribly disfigured. A raw, red, seeping scar ran from the man’s left eyebrow all the way down to his lightly-bearded chin. When he smiled, the scar seemed to smile too, pulling his face into a distorted mask. The other side of his face was undamaged, and he would probably once have been handsome. But he was now repulsive. His was a ghoulish face, like some monster stepping from the darkness of a mead hall tale into the light of day.

Strang shivered. Then raised his axe.

He was painfully aware of the men encroaching on him from behind, but unwilling to turn his back on the monstrous warrior before him.

He drew himself up to his full height.

Ready to fight.

He smiled, a small private smile at his optimism. But Etheswitha had always said he was a terrible liar. He certainly couldn’t fool himself.

He was not just ready to fight.

He was ready to fight. And to die.

Beobrand and Sunniva made their way back to Gefrin as the sun was setting. The great hall stood out on the horizon, bathed in golden light, details of each plank picked out in harsh relief. Clouds were gathering in the east, far out over the unseen sea. A breeze was picking up and a slight chill was in the air.

They did not feel cold. They walked close together, touching frequently with a newfound intimacy.

An elderly woman who was feeding slops to a pig saw them and smiled. She remembered when she had been young and in love.

The couple walked on, oblivious of the looks of the villagers and the warriors lounging near the great hall. They were intent on their own company.

The forge was quiet and dark when they arrived. The cart was not there and they couldn’t see Strang on the road. Sunniva had expected him to be home before her. She had been preparing her excuses for when he questioned where she had been.

Finding the house empty broke the spell that had settled over them since their love making in the afternoon sun. Sunniva was suddenly worried. It was unlike her father to be late.

“Don’t worry,” said Beobrand, stroking her arm. “Perhaps the cart has broken a wheel, or the ox has turned lame. He’ll probably be here soon.”

Beobrand could see she was getting anxious and a tiny worm of unease worked its way into his mind. “Come on, let’s go inside and light a fire. It’s getting cold. I’ll wait with you until he arrives.”

“He’ll be furious if he comes in to find you here.”

“I’ll worry about that when he arrives. I’m not leaving you alone.”

She lit a fire on the hearth and prepared food. They waited. A long time later, when neither of them thought he would return that night, but hoped he was sheltering until morning, it started to rain.

Sunniva began to cry quietly. She didn’t mean to, but the thought of her father out in the darkness and the rain, injured or worse, was too much.

“Hush, my love.” Beobrand caressed her hair. It felt good to provide comfort to her. She rested her head in his lap and closed her eyes.

“Do you think he’s dead?” she asked.

“Shhhh. Do not think such things. I will go and find him tomorrow.”

She didn’t speak any further and after a time, her breathing became rhythmic.

He watched her in the dim light of the embers and thought of wyrd. His life had changed irrevocably in the last months, but the turns and twists in the paths he’d trodden had brought him to this beautiful creature. He closed his eyes, listening to the rain and wind buffeting the small house, and thought of the afternoon they had spent together. She had unleashed a passion in him that he had not known. They had made love with ferocious tenderness and had later lain together in the warmth of the sun, the sweat drying on their skin. They had dozed in each other’s embrace, truly content.

Alone here with her now, in the warm glow of the dying fire, he was still content. But he was not sure what the morning would bring. He hoped Strang would be found in good health.

If not, he feared their happiness would be short-lived.

CHAPTER 17

The rain lashed down with a vehemence that would have seemed impossible the day before. It was hard to believe that the skies had been clear and the weather warm for weeks before this stormy downpour. Beobrand made an effort to pull his cloak around his shoulders to offer some protection from the elements, but he needed his other hand for the reins of the horse he was riding, so his attempts did not get him far. He tried to bring back the memory of the previous afternoon with Sunniva. Something warm and happy to think about, rather than the cold and wet trail he was on, but any happiness seemed as far away as the sun.

He rode at the head of a group of eight riders. To his left was Scand, who had insisted on joining them on the search for the smith. The old thegn’s face was a stern mask of determination, his eyes squinting against the wind and rain dripping from his grey beard. Beobrand had gone to him in the morning when Strang had failed to arrive back at the forge. Sunniva had been distraught with worry, but he had promised her he’d find her father. Scand had cursed the news that the smith was missing. It had been foolish for the craftsman to travel alone, but he was angry at himself for not thinking to have the man watched and guarded. They had no other smith in Gefrin. Scand had quickly gathered a small band of men together, led by Acennan, Beobrand’s old foe, who had acknowledged him with a nod. While they had armed themselves, Scand had ordered bondsmen to prepare provisions for the men for a couple of days riding and to saddle eight horses.

“Do you know where he was going?” he’d asked Beobrand.

“Yes. Sunniva says follow the path that leads to the forest and then continue into the trees for a short way to the charcoal men’s clearing. Half a day’s walk.”

So they had set out into the rain, not riding hard, instead preserving the horses in case they needed to push them later. They made good time and were soon walking the horses into the forest. The rain still fell hard, but the noise of the storm was softened by the trees. The wind had abated somewhat but the rustling of the leaves and the sounds of the horses and men moving along the path prevented them hearing anything from a distance.

The men did not talk as they approached the clearing. They were subdued. A foreboding had fallen over them. The smell of smoke from the fires reached them first, then, as they stepped into the clearing, a different smell. Strangely familiar, yet out of place. The smell of cooked meat.

They found Strang on one of the charcoal fire mounds.

The mound had been partly broken, letting the embers inside spill out. Strang’s body had been thrown onto the burning charcoal. The wood still smoked, hissing where the rain hit it. Steam and smoke swirled around the smith’s body. His head and shoulders lay in the fire. His hair had burnt away. The face was blackened and charred, lips pulled back from the teeth in a grisly smile.

Some of the men crossed themselves. Others spat and touched the iron of their weapons. A few did both.

There was evil here that must be warded off.

None of them wanted to touch Strang.

Beobrand stared for a long time at what was left of Sunniva’s father. With his death, his hopes of happiness fled. The gods must be laughing at him.

Scand and the others searched the rest of the clearing. They found three charcoal men dead. All of them had been stabbed or cut, but not burnt. The men carried the bodies into the centre of the clearing and lay them out next to each other.

“I’ll need some help to move Strang,” Beobrand said eventually. He no more wanted to touch the smith than the others did, but the man could have become his kin one day. Besides he would not be able to face Sunniva if he did not remove him from the fire.

To his surprise, Acennan stepped forward. Their eyes met, they exchanged a slight nod of understanding and together lifted the huge body. The body was warm and pliant in Beobrand’s hands. He suppressed a shudder of disgust.

They lay it down next to the others.

They found a fifth body on the edge of the clearing, just within the tree line. This one had been struck a terrible blow to the head. The top of the skull was caved in. Bone, blood and brain matter was splattered over the face and the long black hair. They stretched him out with the other corpses.

“Do you think it was Cadwallon’s men?” one of the men asked.

Scand shook his head. “No, at least not in numbers. From the signs there was only a handful of men here. But whoever did this must pay. These men were men of Bernicia. Strang was a freeman and his death cannot be left unpunished. You men, help me get the bodies onto the horses. We’ll walk back to Gefrin.” He signalled to two of the men who lifted one of the bodies and began to secure it to a horse.

“Acennan, take Beobrand and the others and hunt these man-slayers down. Their tracks are fresh and they seem to have taken the smith’s cart, so they should be easy to follow. We will see to it that these five men are laid to rest in the proper way.”

“Four of them,” said Beobrand quietly.

“What?”

“Four of them should be treated with respect.” He was looking intently at the fifth body, with the massive injury to the head.

“What are you saying?” asked Scand.

“This fifth one is Waelisc and helped to kill these men.”

“How do you know?”