The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (41 page)

He had not travelled all this way to be cut down now by these Waelisc who blocked their path. Sunniva must be inside Bebbanburg and, by Woden, he would see her this day. He looked around him. None of the men looked able to fight.

Acennan was as done in as the next man, but Beobrand clapped him on the shoulder. “Stand up straight,” he said. “Get ready.”

What for? Thought Acennan, bemused at the sudden change in Beobrand.

Beobrand put down the items he had been carrying. He had hardly noticed them when Acennan had handed them to him the previous sunset. But having accepted them, it seemed important to him not to let them go. So he had clutched them through the night, not stopping to think about them. When they had rested he had gripped them tightly, refusing to give them up. Now, in the daylight he was almost surprised to see a shirt of metal rings and a couple of seaxes clatter to the dew-damp grass.

He stretched his arms, massaging the cramps from them and took a few steps towards the Waelisc. He then turned to face the Bernicians. He could feel the Waelisc eyes boring into his back. He felt exposed and nervous, but he ignored the feeling and addressed the men who had marched from Gefrin.

“Hear me!” he bellowed. “Hear me, men of Bernicia. You are tired. We are all tired. But we have already beaten these Waelisc curs once. Shall we lose hope now, in the shadow of the fortress of Bebbanburg? Your families are there. We gave them the time they needed to reach safety. Do you want them to see you dishonoured now? Defeated by these whoresons?”

All the faces were turned towards him now. Scand raised himself up to his full height and joined Beobrand. He gave the young man a nod and said in a hoarse whisper, “You speak well, Beobrand. I had forgotten myself.” He grasped Beobrand’s shoulder “Thank you for reminding me who I am. Who we all are.”

Scand faced the men and said in a strong voice, “Beobrand speaks true. We are men of Bernicia. We are the victors of the battle of the ford of Gefrin. We will stand again shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield, and we will exact more vengeance for the death of our lord king, Eanfrith.”

The mood amongst the men had shifted, like the breeze that changes direction and blows out a torch. Or breathes life into dying embers. A few men heaved themselves to their feet, ready to do their duty once more.

“Stand, my shield brothers. Stand and show these Waelisc that they should fear us. Stand and fight for Bernicia.”

Beobrand picked up the words and repeated them. “For Bernicia!” he shouted. “For Bernicia!”

Acennan joined in, then a few more, and soon all the men were chanting. The noise gave them heart and the last men sitting raised themselves up.

Shields were hefted. The men crowded together into a tight wedge. The warband bristled with spear points.

Pride swelled in Scand’s chest. Moments before, the men had been defeated and now they were a formidable force once more. Hope began to return to him. Perhaps they could win through after all.

Before them, the line of Waelisc stood watching.

Scand could make out the black-clad Gwalchmei leading the troop. Treacherous bastard. He spat. He would put that fine head of his on display from the walls of Bebbanburg before the day was through.

“Nicely done,” Acennan said to Beobrand with a wry smile. “I think you’ve talked us into dying with honour.”

“I have no intention of dying today. I thought that much was clear.” Beobrand reached down and picked up the fine iron-knit shirt he had been carrying all night. “Help me on with this,” he said.

Acennan helped him get the byrnie over his head. He then showed him how to cinch it with his belt, to take some of the weight off of his shoulders.

“It is a fine war harness. Here, see if this fits.” He handed him a helmet that he had been carrying. Beobrand recognised it as having been worn by one of Scand’s closest retinue. It was iron with bronze boars above the cheek guards. They would protect the wearer of the helm. Beobrand chose not to dwell on what had happened to the helmet’s previous owner.

“I cannot take this. It was Beorn’s.”

“Nonsense, he won’t be needing it now.”

He placed it on his head. It was a snug fit, and the metal shirt weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“I’ve seen you fight like a warrior from a saga, now you look the part too.” Acennan slapped him on the back and handed him a shield.

Scand’s battle voice carried over the talking men. “Stand firm, men. The Waelisc approach.”

Acennan and Beobrand raised their shields with the rest of the men. They stood at the centre of the shieldwall. The Waelisc were advancing at a walk. Beobrand scanned their line, looking for Hengist. He could not see him.

All along the Bernician line men began to shout abuse, hammering spear staves and sword hilts into shields. The noise rose to a tumultuous roar.

Someone started the chant again. “For Bernicia! For Bernicia!” With surprise, Beobrand realised it was his voice. Others joined him. The rhythm of the words and the beating crash of iron against linden sounded like a threnody.

The sun rose from behind the rocky outcrop of Bebbanburg. The Bernicians squinted into the light.

Javelins and hand axes flew from the Waelisc shieldwall, arcing across the sky towards them. The projectiles were almost invisible against the harsh sunlight. Men raised their shields instinctively. Someone screamed in pain to Beobrand’s right.

And the Waelisc advanced.

Sunniva’s feet ached. The sole of her left foot hurt whenever she put weight on it. They had walked fast all through the day and well into the night and a blister had formed where her shoe rubbed. The pain and aches of her body from the long walk to Bebbanburg were as nothing when compared to the anguish she felt. She had slept fitfully on the floor of the great hall with the rest of the people of Gefrin. They had been welcomed and the gates of the fortress were thrown open, but no amount of pleading from any of them, not even Queen Finola, could convince Oswald, the lord of Bebbanburg, to go to the aid of Scand. He had been sure that they had been killed. Leaving the safety of the walled fort would bring no good.

The women had cried and wailed that their men should not be abandoned. But the lord would not be swayed.

When the burning of the buildings of Gefrin had lit up the western horizon, they all assumed the worst: Scand had been defeated and the Waelisc were destroying all in their path.

Sunniva had made her way up onto the palisade to see the blaze for herself. She had stared disconsolately into the night. The fires in the distance burnt away her chances at any semblance of happiness. Orphaned, her home destroyed, her lover killed, she wondered why her life had been cursed. Only days ago she had been happily in love. Her father had been warming to Beobrand grudgingly, and she had been blissfully content. Since then her life had been a litany of sadness. Her father’s murder. Burying him next to her mother. Beobrand going away, leaving her alone with her grief. Then, on his return, the attack of the Waelisc and the destruction of her home. Now, seeing the flames, she had known that her happiness was a thing of the past. Beobrand was dead along with her parents and she was alone.

She had awoken early. Unable to rest. The floor was hard and unyielding, her mind full of darkness and despair. It was barely dawn, the courtyard between the buildings was still in shadow from the wooden walls that surrounded Bebbanburg. Above them, clouds were tinged with the pink of sunrise. She stepped gingerly into the coolness of the morning, wincing absently at the stinging in her foot.

All around her was activity. Men ran from buildings. They carried shields and spears. A stocky warrior in a padded jerkin and wearing a visored helm almost ran into her. She sidestepped lithely and wondered what was happening. Had the Waelisc marched on Bebbanburg? It was clear that the men were readying for battle. She could think of no other explanation.

She traced her way back to the ladder she had climbed the night before. She made her way up onto the palisade platform and peered over the edge.

The land to the west was in the shadow of the fortress crag for hundreds of paces. Beyond that, on the horizon, there was a dark pall of smoke where Gefrin still burned. She looked closer, beyond the shadows but still quite near to Bebbanburg.

A group of horses stood there, and beyond them warriors. Arrayed in a shieldwall. She squinted, trying to make sense of what she saw. The warriors had their backs to Bebbanburg. They seemed to be moving away from her. But why?

Then she saw the small group of men standing resolute against the shieldwall and the whole scene fell into place in her mind. Her heart leaped in her chest. It could only mean one thing: there were survivors from Gefrin. They were too far away for her to make out individuals, but hope surged within her.

Beobrand might still be alive.

Beobrand readied himself to fight. His body ached from the previous day’s battle and the gruelling pace of the night march, but he braced himself, trying to summon up some of the certainty he had shown to the others.

The enemy approached. He had a sudden urge to piss. Too late now.

Light glinted from the spear points of the Waelisc shieldwall. The faces of the men advancing on them were in shadow, featureless against the brightness of the early morning sun.

They were very near now.

“For Bernicia!” he chanted, his voice joining the screams and shouts from both sides.

His new helm’s cheek guards reduced his vision, forcing him to look straight ahead. He fixed his eyes on the man directly in front of him. With a start, he saw that his wyrd had served him well. It had brought his enemy, the slayer of his kith and kin, to him.

Hengist stood directly before him. Moments ago he had been just one more of the faceless warriors in the enemy ranks. Now Beobrand could make out every detail of his foe. His black hair was slicked back under a small helm with a nose guard, but there was no mistaking his gait, his size or the horribly scarred face. Beobrand’s tiredness and fear evaporated as quickly as water splashed onto red hot metal. He had been dreaming of this moment. He had faced Hengist before and narrowly escaped with his life. Then he had not been prepared. He had stood in kirtle and trousers armed with a seax.

But now he was armed with his brother’s sword. Now he was decked in battle-dress and war-helm.

Now he was not an untested boy. He had stood in the shieldwall at the ford of Gefrin and the dead had been heaped before him.

Now he would have his revenge.

Hengist stepped closer. He saw a large warrior facing him, face partially covered by a metal helm. His piercing blue eyes bore into him. Those eyes were familiar to him.

At last, Beobrand saw recognition in Hengist’s face.

There was barely a spear’s length between them now. Hengist’s hideously lopsided face cracked into a grin. His teeth flashed white against the red of his scar.

“Time to repay you for my face, boy!” he screamed. “Now you die!”

He leapt forward and the rest of the shieldwall came with him. The line trembled as shields clashed. Both sides heaved and pushed, straining to hold their position.

Over the rim of his shield, Beobrand could see Hengist’s maniacal eyes. He struggled to stand his ground.

“I’m going to enjoy killing you. I should have done for you months ago,” Hengist hissed.

“I will kill you like the dog you are,” returned Beobrand. “Like I killed Dreng, Hafgan and Tondberct.”

Was that a flash of fear in Hengist’s eyes?

Hengist leaned on his shield, using all of his bulk and strength to try to force Beobrand backwards. Then, all of a sudden, the pressure left his shield and Beobrand staggered forward. He caught himself and prepared to parry or deflect the attack that he knew would come. It was a slicing cut aimed at his unprotected shins, but Beobrand skipped backwards, the weight of the armour forgotten, and Hengist’s blade sliced through air.

The battle fury was upon Beobrand now. His senses acute to every nuance of his enemy’s movements. Hengist made a feint at his head, but Beobrand recognised it and was ready with his shield to block the low cut that followed it. A thrust at his midriff was easily turned away on the rim of his shield. When Hengist made to lunge forward with his shield boss, Beobrand soaked up the blow on his own shield, twisted his body and delivered a slicing cut to Hengist’s forearm.

The two warriors pulled back, each now breathing heavily.

All along the line men were grunting and shouting abuse. Screams of the injured and dying mingled with the mad laughter of warriors wallowing in the glory of battle. All was accented by the clash and crash of metal on metal.

Hengist was wary now. Beobrand had drawn first blood. The cut to his arm was superficial and not long, having been partially stopped by the leather wrist guard he wore. He could hardly feel it, but he could see the blood oozing from the wound.

It was Beobrand who now pushed the attack. He sprang forward. He was certain of the outcome of the attack. He would catch Hengist off guard and find his mark again with his fine blade. Taking Hengist’s head from his shoulders.

But the gods laugh at men who believe themselves free from danger. In his overconfidence and pride, he lifted his shield away from his body, swinging Hrunting with his right hand in a sweeping arc aimed at Hengist’s neck.