The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (5 page)

Beobrand had often practised weapon-play with Selwyn, but he had always favoured the sword. Ever since his uncle had taken them to see a smith forging a blade in Cantwareburh. The smith knew Selwyn and had been happy enough to explain to the boys what was required to forge a strong blade. He showed them how twisted rods of iron were heated until they glowed like the setting sun and then beaten together, until they became one. This process was repeated over and over, giving the blade its shimmering patterns and also its inner strength and flexibility. The more strands of iron welded together in this way, and the more different twists each rod had, the stronger and more beautiful the final blade.

“Like the different stories that make up a man’s life. The more twists in each story, and the more stories that are beaten together by life’s adversities, the stronger the man,” Uncle Selwyn said. Beobrand had never forgotten that.

Ever since that moment he had longed to own a sword like that. The blade had called to him.

His uncle had not allowed him to use his own fine sword, but he had crafted wooden practice weapons for his nephews, which they had used whenever they could get away from their duties. The spear seemed unwieldy and slow in comparison, and had never captured Beobrand’s imagination in the way that the long blade of the sword had.

But he had no sword, and the shieldwall stood strong as a forest of spears. Now, with battle so close at hand, Beobrand wished he had devoted more time to learning the use of the ash-hafted spear.

So, when Bassus raised his considerable bulk from the sand and threw a spear to him, Beobrand caught it and made himself ready to learn as much as he possibly could.

This was the life he had chosen for himself. Battle-glory and death. Spear and shield.

The next day they would march south with the fyrd, the host called upon to defend the land. In battle, he would have to kill. That was something that Bassus could not teach. Beobrand thought fleetingly of his father. He was sure he could kill.

With thoughts of killing his mind returned to the man who had murdered Octa. He vowed silently that he would find him. And when he did, he would be ready. Ready to take payment.

They spent the rest of the day practising the techniques needed by a warrior. Bassus concentrated on those skills that would best serve Beobrand in the shieldwall. He showed him how to hold a shield so that it would protect him and be easily brought to bear on different types of attack. Beobrand also learnt how to thrust with a spear effectively.

“Don’t try to poke their eyes out, go for the legs and feet. A man will not be much trouble after he has a spear in his foot!”

Bassus also showed him how to use a spear to pull a shield away from an enemy’s body.

“You have to know what you’re doing, mind, and trust that your shield mate will help you, or else you leave yourself exposed.”

It wasn’t long before Beobrand began to feel the strain. Muscles that he didn’t even know he had in his arms and shoulders started to burn. His forearms began to ache from the constant repetition of lunges with the spear, and his back hurt from hefting the weight of the shield. Worse than the aching muscles was the throbbing in his head from the excesses of the night before. He soon began to feel queasy again.

Bassus was a hard master. He didn’t let him rest until he was satisfied that he had picked up the basics.

He could see Beobrand’s strength was failing and the boy was pale, but he didn’t let him stop.

“You can relax after the battle, not before. You should have thought about this when you offered to carry weapons for Edwin.”

Beobrand groaned. When he had practised with Selwyn, his uncle had always allowed him to rest when he was weary. He had been playing at war then, Selwyn humouring his young nephew. There was no urgency to it then.

“I can see you have been taught something of fighting before, but your stance is all wrong and you know nothing of spear use. Lunge again, let me see you put your weight behind it!”

Beobrand gritted his teeth and persevered as best he could. His stomach churned. He feared he would vomit again if he did not stop soon.

“I know you are tired and regretting the mead from last night, but there is barely any time before we must fight. I’ve already lost one son of Grimgundi. I will not lose another. You will be ready for battle.”

When they finally stopped for a brief meal sweat was pouring from them both. Beobrand flopped down onto the sand and lay panting. Bassus pulled out some cold meat, bread and cheese from a leather bag. Beobrand felt terrible. His muscles were quivering and his head throbbed as if a smith was hammering his brains flat. He swallowed a dry piece of bread and washed it down with some water from a leather flask.

“What was done with Octa’s body?” he asked.

“He was buried, in the way of the Christ god’s followers. His grave is close by. I can show you later.”

“I would like that. Thank you.” He thought of Octa in the dark, smothered under earth. His fair hair mired and matted.

Beobrand’s eyes filled with tears. Bassus discreetly looked out to sea, at the ships pulling away from the shore.

The one good thing about practising so intensely was that he had no time to think about his situation. Or his loss. So, before he could start contemplating things in earnest, he forced himself to his feet and readied himself for more gruelling exercise. Bassus looked surprised at his eagerness, but made no comment.

He stood up and they continued where they had left off.

They were both exhausted and stiff when Bassus called a halt to the training. They picked up their gear and Bassus led the way south, through the dunes and marram grass towards the burial place of Bebbanburg.

“If you keep on training on the march south, you might survive the battle,” he said.

“What will it be like?” asked Beobrand.

“The battle? It will be over before you really know it has started, and by then we’ll know whether you’ve remembered anything of what I’ve taught you. And whether the gods have smiled on you. If wyrd wills it, you will live.”

Beobrand hawked and spat. “The gods don’t seem to favour me at the moment.”

Bassus replied in a serious tone, “You can never tell who the gods will choose to aid in battle, Beobrand. Men who you thought were lucky get cut down in an instant, while some of the wickedest men, with no weapons skill, survive countless wars and die old in their sleep. But one thing that is always true is that a warrior’s first battle is like no other. Some men find they like the killing, others find that they have no stomach for it. Weak men often die quickly, or disgrace themselves by running away or surrendering. The first battle separates the chaff from the wheat.” Bassus fixed him with a stern stare, as if measuring him against something. Octa perhaps.

Still within sight of the fortress crag they reached an open area. There were trees to the west. On the east, the land fell away down a small bluff to the sandy beach. The plot was dotted with long stone slabs marking where previous inhabitants of Bernicia had been buried. On the far western edge, near the trees were some larger, older barrows. They were certainly from many centuries before.

“This place has been used for burial since long before our ancestors travelled across the North Sea,” said Bassus. “A fitting place for Octa to rest.”

He threaded his way between the mounds and stone markers. Beobrand followed him. Both were subdued and quiet. They were careful not to tread on any of the tombs. It would not do to disturb the dead.

“This is where your brother lies.” Bassus stopped before a mound of freshly-turned earth. “I saw that his body was properly prepared for burial. He had taken the Christ faith, as have we all, those who follow Edwin. But I made sure he was buried with a seax and a Thunor’s hammer amulet. I thought it made sense to keep all the gods happy.”

Beobrand nodded his thanks. He was staring at the earth. It was a long grave. Long enough to fit Octa’s tall frame.

Bassus stepped back, giving the young man room. “I will wait for you back at the path. Say farewell, but don’t be too long. I do not want to be here after dark.”

Left alone, Beobrand sank to the ground. His fingers reached for the earth covering Octa’s remains. It was cold, damp and hard. Dead. What had he expected? For there to be warmth coming from his brother’s corpse?

No more tears came. He had cried them all the night before.

“Why did you leave me, brother?” he whispered. “You knew I couldn’t follow you. I couldn’t leave them alone with him.”

Unbidden, his earliest memory came to him. He was four years old and their mother’s screaming had woken him. He had crept from his cot at the back of the house to see what was happening. He had not been scared, merely curious to know what all the noise was about. Fear of his father came later.

The memory was dim and vague, but he clearly recalled Octa standing defiantly between their parents. Octa was some six years his senior, still a child. His slim body had yet to take on the bulk of adulthood that would make him a formidable warrior. Nevertheless he had stood there, hands on his hips and chin thrust forward.

“Don’t you dare touch her again” Octa had said, his voice trembling.

Their mother had got to her feet and tried to placate their father, but he had found a new object for his anger and Octa’s bird-thin, child’s body was no match for Grimgundi’s meaty weight. He had beaten Octa senseless that night. Beobrand had sobbed, begging him to stop. He had been terrified that he would kill him. He had seen lambs and pigs slaughtered and his brother’s white-blond hair had been soaked with so much blood that he’d feared the worst.

He had cried and begged, but he had not stood up to their father. Not then. Not until many years later when Octa was no longer there to protect them.

A rustle made him look up. Had that been the sibilant susurrus of a spirit? He shivered. No, it was just the wind in the trees.

“I know why you left, Octa. You were scared you would kill him, weren’t you? And I always thought you were the brave one. Now they will suffer no more at his hands. Nobody will.”

The wind picked up, making the trees shake and rattle their branches angrily. A cloud blew in front of the sun and the burial ground was plunged into shadowy coolness. He shivered again.

“I don’t know who killed you, but I swear on my life I will seek out your murderer. And when I find him, he will join our father.”

A raven, the messenger of Woden, lifted up from the ground, flapping its huge wings against the stiff breeze. Cawing, it flew over Beobrand.

He stood quickly. He touched Hrothgar’s hammer amulet at his throat and spat into the long grass to ward off evil. He wished to be away from this place. And the memories of the past.

“I will avenge you, Octa. As the gods are my witness, or I will die trying.”

He turned and walked swiftly from the grave. Back towards Bassus, Bebbanburg and his future.

The next morning dawned crisp and cold. There was a light frost dusting everything. It made Beobrand feel as if he had woken up in a different place from the one where he had gone to sleep. It was an uncomfortable feeling, compounded by the fact that the preparations that were going on around him were like nothing he had ever been involved with before. He had never been a part of a warband and had no idea of what to expect. During the long hard days working the fields back in Cantware he had often dreamt about being a warrior, travelling to distant lands and smiting his enemies in glorious battle. After Octa had left, he had dared to hope that one day he might follow him. Selwyn encouraged him with his tales, but he had never really thought it would happen. Now that his dream was a reality he was not sure he had been wise to wish for this.

With the horses’ breath clouding in the chill morning air and the sun just pushing over the horizon, Beobrand wondered whether he would measure up well to his brother. He didn’t feel like a warrior. His arms and shoulders ached terribly from the day before and he could remember little of what Bassus had shown him. He didn’t relish the prospect of physical activity, but seeing the men carrying supplies from the warehouse to the ox-drawn carts, he thought he should offer his help. It would be better than standing there feeling awkward and cold.

Some of the men acknowledged him with a nod, but there was a mood about them that did not invite talk. These thegns knew that many of them would not be standing a few days from now. In the frosty morning light the future seemed more sombre than in the hall with warm mead in their drinking horns. There was an almost ritualistic way in which they prepared the supplies and readied their weapons and armour for the battle. The young warrior, Tondberct, jokingly commented that all the men seemed still asleep. He received such stony looks that he was quickly quiet again. This was a serious moment, and the time for jesting had passed.

When the last of the supplies had been made secure on the carts and the warriors were gathered in front of the main hall, the doors to the king’s abode opened and out strode Edwin. He was resplendent in a coat of burnished metal scales. He wore a helm that carried a golden boar emblem, the faceplate was raised, so that all the warriors and the onlooking women and children could see the countenance of their lord. At his side was strapped the beautifully-crafted, pattern-forged sword that he had wielded two nights previously. Beobrand noted that the blade was still unsheathed, just as the king had promised.