The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (7 page)

Images from the last six months flooded his mind. Edita’s tiny body, swaddled in a shroud being lowered into the ground. Rheda, sweet Rheda, her hollow eyes boring into his as he mopped her burning brow with a cool cloth. She tried to smile for him even then. His mother, shaking with fever, lying on the straw-stuffed mattress, soaked in sweat, reaching out to clench his hand in a grip that belied her frailty.

“Don’t stay here, Beobrand!” she had hissed. “You have nothing to bind you here now. I know you wish to be gone, to seek out your brother. You were meant for greater things than tilling the land, my son.” She had closed her eyes. Her breathing was so shallow he’d thought her spirit had left.

Then her eyes had opened again and she had spoken for the final time, summoning all her strength to say those last words.

“You…are…not…your…father’s…son…”

What had she meant? He would never know. Her breath had left her with a sigh and his father’s bones now lay in the charred remains of his house.

“Wake up, boy!” Bassus’ gruff voice brought Beobrand back to the present. To the battle. To kill or be killed.

All of his dreams with Octa and Selwyn had come to this. He had taken heed of his mother’s words and left Hithe. His father had confronted him for the last time. He was a farm boy no longer. He was a warrior in Edwin of Northumbria’s warband.

He cast a glance at Bassus and the huge warrior flashed his teeth in a grin.

The sun was just beginning to peak out over the trees, shedding a pale light over the battlefield. The Northumbrian warriors cast long shadows in front of them.

“Come, my countrymen!” shouted Edwin. “The moment of truth is now upon us. You have answered my call to the fyrd and stand here shield to shield with your kinsmen in defence of the land that is ours by right of blood.

“I am Edwin, son of Aella, direct descendant of Woden. The blood of the old gods flows in my veins and the new God, the Christ, is on our side. Paulinus has blessed us in His name and I have promised to build Him a great church when he grants us victory.

“We cannot be defeated this day. Together we will send these pagans to hell where they belong.

“I will quench my sword’s thirst in the blood of these Waelisc and Seaxon Mercians.”

He flourished his fine battle-blade above his head. It glinted in the dim sunlight.

“Take up your weapons with me. Guide them with cunning and might.

“Kill them all! Attack them now and kill every one of them!”

“For Edwin!” came back the raucous response from the host, Beobrand’s voice as loud as the next man’s.

The shieldwall surged forward. Beobrand felt his shield bang against the man on his left as they ran. He tried to keep pace and to hold his shield in the right position. He could hardly believe what was happening; what had been a distant dream was now vivid reality. And then there was no more time for thinking. The men around him let fly their javelins with shouts of defiance. At the same time, the enemy threw theirs. Beobrand had no javelin but he watched as the light throwing spears were silhouetted against the sky. Those of each side mingled together at the apex of their flights, and then he could see the burnished point of one spear glinting as it fell straight towards him.

He raised his shield above his head and kept running. Something hit the rim of the shield, but he was not wounded. The man to his left screamed, tripped and fell. Beobrand caught a glimpse of a javelin piercing the man’s right leg just above the knee. He looked away. The enemy were mere steps away.

The two shield lines crashed together like waves hitting a cliff. Beobrand’s shield smashed against another. He pulled back, trying to get an opening at the warrior in front of him. As he did so, he realised it was a mistake. His opponent, a brutish, red-bearded Waelisc, wearing a leather helm, pushed hard as he stepped back. Beobrand lost his balance and fell sprawling to the muddy ground. The Waelisc warrior, smiling at how easily he had broken through the shieldwall, pulled back his spear for the killing blow. Beobrand tried to rise, but the Waelisc moved in too quickly for him to get to his feet.

But at the moment the spear point came hurtling towards Beobrand’s exposed chest, Bassus turned and parried the blow with an over arm swing of his barbed spear. He swung with such force that the warrior lost his grip. The spear fell harmlessly to the ground next to Beobrand.

With practised skill and uncanny agility, Bassus thrust his spear into the Waelisc’s wooden shield. The barbs caught, and Bassus leant on the spear shaft, using his weight to pull the shield down.

“Now, boy!” Bassus shouted, struggling to hold on to his spear and avoid the cleaver-like blade the Waelisc had unsheathed. Beobrand scrambled to his feet. He snatched up his spear and, letting out a roar that was lost in the tumult of battle, thrust his spear at the Waelisc’s midriff. The man attempted to parry, but was hampered by his trapped shield. He only succeeded in deflecting the spear upwards towards his unprotected face. With all Beobrand’s weight behind the thrust the point grazed over the man’s right cheekbone and pierced his eye. He collapsed instantly and the sudden dead weight on his spear pulled Beobrand down. He stumbled, landing in a heap on the warrior’s twitching corpse.

The anvil sound of metal on metal and the screams and grunts of warriors crashed around him. He struggled to free his spear from the eye socket of the warrior, but it was lodged fast. He pulled for a few heartbeats and then remembered the seax that Bassus had given him. He unsheathed it. It felt natural in his grip and with abandon, he threw himself into the rift in the shieldwall. He had killed an enemy and all his fear had vanished like morning dew in the light of the sun. The noise of battle subsided around him and an inner calm washed over him.

A snaggle-toothed man with blood-shot eyes, peeked over a shield in front of him. Beobrand’s seax flicked out over the shield and rammed down the man’s throat. Bassus was screaming beside Beobrand, hacking and slashing with his sword, splinters from the enemies’ shields making a dusty cloud about him. The Northumbrian line was moving forward. A fallen warrior clawed at Beobrand’s leg, whether friend or foe, Beobrand neither knew nor cared. Battle lust was upon him and he had no time for the wounded. He stamped on the man’s fingers, feeling them snap under his foot and pushed his shield forward to meet the next enemy.

The enemy shieldwall parted and a grey-haired man wearing a fine suit of scale mail stood before him. He was wielding a blood-drenched sword and there was a pile of corpses at his feet. Beobrand thought not of the danger. He saw a gap in the line and walked forward to fill it. The old warrior looked surprised and almost saddened as Beobrand, with no armour and only a splintered shield and short seax for protection, walked towards him.

Something in the warrior’s grim features penetrated through the red mist that had descended on Beobrand. He looked around to see where Bassus and the other Northumbrians were, searching for aid against this mighty warrior. Too late he saw that he had become cut off from his shieldwall. The tide of the battle had shifted and the Mercians and Waelisc had outflanked the Northumbrians. Edwin’s host had fallen back towards the encampment, leaving Beobrand stranded and surrounded by enemies.

CHAPTER 4

Death surrounded him.

Screams of the dying mingled with the clash of weapons, creating a hellish cacophony.

The foetid bowel-stench of the slain hung over the battlefield, the miasma of defeat.

The calm that had made him formidable moments before had vanished as quickly as it had come.

Beobrand faced the grey-haired warrior. His legs were heavy. His stomach in turmoil. The warrior strode down the slope towards him. Beobrand struggled to lift his shield and seax in a menacing manner.

The grim warrior swung his sword, effortlessly swatting the seax from Beobrand’s hand. Beobrand stepped backwards, vainly attempting to raise his shield. All strength had fled from his limbs. His right hand throbbed from the sword blow. The shield in his left was too heavy, as if being dragged down by unseen forces.

He knew then, looking into the dire, grey eyes of the warrior, that he was going to die. From deep within himself, a spark was rekindled. If his wyrd was for him to die this day, he would at least die fighting. Not cowed and mewling like a woman.

He scooped up a fallen spear and stood tall; straightening his back, squaring his shoulders. He would not die so easily. This old man would regret attacking Beobrand, son of Grimgundi.

Letting out a scream of defiance against all that the gods had taken from him, Beobrand charged towards his enemy. Too late, he saw the old warrior step nimbly to the side. The momentum of his headlong rush carried him forward. He stumbled, off balance. He tried to recover his balance, to bring his shield to bear. But it was hopeless. The linden-wood board was too heavy. He was too slow.

Before he could regain his footing, he was struck a jarring blow to the temple.

Dazed, he staggered and then fell back onto the corpse of the snaggle-toothed warrior.

He looked up at the sky, unable to move. Carrion crows circled, patiently awaiting the feast that the battle-play would provide. The noises of death and battle grew in his ears, became distorted. The grey clouds scudding in the sky turned crimson.

He fought to retain consciousness. His thoughts became addled. His sight faded. So, this is what was it to die. Beobrand’s hold on middle earth slipped.

His mind turned to Octa. He would see him soon.

Beobrand came round to the sound of laughter. Voices, indistinct and distant, sang a bawdy song. Somewhere far off someone was screaming. He could feel cool water hitting his face. His head ached and there was a sharp pain in his chest as he breathed. He tried to open his eyes but found that the left one would not obey his command. With his right eye he could see that the sky was darkening and the water that hit his face was rain.

He couldn’t move his arms. He lifted his head and looked down to see what was impeding their movement. He immediately saw what was causing the pain in his chest. A warrior lay face down on top of him. The boss of his shield was pressed into Beobrand’s ribs, the man’s weight on it. The warrior’s head had been smashed, a mess of dried blood, bone and matted hair. The stench of death slowly pervaded Beobrand’s awareness.

He felt faint and let his head fall back. He twisted his head towards the sound of voices and could just make out the shadows of men, silhouetted in front of a large fire. Next to the fire stood the wolf standard of Penda and the grisly skull totem of Cadwallon. So, Edwin had lost the battle.

And Beobrand had survived. He should have given his life with honour. It was the duty of a warrior to die with his lord. But now the thought of death in battle seemed less noble than it had that morning. He had seen it first-hand. He had killed two men. Seen the life fade in their eyes. Heard the wails of the wounded. Smelt the blood and shit of spilt innards. And now here he lay, covered in cloying blood, both his own and that of others. Gone were the dreams engendered by Selwyn’s tales on the mead benches. The truth of the shieldwall would make poor songs. He was lucky to be alive, he knew, and he would have to be careful if he wanted to live through the night. If Penda and Cadwallon’s men should discover him, all would be lost.

From the way he was feeling Beobrand was certain that he wouldn’t be able to move very quickly, let alone fight. He decided to wait till nightfall before attempting to get up. With luck, the men would be too busy celebrating their victory to search for survivors amongst the enemy fallen.

In preparation for making his escape he began to move his arms and legs slowly, flexing his muscles, working the long period of inactivity from them. The rain was falling harder now and within moments he was soaked.

By the time it was dark enough to stand without being seen from the camp, Beobrand was shivering uncontrollably. He carefully slid out from under the corpse that had partially shielded him from view. The pain in his ribs was much worse now and he bit his lip to avoid crying out. He lay there, beside the body, on the muddy ground, and willed himself to get up. He reached up to gingerly touch his left eye, thinking that it may have been stuck closed with dried blood. The side of his head throbbed and the eye was swollen and tender to the touch. It would not open. No wonder he had been left for dead. His face must look awful.

He sat up carefully. He felt dizzy at once and the jolt of pain in his chest made his vision blur. His breathing came in ragged gasps and he began to believe he wouldn’t be able to stand.

If I don’t get up, I’ll be as good as dead.

He felt the hard wet shaft of a spear under his hand and grasped it. With its help he managed to finally haul himself upright, but the effort caused him a wave of nausea and dizziness. He stood for a few moments, panting in the dark, the rain driving down. He trembled and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering. He had no idea where he could go on foot in his condition, but it was clear to him that the best way to begin would be away from his enemies’ camp.

He was preparing to make a start when he heard voices raised in anger. They were very close by, only the dark and the rain had prevented him from being discovered. He stood still and tried not to breathe. The voices had been lowered and he could not make out where they had come from. Suddenly, seemingly right next to him, Beobrand heard the voices talking in loud whispers.