Kin of Cain

by Matthew Harffy

  It was the sound of his father.

  Three

  The morning was crisp, the sky bright and pale over the hills surrounding Gefrin. The valley and the hall were still in shadow when they left. Edwin had provided his thegns with fine horses from his stables. Banstan, as pallid as the frost-licked grass of the hills, walked before them. He had been commanded to lead them to where the beast had attacked. He trembled and shook as he walked and Octa noticed the shepherd brushing tears from his cheeks when he believed nobody was watching. Banstan was a broken man, but he had straightened his back at Edwin’s order and nodded. He would not again turn away from his duty.

  At Banstan’s side padded a scrawny, tan-and-white sheepdog. It too seemed crestfallen, ears down, tail low, as if it regretted not being able to defend its master’s son from the beast that had attacked in the dark. Where it had been when Banstan came to the hall, Octa did not know. Perhaps it had fled and only returned in the light of day. But like its master, though scared, the animal looked determined to do what was required of it.

  As they made their way towards the rising sun, Octa glanced back at the great hall of Gefrin. Beyond the hall, with its painted doors and glistening shingle roof stood the wooden bones of a new structure. A strange building that Paulinus had begged the king to allow him to build. It was not yet finished, but Octa believed it would be somewhere for the priest to address many men on raised platforms. He shrugged. The ways of priests were strange. Reaching to his side, he once again checked that his seax was in its sheath.

  None of the other riders seemed to show any fear, which only served to make Octa all the more acutely aware of his own anxiety.

  At the front of the group rode Bassus, the king’s champion. He was huge, skilled in combat and seemingly frightened of nothing. He wore a byrnie of iron and a great woollen cloak, trimmed with fur. A fine sword hung from his belt. Octa liked him. The older warrior had treated him like a younger brother ever since Octa had arrived in Bernicia. They practised the use of blade, spear and shield together. Bassus was a good teacher and Octa had quickly grown in battle-skill.

  Next to Bassus was his close friend, Gram. Gram was almost as tall as Bassus, but slimmer. As straight as a spear, was how Bassus had described him to Octa. He had not merely been referring to his stature and bearing. Gram was loyal and direct. Quick to laugh, yet cunning in battle. A formidable warrior.

  Young Wiglaf sat astride a brown mare. Wiglaf was a quiet one. Smaller in stature than the others, and yet there was a solidity about him that Octa liked. Wiglaf never seemed to move quickly, but he was not slow. His eyes, fast and inquisitive, like silver fish darting beneath a frozen lake, spoke of a rapid wit.

  Unferth was the oldest of the thegns. He carried a great sword at his side. Warrior rings adorned his arms. His byrnie and helm were polished and caught the morning sunlight. He had seldom spoken to Octa before. He rarely smiled, treated the younger warriors with contempt and never uttered a pleasant word. Unferth’s hair, perhaps once thick and long, was now thin and streaked with grey. His war gear and rings attested to his prowess in battle, but that was not enough to make Octa like the man.

  Perhaps sensing Octa’s gaze, Unferth turned in his saddle to frown at him.

  Octa’s face grew hot, despite the chill morning air. He spurred his mount forward, towards Bassus and friendlier companions.

  Banstan turned at his approach, terror pulling at his features. Octa chose to ignore the man’s fear. To mention it would only shame him further.

  “How far until we reach the place?” Octa asked.

  Banstan swallowed and pointed to the east.

  “Not long, lord,” he said, the tremor in his voice unmistakable. “We graze the sheep over that ridge. The gods alone know how many that creature took. And if not him, the wolves will have got to them. We’ll starve now. That’s for sure.”

  He lowered his head and trudged on, brushing at his face with the heel of his hand.

  Life was harsh. Octa had no idea how many mouths Banstan had waiting for him back at Gefrin, but to lose livestock would be devastating. He wondered whether the man and his family would need to place their heads in Edwin’s hands before the winter was over. The shepherd had lost so much, Octa hoped he would not need to accept such a further blow to his pride. Of course, it could be that Banstan would manage, he thought grimly, with one less mouth to feed.

  They crested the hill. The sun, still low in the sky, shone brightly on their faces. Octa squinted.

  Scrubby grass, heather and bracken covered a long slope that ended in a dark wood of aspen and ash. Beyond that, Octa knew, lay more hills and forests before turning to marshland and then the sea. Mist still clung to the edge of the woods and in the deeper valleys. Off to the left and some way down the hillside seven or eight shaggy sheep cropped at the grass. A path of trampled grass and worn earth led down the slope. There was movement on the path, before it reached the trees. A dark shape writhed and fluttered there, surrounded by smaller shapes that heaved and pulsated.

  Octa trembled and reached for his seax. What evil was this? Was the nihtgenga there still, gorging itself on the flesh of its victim?

  Banstan let out a cry. His dog growled, its hackles raised.

  Wiglaf kicked his horse into a canter and rode towards the dark forms on the path. As he approached Wiglaf yelled.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  What was he doing? He was brave, or moonstruck. But he too was one of Edwin’s gesithas; one of Octa’s shield-brothers. And Octa could not leave him to stand alone against the evil that lurked there.

  He spurred his own steed forward. A moment later he understood what he had seen from the hilltop. There was no night-goer here. Was the sun not in the sky? There was no gloom for a shadow-stalker to hide in. Unless it stared at them from the shelter of the forest…

  The moving lumps on the earth were the remains of the creature’s feast.

  At Wiglaf’s shouts, flocks of carrion crows flapped angrily into the sky. They screeched their displeasure at having their own banquet interrupted. Some could barely fly, so engorged with food were they. They hopped away from the riders, cawing beaks red, wings as black as a winter’s night.

  Wiglaf dismounted. And bent to examine what the birds had left.

  Octa reined in and slid from the saddle. The horse shied at the smell of the blood and he had to grip the reins tightly to avoid losing his mount.

  Stepping forward, his stomach churned. His mouth filled with liquid. He breathed shallowly, willing himself not to puke.

  Bassus, Gram and Unferth trotted up, but none dismounted. Behind them, Banstan began to keen and moan.

  “Breca,” he sobbed, running forward.

  Bassus took one glance at the grisly piles of flesh and bone and turned his horse towards the shepherd.

  “Banstan, do not approach,” he said, his words clipped, his tone commanding. “Go, fetch your sheep yonder.”

  Banstan took a couple more tottering steps towards the gathered warriors.

  “But, Breca… my boy…” he whimpered.

  “You can do nothing now for him.” Bassus’ voice softened. “Think of your family. They’ll be needing you to bring back those sheep if you are to survive the winter.” Banstan looked up at the mounted thegn, eyes wide, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked cheeks. “Do as I say, Banstan, son of Banstan. We will see to your son.”

  Banstan drew in a shuddering breath and staggered away, towards his sheep. He let out a piercing whistle, and his dog raced towards the small flock of sheep.

  “Well?” Bassus enquired of Wiglaf and Octa.

  “It is as the man told us in the hall,” Wiglaf replied, his tone jagged and tight. He swallowed. “There is a sheep, and the body of a boy. Both have been ripped and rent with great savagery. I’ve never seen anything like this. No wolf or bear would do this.”

  Octa squared his shoulders, choking back the bile that rose in his throat. He would not disgrace himself. His horse snorted, p
ulling away, so he handed his reins to Bassus. He moved closer to the corpse. He did not wish to look more closely, but Bassus had told him of the importance of knowing an enemy. To see how the shadow-walker had killed might prove useful come nightfall.

  The sheep’s innards were strewn over the path. Congealed blood and shit caked the hard, cold earth. Octa stepped over the guts and approached the corpse. He forced himself to kneel beside the bloody mess. The grass was wet and cold. White shards of splintered bone protruded from the chest. One leg was at an impossible angle. The shoe and leg wraps had been ripped off and now lay a few paces away, strewn on the grass. The stench of death filled his nose.

  Octa closed his eyes. He did not want to look further. But he could sense the eyes of the other warriors on him. They were waiting. He cast his gaze once more over poor Breca’s remains. The boy’s kirtle and breeches were shredded tatters and stained brown. The twisted bare leg was missing several chunks of flesh that had seemingly been ripped away. The ribs appeared to have been ground and scraped clean of meat. No. Not scraped. Gnawed. He thought he could detect grooves made by teeth on the ribs.

  He stood shakily. He had seen enough. But there was something else. He wished he had stayed on his horse.

  For an instant, he thought he might win the battle with his stomach, but then, in a rush, he took two quick steps away from the corpse and vomited noisily. He spat and looked in disgust at the steaming puddle at his feet. He was full of shame and yet, when he looked up at Bassus and the others, there was no reproach on their faces.

  “Do not be ashamed, Octa,” said Bassus. “The sight and smell would be enough to unman many.”

  Octa wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “It is not that,” he said, and spat again to be rid of the vile taste in his mouth.

  “Then what?” asked Bassus.

  “The boy’s head is gone.”

  Four

  It fell to the two youngest warriors to dig Breca’s grave. Expecting to find the body, they had brought spades. The older men led the horses away from the stink of death, leaving Wiglaf and Octa to do the hard work. Banstan approached as they set about digging into the hard earth, but once again, Bassus stopped him.

  “I want to see my Breca once more before you bury him,” he said.

  “No, Banstan,” said Bassus in a soothing voice. “Remember him as he was in life. Take those sheep and return to Gefrin. If you leave now you will be there well before the setting of the sun. Tell our king that we mean to track the creature. When we find it, we will avenge Breca and all the others it has slain.”

  Banstan did not argue. Perhaps the mention of the setting sun was enough to goad him into action. He turned silently and made his way back up the hill, towards where his dog held the sheep in check.

  Towards Gefrin, and safety.

  Sweat plastered Octa’s fair hair against his forehead. He pushed the iron-edged wooden blade of the shovel into the earth, levered up another clump of mud and lifted it to one side. Wiglaf worked from the other end of the grave. They both toiled in silence. Soon Octa’s shoulders and back were aching. He dug quickly, wanting to be done with the task. But that would only mean he would need to touch Breca’s corpse all the sooner. The thought filled him with revulsion.

  When the hole was long and deep enough, Wiglaf and Octa stood for a moment, catching their breath. Octa stretched and rubbed the small of his back. Being tall, he had needed to stoop.

  “Come, you two,” said Bassus. “Get the boy in the ground so that we can find this bastard monster. Gram has found its tracks.”

  Octa looked to Wiglaf, who sighed and nodded.

  Some of the greedier, or braver crows had returned to the corpse. Wiglaf threw a clod of earth at them, sending them cawing once more into the sky. Together, Octa and Wiglaf half-lifted and half-dragged Breca’s remains into the grave, using his clothing as much as possible to avoid touching the cold skin. The sharp point of a splintered bone grazed the back of Octa’s hand. He shuddered. Had the others seen? He looked at Wiglaf. He too was pale, grim-faced, jaw set. Octa glanced up the hill. Banstan was gone, along with the sheep.

  Gram came to the grave.

  “I found this yonder,” he said, placing both ends of a snapped spear into the grave beside Breca’s mangled body. “He might be wanting it where he’s going.”

  Octa and Wiglaf picked up their shovels once more and started filling in the shallow hole.

  When the earth was packed down on the small mound, the five warriors stood huddled around the forlorn grave.

  They stood in silence for a long while. Crows cried out at them from where they sat on the slope. They had returned to the sheep, covering it in black. Some of the birds flew lazily above their heads. Perhaps they were in search of more meat now that they had been robbed of their feast.

  “Breca, we did not know you,” said Bassus, “but we heard how you fought to defend your sheep and your father. You were a brave lad. You did what any man could do. You faced your enemy and died with a weapon in your hand. Woden will welcome you into his great hall. Perhaps one day we will meet you there.”

  Octa said nothing. His stomach was empty and his limbs quivered from the exertion. His mind was full of the sight of ripped flesh, splintered bones and blood-soaked clothes. The boy had been brave. The beast he had confronted must have been formidable. Octa hoped that Woden would accept Breca into his corpse hall. But would Woden want a shepherd boy?

  And, if he did, how would a headless boy find his way there in the afterlife?

  Five

  “It will be dark soon,” Bassus said. “We should seek shelter.”

  Octa was glad Bassus had spoken. The sun had dipped below the western hills and Octa did not wish to be out in the marsh after dark.

  They had made good progress since leaving Breca to his rest, such as it was. Gram had spotted tracks leading into the woods and they had led their horses through the dense woodland while he followed the beast’s trail. From time to time, there were spots of dark dry blood on trees or plants, whether from the creature or from meat he had carried away from Breca and the sheep, they could not tell.

  Perhaps, thought Octa, the blood oozed from the head of the boy as it dangled, sightless, from the monster’s grip.

  After the thick cover of the trees, the land opened out. Moors led to Bebbanburg to the east and down towards the marshes, pools and dune-studded beaches further south. The night-walker’s trail was clear there in the bright noonday sun. Flecks of dried slaughter-sweat on trampled grass marked the creature’s passing. They could not lose it. They had mounted, cantering south and east. In the distance, the marshland was cloaked in a thin pall of mist.

  They had been eager to find the creature and slay it.

  Octa had looked about him as they rode towards the fens and ponds of the marsh. The sun had glistened from horse harness and the men’s battle gear. The thrum of their steeds’ hooves beat a solid, implacable rhythm. There, in the sun, surrounded by strong shield-brothers, it had seemed they could not fail in their quest. Five of Edwin’s strongest and bravest gesithas against one creature who had until now preyed upon defenceless travellers and sheep. Octa could already imagine the songs the scops would sing of them when they returned with the beast’s head.

  Glory and battle-fame awaited them.

  But that had been a long while hence. They had passed no living creature larger than a bird on their ride to the marsh and when the ground began to yield and squelch beneath the horses’ hooves, they had halted.

  The horses’ breath steamed and billowed around them in the chill air. Gram had dismounted and examined the ground.

  “The trail leads that way,” he said, pointing eastward, into the mist-enshrouded marsh.

  Far off in the distance, smoke drifted lazily from some dwelling, unseen in the mist. Octa wondered what kind of people would choose to live here when there was good land close by.

  “We should make a camp here,” Unferth had s
aid. He had barely spoken on the journey and his voice croaked in his throat. He coughed and spat a gobbet of phlegm into the weeds that grew in a verdant tangle beside the path. His spittle hung from the leaves like glutinous cobwebs.

  “Why should we wait?” Wiglaf had asked. “There is yet much light in the sky. Let us follow this foul creature into the mire, for surely its lair lies within.”

  Octa had said nothing. The misty land to the east unnerved him, but he would follow where Bassus led.

  Bassus had looked about him at the warriors’ expectant faces, then peered into the veil of mist that hung over the earth.

  Octa’s mount had stepped close to Unferth’s horse, which seemed to have the same sour temperament as its rider. Unferth’s stallion had nipped Octa’s horse’s rump, causing it to whinny and leap away. Octa had needed to wrestle with the reins and cling to his saddle to remain mounted.

  “We should camp here and wait for tomorrow’s dawn,” Unferth had said, seemingly oblivious of his horse’s actions.

  Octa had glowered at the old thegn, but had bitten back his words of retort.

  The commotion had seemed to help Bassus make up his mind.

  “We will head into the swamp,” he said, ignoring Unferth’s snort of derision. “If we tarry here, who is to say the creature will not once again attack in the darkness? Edwin King would have no more of his people slain by this thing. We should find it before dusk. And slay the bastard.”

  It had seemed so simple then. But now, with the shadows long on the mist-swirled ground and the cold marsh water soaking their legs, Octa wished that they had listened to Unferth. They had quickly had to dismount and lead the horses. Their progress had been halting.

  Unferth had said nothing when they had made their way into the marshland. His eyes glinted with disdain, but he had kept his thoughts to himself. Now, as they all shivered and huddled in the gathering dusk, he spoke up.