Kin of Cain

by Matthew Harffy

  Turning to Gram, he asked: “Where is the creature headed?”

  Gram studied the grass on the ground that rose towards the east. The scent of the sea was on the air. Gulls careened in the sky.

  “The nihtgenga did not alter course,” Gram said. “It went straight up this bluff.”

  They pressed on.

  “If the gods smile on us,” said Gram, “we might run the monster to ground while this sun yet shines. Or,” he bent to the ground, placing his hand on something and then raising it for them all to behold, “perhaps Bassus’ blow has finished the creature and we will find it dead.” The hand he showed them was red with the slaughter-dew of the beast’s passing.

  They nodded and carried on. But Octa did not believe it was their wyrd to find the creature dead. They would face the shadow-stalker again, he was sure of it. It felt as though they were living out a tale of someone else’s telling and there was nothing they could do to change it. The swamp trapping them and leading them to Hrothgar’s steading. The creature attacking in the night. Wiglaf’s death. Even Bassus wounding it and the trail of blood out of the marsh. He could feel the threads of their wyrd being inexorably entwined and twisted with that of this fell beast.

  He spat and reached for the Thunor hammer he wore. He winced as the scab on his lip split open once more. Was the creature even now watching them? There were clumps of thrift and some stunted sea buckthorns clinging to this wind-swept slope, but there was nowhere for such a huge thing to hide.

  The sound of the wind grew louder. The distant crash of surf. The screech of gulls.

  The warriors had reached the end of the creature’s trail. They stood at the edge of the land. Far below them, waves rolled into rocks, sending up sheets of spray. Out to sea were dotted the Farena islands. The earth dropped away in a sheer cliff down to the jagged rocks and sand of a small beach.

  “Well,” said Bassus, asking the very question in Octa’s thoughts, “where did the bastard go?”

  Gram, cautious not to slip, leaned over the edge of the precipice. After a long while he rose and returned to where they had gathered some way from the edge. His mouth twisted in a strange expression.

  “What?” asked Bassus.

  “I think,” Gram answered, with a frown, “the bastard went over the edge.”

  Thirteen

  The wind lashed at Octa. His fingers were already numb from the cold, but he could not stop to warm them. His cloak billowed, tugging at him, threatening to pull him from the cliff-face to his doom. He glanced down. So far yet to go. This was madness. They should have stayed at the top. They would be no use to King Edwin or anyone else if they tumbled to their deaths, smashed and bloody on the rocks at the base of the cliff.

  Gritting his teeth, Octa felt for another foothold with his toes. He kicked out detritus from a small niche, the remains of an old nest, and lowered himself down a little further.

  “There is a cave down there,” Gram had said shortly before, and they had all gathered precariously at the edge of the cliff. Staring down, they had seen that Gram spoke true. There was a shadowed opening far below them. This must be the beast’s lair.

  “We cannot climb down there,” Unferth had said, speaking for the first time since Wiglaf’s death. His face was pallid and drawn, the same colour as his greying beard.

  “What else should we do,” Bassus had retorted. “We must kill the beast, or see that it is dead before we return to the king. There is yet much sun in the sky. Would you rather wait till nightfall?”

  Unferth had quailed at that, perhaps recalling the huge bulk of the beast looming in the darkness.

  “We have no rope,” Octa had offered.

  “There are many rocks and ledges to help us climb down,” Bassus had said confidently, but now, with the chill wind buffeting him and his fingers and toes senseless from the cold, Octa wondered whether they had once again fallen foul of their leader’s overconfidence.

  They had left Unferth atop the cliff.

  “I will keep watch here. I am not strong enough for the descent,” he had said, his voice small. “I am not the man I once was.”

  Octa felt for the man, but Bassus had spat over the cliff.

  “Give your sword to Octa, that it may be put to good use by a warrior,” he had said, disdain dripping from his words. Octa had returned the sword to the old thegn the night before, but now Unferth removed his belt and handed the scabbarded blade to him.

  “This sword is called Hrunting,” Unferth had said. “It was a gift from King Edwin when I was a younger man. A finer blade has never been forged. Treat it well, young Octa, and bring it back to me.”

  Octa had accepted the sword.

  “It is a fine, true blade, Unferth. I pray that I will kill the beast with it, that it will add to its glory. I will return it to you, if I yet draw breath.”

  A pebble rattled down the cliff and hit Octa’s head with a painful thwack.

  “By Thunor’s cock,” came the shout of surprise and fear from above.

  Looking up, Octa saw that Bassus had lost his footing. For a heartbeat, the massive thegn dangled from his fingertips, feet flailing for purchase. More stones showered down and Octa turned his face away. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself into the wall. If Bassus should fall, he would surely take Octa with him. But no hurtling body came to dislodge him from his perch. Octa opened his eyes and looked up once more. Bassus had found a ledge for his feet. He grinned at Octa.

  “This is better than being cooped up with the womenfolk for Geola, eh?” Bassus laughed.

  Octa shook his head. Would it be his wyrd to die thus? To fall from a cliff in this northern land? Hardly the thing of songs.

  Clenching his jaw, he continued down.

  Grey and white-feathered gulls wheeled past, swooping in close, screeching at these intruders to their rocky domain. To Octa it sounded as if they were laughing.

  Reaching out to place his hand into a small crack, Octa noticed something. A dark brown stain unlike the white droppings of the birds. Dried blood. The nihtgenga had descended this way. He looked down, suddenly fearful that the beast was there below them, ready to pounce, or perhaps climbing up towards them in animal leaps and bounds.

  But there was nothing below save the rocks, the sand, the waves. And the cave mouth, yawning into the belly of the cliff.

  The cliff was in shadow, and the sea wind made it bitterly cold. Several more times Octa feared that he, or one of the others would fall. But at last his feet crunched into the sand and pebbles and he stared up, as Bassus and Gram made their way down the last stretch of crumbling rock.

  Behind him, waves crashed onto jagged teeth of rocks that jutted from the surf. The spray was as cold as chips of ice. He pulled his cloak about him and rubbed his hands, trying to bring feeling back to them. At the top of the cliff, Octa could make out the grey face of Unferth peering down to see how they fared. Octa raised his hand, and Unferth responded in the same way.

  Bassus and Gram both completed the descent and stood beside Octa, gazing up the shadowed cliff. Clouds had gathered in the sky now. The thought of making that climb in the rain caused a shudder down Octa’s spine.

  “Well, we made it,” said Bassus. He stretched and worked his arms, removing the tension that had built up there. Putting his gnarled hands behind his head, he pulled, making his neck crack. Thus prepared, the tall thegn drew his blade and turned towards the great gash in the rock-face. The cave where the beast must surely dwell.

  Gram, seemingly undaunted by the cold, the long climb down or the prospect of facing the monster in the dark, drew his own sword.

  Octa pulled Hrunting from its scabbard and for a moment marvelled at the serpent-like patterns on the blade. His hands shook. He hoped the others did not notice.

  “May the gods smile upon us now,” Bassus said, and led the way into the rocky maw.

  Fourteen

  The cave was dark, the rocks sea-slick underfoot. The crash and thump of the breaking waves was lou
d behind them as they slowly shuffled into the opening in the cliff. Icy sea spray splattered around and on the warriors. The cold wind gusted, pushing them forward with invisible hands. Kelp squelched as they passed. Octa slipped and fell hard. Hrunting clattered from his grip and his hands scraped against limpets and barnacles.

  Cursing inwardly, he leapt to his feet, snatching up the fine sword from where it had fallen.

  The three men hesitated, awaiting the beast that would surely leap from the gloom to fight them. But nothing came.

  Octa let out his pent-up breath. Once more they stepped forward into the darkness.

  A pool, teeming with anemones and bladderwrack filled the entrance. After a moment vainly searching for a dry path, Bassus stepped into the water. He eased his foot down, unsure of the depth or what might lurk within the weeds. But the water only came up to just above his ankle. He placed his other foot into the pool and stepped on.

  Octa and Gram followed him closely. The water was chill. Octa shuddered.

  Without speaking they carried on into the shadows under the earth. After the pool, the ground rose and the opening turned to the left. There was only space for one of them to pass at a time. This is where the beast would attack. An ambush now and Bassus would be struck down before Gram or Octa could close with the monster. Bassus turned to look at them for a moment. His face was grim, but his eyes shone in the reflected light of the grey afternoon sky. He nodded and stepped past the rocky doorway and into the cavern.

  There was no scream. No sudden smash and clamour of battle.

  Octa hurried forward, with Gram close behind.

  As they moved beyond the entrance and into the cave-gloom, the sounds of the sea and wind faded, swallowed by the earth. In the sudden stillness, Octa looked about him, his eyes flicking quickly around the cavern for signs of danger. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness quickly. Enough light filtered through the cave mouth to clearly illumine the secrets of the dank domain of the nihtgenga.

  There was no sign of the huge creature they had faced in battle the night before, but there was no doubt now that this was the lair of the foul creature. Over the scent of brine and seaweed, lay the heavy, sickly stench of rotting flesh. There was a splash of white in the gloom. Was it bird shit on the rocks? Unusual for birds to venture into a cave. Octa took a tentative step closer. All of a sudden, his mind made sense of what he was seeing and he drew in a sudden breath.

  Not bird droppings. No. The skull of a man.

  Dark hair still clung to it, but there was no skin, leaving the pale bone to shine through. Three other heads, each in differing stages of decomposition rested alongside the bare-bone skull. The black eye sockets in the grimacing faces seemed to be watching them. The heads were nestled on a ledge of stone some way up the cave wall. Beneath them lay a jumble of branches. No, not branches. Bones. He did not wish to approach those grisly remains of the monster’s victims, but Octa was sure that should he pick up one of those bones and examine it in a bright light, he would find the same patterns of gnawing they had seen on Breca’s ribs.

  His stomach twisted and for a heartbeat he was sure that he would puke.

  “The creature is not here,” Gram said, his voice echoing in the rocky chamber.

  Octa pulled his gaze from the gruesome onlookers on the stone shelf and looked around the cave. Gram was right. The cavern was not much larger than a poor family’s hut. The dim light from the entrance was enough to see that the night-stalker was nowhere to be seen. Some way into the cave, on a small expanse of sand, lay the remains of a small fire. Octa knelt beside the charred wood and ash. He blew softly onto the embers and they glowed red in the darkness.

  “Still hot,” he said.

  A small sound made him look up sharply. He raised Unferth’s sword and stood quickly.

  “What was that?” he asked, peering into the deepest recesses of the cavern. “Who’s there?” He heard Bassus and Gram both stepping forward to lend their support on either side of him. Octa did not look away from where the sound had emanated.

  There was someone, or something, in this cave with them. His knuckles whitened as he grasped Hrunting’s grip. From outside came the whispers of crashing surf and sea birds crying on the wind.

  “Who’s there?” he asked again, and took a step forward. Bassus and Gram followed him further into the cavern.

  A movement then. A rustle of cloth. The three warriors crouched, ready to fend off attack. But still none came.

  And then they saw her, huddled and hidden beneath a great bear pelt. Perhaps she had been sleeping and had awoken at the sound of their voices. She stared out at them now from the warmth of her fur-nest. Her eyes were large, limpid and lambent; her cheeks smooth and pale as polished stone.

  “Wealhtheow?” Octa said. For surely this must be the girl that the beast had taken. But how did she yet live?

  A flicker of recognition in those huge eyes perhaps? But she did not reply.

  “Speak girl,” said Bassus, not unkindly, “are you hale?”

  Again, no response.

  “Where is the creature?” Octa tried, but he was once more met with silence.

  “How are we to get her up that cliff?” Gram asked. “Can you climb?”

  Octa thought he made out a small movement of her head, but still she did not speak. Here, in the gloom of the cave, surrounded by the corpse-trophies of the nihtgenga, her silence was unnerving.

  “Perhaps there is another way,” said Bassus. “Maybe if we follow the beach southward, we might find an easier slope. Gram, go and see what you can find. Otherwise, we’ll have to think how to get the girl up the cliff. This place is not safe.”

  Gram left the cave, but returned only moments later.

  “You cannot have looked for another trail up to the clifftop in that time,” said Bassus.

  The back of Octa’s neck prickled. Perhaps the beast had returned to its lair. But surely Gram would have raised the alarm with a shout.

  “I have not looked,” Gram said, “but I can tell you there is no way up for any of us until dawn now.”

  “How so?” replied Bassus. “It is not even dusk.”

  At that very instant, a wave crashed outside, the noise suddenly loud in the echoing chamber. Spray splashed the walls of the entrance and water lapped the rocks there.

  “True,” said Gram, his expression sombre, “but it will be dark soon and it seems the night has brought the tide. I fear we will need to sleep once more in dismal surroundings.”

  Octa sighed. The thought of spending a night in this gore-strewn cavern filled him with dread.

  “And,” Octa said, running his left hand over his stubbled jaw, “pray that the shadow-stalker cannot swim.”

  Fifteen

  “Perhaps the creature has crawled into a hole somewhere and died,” said Gram. “He took a mighty blow from you, Bassus. And you, Octa.”

  Octa remembered the jolt of pain in his wrist as he hammered Hrunting’s blade into the monster’s side. It had been like hitting the rocks of the cliff. He could not believe that the beast would have simply curled up and succumbed to its wounds.

  “Perhaps,” said Bassus, but he did not sound convinced. His eyes were shadowed with dark rings, as if bruised. He was exhausted. They all were, bones and muscles leaden. In those few moments when they had been able to close their eyes, they had slept fitfully at best. They had each taken a watch, expecting the huge bulk of the night-walker to suddenly burst through the mouth of the cavern.

  Octa had stirred the embers and breathed fresh life into the fire, feeding it all the slivers of wood and twigs he could find on the sandy floor. Once the flames were flickering, the girl silently approached with large pieces of driftwood that had been stored at the back of the cave. Octa nodded his thanks, but Wealhtheow did not speak, instead returning to her nest in the animal skins. From there she watched, her gleaming eyes missing nothing.

  The driftwood, worn smooth by the constant motion of the sea, burnt with strange
hues of green and blue. Perhaps the wood was magic, or cursed, shot through with elf barbs. But it had given them enough heat and light to see them through till pale fingers of grey dawn light scratched the darkness away from the cave.

  Outside, the day was chill and calm. The tide had receded and the waves rolled gently up the sand and pebbles of the beach. All the world was once more clad in a shroud of mist. Hidden now were the distant islands, and when they looked up the cliff, they could not discern the top.

  “Unferth!” Bassus bellowed into the fog, making Octa start. Beside him, Wealhtheow, fragile and pale as a dove in her nightclothes of linen, pulled the bearskin tighter about her shoulders. She had still not spoken, but had followed them out of the cavern and into the misty morning.

  “Unferth!” yelled Bassus again. There was no reply. Gram looked at Octa. Had the old man fled, that look said. Or perhaps something worse had befallen him.

  And then, as thin as Hrothgar’s ale, came a reply from high above them on the clouded clifftop.

  “I am here, Bassus,” Unferth shouted. “I thought you all dead.”

  “We all yet live,” called Bassus. “And we have found Hrothgar’s daughter. She is alive and seems well enough.”

  “And the beast?” called Unferth.

  “No sign.”

  “Come up then,” yelled Unferth. “I am cold and have seen no living thing this past night.”

  “I wonder where the beast is,” Octa voiced the question they all pondered.

  “I know not,” answered Bassus, “but we cannot stay here. We must get the lass back to her folk. Then we can find a rope and return for the creature. I’ll not be trapped down here when the tide returns.”

  Octa shivered.

  “Can you climb?” Bassus asked Wealhtheow, a tenderness entering his tone.

  Without looking up at the rocky cliff-face, she nodded.

  “Good. Octa, lead the way. I will follow. Then you,” Bassus indicated the girl. “Gram, you will come last and help Wealhtheow, if she needs it.”