Kin of Cain

by Matthew Harffy

  Octa was not keen on climbing the cliff again, but there was no other way up from the beach. He swung his arms a couple of times to free the muscles, and tucked his cloak into his belt to prevent it flapping.

  “We’re coming up,” Octa shouted into the mist. Unferth evidently did not think a reply was necessary.

  Octa spat into the sand and gripped the rocks.

  The climb up was less arduous than the descent. It was not easy, but there was no biting breeze threatening to dislodge him. Searching for handholds and ledges above was simpler too, with less straining to see where he could place his feet. And he even found that he remembered some of the cracks and outcrops that had helped him the day before.

  The birds too, seemed to have decided that they would let the climbers ascend unmolested. Perhaps it was because of the fog, but none of the white gulls came wheeling in about them now. Instead the warriors and the girl climbed in silence into the murk of the mists.

  Despite the improvement over the previous day, the climb was still tough. Octa was less than halfway up before his arms and fingers were burning from the exertion. His breath billowed in steamy clouds around his head. Looking down he saw Bassus, red-faced and panting, a short distance below. The beach was still visible, but hazy. The clifftop was yet smothered in mist.

  He continued up, his breath ragged now in his throat. Sweat plastered his fair hair to his forehead.

  How much further? The fog was thicker now it seemed. Peering down he could just make out Bassus, but Gram and the girl were hidden from view. Above, the rock rose in a craggy wall to disappear into the gloom. He reached for a white-streaked crevice. Checking his grip was strong, he heaved himself up, until he was able to place his foot on a small jutting step of stone. He rested for a moment, taking deep breaths of the cold, moist morning air.

  He peered into the mists above. Still no sign of the end of the cliff. It was as if he climbed in a magical realm, a land where there was no limit to this cliff. Perhaps the gods were gazing down, laughing at the foolish men, knowing that they would never reach the summit.

  Octa shook his head to clear it of such thoughts. Beneath him, Bassus laboured, puffing as he pulled his bulk up. The sound of the waves rolling on the beach and sighing away again was clear and loud. This was nothing more than a cliff on a misty winter’s day. Nothing more.

  He turned his attention once more to the climb, he must be well over halfway by now.

  “Unferth?” he called, hoping to get an idea of the man’s distance from his reply.

  Instead, there came an ululating howl, followed by a crash. The sound of shields colliding. Or of something large and heavy striking a shield.

  The noise was close.

  “Unferth!” he called again, but no reply came. The sounds of a struggle continued. A grunt. The bone-crunching clash of linden-board again. A scream.

  There was nothing Octa could do here, hanging from the cliff. He gritted his teeth and clambered up as fast as he was able.

  Sixteen

  The last stretch of cliff seemed interminable, but surely only measured twice the height of a man. All the while Octa could hear the sounds of battle. At moments the grunts and clamour of conflict grew louder, then subsided, as if the mists played tricks with his ears. Octa did not speak further. Perhaps the beast had not heard his calls, for surely it must be the nihtgenga returned to its lair who now fought Unferth.

  After what felt like an age, Octa’s hand grasped the spiny branches of a sea buckthorn. He pulled himself the rest of the way over the top of the cliff, sure that at any moment, the beast would spy him and send him tumbling to his death on the rocks below. But no attack came. Unferth had occupied the creature’s attention, but was sorely pressed.

  The old thegn was standing, crouched, shield poised in defence. As Octa watched, the huge beast, all lumbering shaggy fur, rushed forward with terrible speed. Unferth jabbed at the monster with his spear. It retreated. Unferth had done well to keep it at bay this long, alone as he had been. But he was alone no longer. Octa stepped away from the edge of the cliff and dragged Hrunting from its scabbard. The blade thrummed, as if with pent-up sword song.

  “By order of Edwin King, your life is forfeit, beast,” he said, unknowing whether the thing understood the words. “You have killed for the last time. Now you die.”

  The giant swung its head towards Octa, its mane of fur quivering. For an instant, the thing stood there, gazing its black hatred at the fair youthful warrior who stood now before it. Octa willed Unferth to seize the opportunity that had presented itself. With no defences to contend with, Unferth could plunge his spear deep into the beast. Octa held the dark stare of the creature.

  Go on, by Woden, kill it!

  But Unferth did not attack. The old warrior, face pale and terrified, saw a different chance – to escape. He turned quickly and fled. In a moment, he was lost in the mists.

  The beast did not even look at the fleeing thegn. It lifted its head to the sky and let out the drawn-out howl Octa had heard on the climb. Its breath billowed above it into the fog. And then, dropping its head like a boar that has been cornered by hounds, the nihtgenga charged towards Octa.

  He barely had time to react, such was the creature’s speed. He swung his sword at the fell beast, but as before, his blow clattered from its body as if it were made of stone. An instant later, it collided with him, sending him reeling to the earth.

  Octa felt a stabbing pain in his left arm. He rolled away and leapt back up to his feet. Where was the edge of the cliff? A quick glance revealed he was but a few paces from plunging to his doom. His arm throbbed. Blood seeped through the sleeve of his kirtle. The creature had cut him. Had it bitten him? But there was no time to think, again it rushed at him. Octa brought Hrunting up and aimed a savage cut to the creature’s chest. It made no effort to avoid the blow, and the patterned blade smashed against it. The sword did not penetrate flesh, but deflected with a clang. Octa was ready this time. He did not allow himself to be thrown to the ground. He leapt away from the monster’s attack.

  There was a gleam of metal there. What was that?

  The monster took a pace backward, perhaps wary of Hrunting’s flashing blade.

  For a heartbeat they stood staring at each other; the dark, fur-covered beast and the golden-haired warrior. Octa surveyed his adversary. The fog was thick, but there was enough light to make out details he had not seen before. Octa shifted his footing, edging away from the deadly fall of the cliff.

  The beast’s head was like that of a boar; wiry hair, and tusks protruding from a gaping maw. Octa shuddered. The creature’s huge bulk was covered in thick, matted fur. Again that glint of metal. And Octa’s eyes widened in surprise.

  The monster, perhaps reacting to Octa’s sudden realisation, leapt forward with a howling scream of inchoate rage.

  Octa’s mind was a-spin, but he knew now what he must do. He allowed the creature to speed towards him and at the very last moment, he sidestepped and struck downward with his sword. He felt the blade strike and bite, deep into soft, pliant flesh. The shadow-walker screamed; a very human sound.

  It spun around to face Octa once more. Hot breath clouded about its snout. The night-stalker was not now protected by darkness. And as the thin winter sun filtered through the mists to illuminate the creature, Octa was suddenly certain of what he had suspected moments before.

  This was no monster.

  It was a man. A huge man, with eyes full of madness and skin smothered in mire and old gore. Perhaps more animal than man in his thoughts, but a man nonetheless. His head was wreathed in a boar’s skull and his shoulders and arms were encased in a matted bear pelt. Octa could see now that the man’s hands were black with grime and death, but they were the hands of a man. In each massive hand he gripped a savage-looking seax. The blades did not glimmer and shine as fine iron should. It looked as though they had never been cleaned, but Octa could feel his warm blood running down his left arm – those seaxes were sharp enoug
h.

  Beneath the bear skin, the gleam that Octa had seen was a byrnie of iron links. The creature did not have stone-like skin. Where the bear’s fur ended, fresh blood oozed down the man’s left leg. Octa took in all of this in a heartbeat.

  “Your slaughter-dew is as red as anyone’s,” he said. “You have killed your last. Today, your blood will soak the land. The wolves and ravens will pick your bones before this day is through.”

  The beast-man did not reply, he merely bellowed and ran at Octa, vicious seax blades slicing the air.

  Such speed for one so huge! Just in time, Octa lifted Hrunting, but his enemy came on so fast he was unable to place his blow as he wanted. Instead he jabbed the blade forward in a frantic attempt to pierce the man’s iron-knit shirt. Hrunting’s point glanced across the rings and buried the full length of the blade through the thick bear pelt. The sword was trapped. Useless.

  Octa let go of Hrunting’s hilt and grasped the man’s wrists. The night-walker crashed into him and they fell to the damp grass. Octa could not breathe, the air had been knocked from his lungs and now the huge man straddled him, his weight pressing onto Octa’s chest. Octa gripped the wrists and pushed with all his might, but he knew those wicked blades would find their mark. The man was too strong, too heavy.

  The beast’s eyes flared wide in savage glee as he sensed victory. The seaxes moved inexorably towards Octa’s exposed throat. Panic rose up in Octa like bile, acid and burning. And then the man-beast laughed, that rock-crunching chuckle that had filled them with fear when they had been lost in the marsh. Octa saw the man’s teeth, like blood-stained grave markers in his gaping maw. His foetid breath washed over him, a miasma of murder and man-flesh.

  Octa could feel his grip weakening. The blood-smeared blades touched his neck. Octa heaved, but he could not push the seaxes away. He would die here. If only he could draw breath, perhaps he would find the strength he needed.

  Death’s cold fingers scratched his neck.

  His vision blurred.

  And then, the man-monster was gone. In a screaming clash of bodies, it was thrown from atop Octa.

  Octa lay there blinking, gulping in great lungfuls of moist, cold air. What had happened?

  Then the sounds came rushing in on him like a storm-blown sea crashing into a cliff.

  Someone was screaming.

  Bassus.

  He must help his friend. Octa rolled over and pushed himself up. His head felt as though it were not part of him, but he managed to stagger to his feet. Where was his sword? It was nowhere near him.

  A few paces away, Bassus now faced the night-stalker. He sent a blow towards the creature’s eyes. A feint, that then slid into an attack on its chest. The blade rattled over the hidden byrnie, and the beast dropped its shoulder and barged into the thegn. Bassus sprawled to the earth.

  “No!” Octa shouted, finding his voice. “It wears a byrnie. That is why we cannot cut it. It is no monster. Just a man. He bleeds. He will die.”

  The man turned to Octa once more and rushed towards him without a moment’s pause.

  Octa did not even have time to draw his seax from its scabbard at his belt. He raised his hands in defence and again attempted to grasp the huge wrists. His right hand found its target, but his left missed and pain seared his side as the seax sliced across his ribs. The beast-man clattered into him. Octa absorbed some of the force of the impact taking rapid steps backward. He did not wish to find himself once more on the ground with this thing on his chest.

  They staggered back for a heartbeat, grappling with each other like wrestlers after a feast. Then, with a terrible sinking feeling, Octa found there was no earth left behind him for his feet.

  With no time to even let out a scream, both Octa and the beast tumbled over the cliff.

  Seventeen

  The world spun. Something hard cracked into Octa’s jaw, rattling his teeth. Flailing, without thought, his hand lashed out and caught hold of the sea buckthorn. Some part of his mind, the part that was more beast than man, recalled the cliff-face that he had so recently scaled. With bone-jarring force, his chest smashed into the rocks of the cliff. His ribs, slick with blood now, were a screaming agony. Twigs, thorns and leaves ripped through his fingers, shredding the skin of his palm. A few berries that remained on the plant erupted with thick, oily juice that mingled with the blood from his broken skin.

  And then, his fall halted. A surge of relief flooded through him. But the instant he began to believe he was safe, the truth of his plight came crashing down upon him. His hand could not hold him, weighted down as he was.

  Twisting his head he saw that the night-walker, with his inhuman speed, had let go its blades and now clung to Octa’s cloak. Octa was strong, but he could not hold such a bulk for long. He reached up with his left hand and clasped it around the thorny branches of the sea buckthorn. The spines dug deep into his flesh, but he scarcely noticed. Thus, with both hands tight about the plant, he heaved. But it was no use, he could not pull them both up. Pebbles and earth, loosened from around the base of the plant, showered into Octa’s eyes. He blinked away the dirt, trying not to give in to the panic that threatened to engulf him.

  The man-beast growled and began climbing up his back, hand over hand. Octa kicked out, in an attempt to dislodge the huge man. More dirt fell, and they both shifted downward, as the plant’s roots began to lose their grip on the soil. Octa grunted as his ribs once more scraped against the rocks. The slash on his left arm throbbed in time to his pounding heart.

  “By Woden,” Octa hissed through gritted teeth, “you will not live to see another night.”

  The beast chuckled, dark and gurgling. It began pulling itself up to safety with its massive, grime-smeared hands.

  Octa would not allow this foul thing to live. It had killed too many, brought so much fear to the land. Now, it must pay the price that all murderers must pay.

  Letting go with his left hand, Octa hammered his elbow down and back. Hard. It connected with the man’s neck. Octa’s right hand was slipping. His kirtle was drenched in blood now, but the pain had ceased. He smashed his elbow down again and again. Blood splattered from his wounded arm over the upturned boar maw. The tusks dug into his flesh with each hit. Savagely pummelling into the beast-man’s neck, head and shoulder, Octa did not allow the man to recover, following each blow with another. His right shoulder screamed in silent anguish and his fingers ripped through the remaining branches of the buckthorn. They would both surely fall.

  But Octa did not stop. Someone was screaming, a guttural, throat-tearing sound. With a sense of wonder he realised it was his voice that rent the fog-cloaked air.

  He continued hitting the man-slayer, until without warning, it released its right hand from his cloak. The nihtgenga’s bulk shifted, and Octa was certain this was it, the moment his grip would give way and they would fall to where he could hear the roll and pull of the waves breaking on hidden rocks far below.

  Looking down, he saw the man’s eyes, red-rimmed and dark, blazing with a terrible ire. His left hand was wrapped tightly into the damp wool of Octa’s cloak. His right hand now bunched into a fist, huge and gnarled. For a heartbeat, the man-thing stared into Octa’s eyes and then, with a flicker of a smile on its blood-encrusted lips, it hammered the fist into Octa’s back, between his shoulder blades.

  It was like being hit by a falling tree. Once again, the wind rushed from his lungs. Spots of darkness mottled his vision. His grip loosened on the thorny shrub.

  Those eyes. The thing was truly mad. Was it even a man after all? Perhaps Paulinus was right and this was the kin of Cain, a mythical monster from a long-lost time. The creature laughed its boulder-crumbling laugh once more. Octa knew he would not be able to hold on if it struck him again. His strength was gone. He could barely draw a breath. His shoulder and arm was a white-hot agony of exertion. The nihtgenga raised its great fist.

  Octa closed his eyes. He was spent. He could hold on no longer.

  But the blow did
not come.

  “Die, you foul thing. Die!” came Bassus’ shout.

  Octa opened his eyes to see the great thegn burst from the fog. In his hand flickered his fine patterned-blade. The sword sliced down in a vicious arc. There was the dull hacking sound of butchery and hot blood gushed over Octa’s face and back.

  Suddenly, the weight fell away from him. The mad man of the marsh, the nihtgenga, the shadow-stalker, dropped without a sound. The fog swallowed him in an instant.

  Octa drew in a shuddering breath. His limbs were trembling.

  “I don’t think I can pull myself up,” he said, his voice as tremulous as his arms.

  Bassus quickly knelt and reached out his hand.

  “I’ve got you.”

  Bassus pulled him up, and Octa fell to the moist earth, still struggling to breathe.

  Something pressed into his back. He reached behind him only to recoil with a yelp of fear. His fingers had brushed the still-warm, hair-bristled and heavily-muscled arm of the beast. It remained, oozing thick blood, tangled in his cloak, where Bassus had severed it.

  Eighteen

  “It might have been strong as an ox and mad as an aurochs,” Gram said, looking down at the severed arm, “but I’ll wager even that nihtgenga cannot survive having its arm hewn from its shoulder and then falling onto the rocks down there.”

  Octa still trembled as Wealhtheow and Gram stepped out of the mists. He had begun to shiver uncontrollably. He pulled his cloak about him, but he could not stop shaking. His teeth chattered. He had sat up, but did not trust his legs to stand.

  Wealhtheow looked down at the limb, her eyes huge and liquid. But she did not speak.

  “Unferth?” asked Gram.

  Bassus looked into the fog, westward, towards the marsh. He hawked and spat.

  “Fled.”

  Gram did not seem surprised. He knelt beside Octa, and rummaged in the bag he carried.