Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand glanced over his shoulder to where Oswald and Oswiu stood. They were flanked by their hearth-warriors, all bedecked in their finest war gear. To one side he marked where most of his gesithas were gathered. Further away, other warriors stood around small fires. They stamped their feet and coughed into the still morning. They had survived the torment of the night and now looked around them with dark-rimmed eyes.

  “Do you think it possible? With this thick coat of snow?” he asked, absently rubbing his half-hand against his left side. His ribs hurt. His byrnie was cold and heavy under his calloused hand.

  “Too late to worry about that now, lord.”

  Too late. So many things were too late.

  Beobrand stood silently for a moment, contemplating the fortress. There was a sloping path that made its way up to the gate. The path was smooth and perfect in the stark sunlight. As untouched and pale as a virgin’s thigh.

  “If I fall, swear to me you will kill him. The witch too, if you can.”

  “You will not fall,” answered Acennan.

  “Promise me this thing.”

  Acennan sighed, his breath steaming.

  “Very well, I give you my oath. If you fall, I will finish the deed.” He laughed then, suddenly. “I plan on killing the witch anyway. I should never have listened to you back on Muile.”

  Beobrand nodded his thanks and held out his left arm. Acennan lifted his shield and helped his lord fit his arm through the leather straps. The stocky warrior then handed Beobrand his polished battle-helm. He took it in his right hand and strode forward. His boots made deep prints in the snow. His leg bindings were already soaked through. The throbbing ache in his right leg reminded him of Torran’s skill with a bow.

  He stopped at the point where the path began to slope upwards to the entrance of Din Eidyn fortress. Here, his men had cleared the snow from a patch of flat ground. It was the size of a stretched-out cloak. To one side was a brown-streaked pile of slushy snow. He was alone and exposed on the dark, flattened-grass and earth, surrounded by white. The world seemed not to draw breath. All was still and silent. Beobrand took in a deep lungful of frigid air.

  “Torran mac Nathair!” he bellowed in a voice that would carry over the tumult and death of a shieldwall. “Torran mac Nathair, show yourself.”

  Faces lined the fortress palisade, but there was no reply. He could not see Torran amongst the besieged watchers.

  “Torran mac Nathair! Are you so craven? Do you not dare to face your enemies as men do, face to face, with blade and board? I have felt the bite of your arrows, shot from afar, but I would face you now. Before all these men of Bernicia, Deira and Dál Riata,” he waved his hand in the direction of the gathered host and the warriors let out a cheer. “Before all these men and your own Pictish Gododdin, I challenge you. Face me now or all shall know that you are the most cowardly of the sons of Nathair. I took the life of your brothers. I give you the chance to take mine. Fight me here, or let all men know, you are a nithing.”

  There was no movement from Din Eidyn. Would this be enough to goad Torran out? To be marked as a nithing and a craven before all was a terrible thing. But walking out to face a thegn of Bernicia, clad in battle-byrnie and polished helm, would call for a bravery Beobrand was unsure Torran possessed.

  Beobrand stood there, all eyes on him, for a long while. His breath tattered in the breeze. The damp and cold seeped into his boots and leggings. The big toe on his right foot pained him.

  This was not working. Torran would not put himself at such risk. He preferred the shot in the dark, the arrow from the shade of trees across a river, not the clash of blades in sunlight.

  “I see it is as I had supposed,” Beobrand shouted. “You are too scared to face me.”

  “How do I know there is not some deceit here?” a voice called from the battlements. Torran. At last. Perhaps he would prove Beobrand wrong.

  “There is no deceit, Torran. It is not I who lies in wait in the shadows. Not I who shoots silent barbs from the forest like an elf. I am Beobrand of Ubbanford, and I look into the eyes of my enemies.”

  A pause.

  “And if I do this thing? If I face you in a duel and vanquish you?”

  “Then you can return to Din Eidyn with your head held high, knowing you are the only son of Nathair to fight me and live.”

  Again silence. Beobrand stamped his feet against the cold. The sun was softening the earth. It would turn to mud soon enough if Torran decided to fight.

  Beobrand turned and sought out Acennan. His friend raised his eyebrows and shrugged. But gestured with his hands palm down for Beobrand to wait a while longer.

  Beobrand looked up at the rock once more and with a jolt of surprise, realised that Acennan was right. The still air carried to him the sound of a bar being removed from the heavy, oaken doors of the palisade. Then, with barely a sound as they pushed against the drifts of snow, they were opened just enough to allow a figure to emerge. The doors closed, leaving Torran standing alone at the top of the slope.

  Oswald’s host cheered once more. They would see a duel this day.

  The Pict stood for a moment, perhaps surveying the host from this new vantage point outside the palisade, or maybe he merely savoured not being within the overcrowded fortress. Beobrand knew how such cramped living conditions could prey on one’s mind.

  Or mayhap he was wondering if this bright day might be his last on middle earth.

  After a moment, Torran threw his cloak over his shoulder and began the slow trudge down the slope towards Beobrand.

  Beobrand watched him keenly. He was sure-footed, lithe and fast. Smaller than Beobrand, and full of cunning and guile. Beobrand hefted his shield, feeling the ache as his muscles bulged against the wound Torran’s brother, Broden, had given him. Broden had been huge and savage. Torran was much slighter of build, but Beobrand wondered whether he was not the more dangerous of the brothers.

  As Torran reached the half-way point towards Beobrand, the Picts could see him clearly from the walls. They let out a cheer. Beobrand noticed there were more faces there than before, the Picts must have been desperate to see one of their own defeat an accursed Seaxon.

  Torran was close now. He wore a small helm of polished iron. His eyes glowered from the helm’s shadow, piercing and hate-filled. His shield was small, the leather covering daubed a deep blue, with yellow swirls painted around the sharp central boss. On his body he wore a tight-fitting metal-knit shirt. At his side hung a sword. Its hilt was plain, its scabbard unadorned. The sword blade was shorter that Hrunting’s. Torran would have less reach than Beobrand, but he would be fast. He was slimmer, his blade lighter, his shield more manoeuvrable.

  Torran stopped before Beobrand, on the edge of the cleared snow.

  “So, Beobrand Half-hand, you mean to slay me, as you did my brothers?” He spoke quietly. The onlookers would not hear. He seemed calm. His confidence was unnerving.

  “You have sought my death. You have hurt those I love. There is only one end to this, Torran. This feud can only be settled with blood.” Beobrand dragged Hrunting from its scabbard and held it aloft. The sunlight glinted on its patterned blade.

  “Yes, with blood,” said Torran, smiling. He stepped into the cleared area; the cloak-sized parcel of land that would be their killing ground. “One way or another, this will be settled with blood.” Torran drew his sword from its sheath and raised it high. It was not as polished as Hrunting’s fine blade. It did not glow and glisten with the light from sun and snow. Torran slashed with the blade in an intricate pattern that reminded Beobrand of Broden, and how the Pict had wielded his great axe. Torran appeared relaxed, sure of himself and his weapon-skill. His speeding sword blade whispered as it cut through the chill air.

  A sliver of doubt needled Beobrand. Could he defeat this confident Pict, who seemed to know no fear?

  Like so much, it was too late to be concerned with that now.

  Too late.

  Beobrand placed his war-helm upon h
is head.

  As if he’d awaited that moment, Torran sprang forward, scything down with his sword.

  The speed of the Pict was astonishing. Beobrand flung Hrunting into the path of Torran’s sword, uncaring for the damage to the fine blade’s edge. He staggered back, but quickly regained his balance. The blades crashed together with an anvil-clang.

  The sword-song had begun and there could only be one end to this.

  There would be blood.

  *

  Beobrand brought his shield round quickly to take the brunt of another savage attack from Torran’s blade. His feet slipped in the wet earth as he was pushed back. The jarring strike on his shield, sent stabs of pain along his left forearm. Gritting his teeth, he hoped for a pause; a chance to take stock. But Torran came on, attempting to press home his advantage with a flurry of quick, chopping cuts of his sword. Beobrand’s shield soaked up the power from Torran’s assault. Splinters flew, and the leather covering began to tear. He took another sliding step backward, until his heel touched the bank of snow at the edge of the duelling-square. Torran’s eyes glinted with cold delight, perhaps believing Beobrand’s retreating steps were a sign that he was weak.

  Beobrand bared his teeth. The caged animal that lived within him was tearing at its leash. It would be so easy to release it; to launch himself upon Torran with all his strength and battle-skill. But he must hold the beast back. It would not do to slay the Pict so soon.

  Torran screamed his anger and threw himself at Beobrand again.

  Beobrand could not give in to the battle lust, but he dared not allow Torran to get the upper-hand. Lowering himself into a crouch, Beobrand pushed himself forward to meet Torran. He held his shoulder behind his shield and shoved. His timing was perfect. Shield smashed into shield, iron bosses ringing. Beobrand grunted at the jabbing pain in his left arm, but he did not slow. Using his bulk, he pushed Torran backwards. Torran leaned his own body weight behind his shield and pushed with all his strength. Beobrand dug the toes of his shoes into the softening earth and heaved. One step. Two. Beobrand was heavier. This was a battle he would not lose. Then, before Torran could reach that same conclusion, Beobrand jump back and to the right. For an instant, Torran was off balance. His sword arm was exposed, but Beobrand chose not to sever the limb; not to deliver the killing blow. He swung Hrunting into Torran’s back. He hit hard, but did not use the sharp edge of the noble sword. Torran must die, but he must live awhile yet.

  A cheer rose from the watching host.

  The Pict staggered a step, groaning at the bruising blow he had received. Once again Beobrand was surprised at his adversary’s speed. As fast as a cat, Torran spun round to face Beobrand once more, shield raised, sword held firm and ready.

  “You believed me easy prey, Beobrand?” Torran spat. His breath steamed. He was scarcely breathing heavily. “It is not just with the bow that I am skilled.”

  “Indeed, it is good to see Broden was not the only son of Nathair who was brave. I had thought you to be more like Aengus. A snivelling wretch who would weep and shit himself before standing toe to toe in a fight.”

  “He was just a boy,” said Torran, his voice taking on an edge of sorrow. His sword point dipped. All the strength seemed to sap from him. “Just a boy,” he repeated quietly, as if to himself. “Just a boy!” he screamed the words a third time and leapt forward, sword flicking up at Beobrand’s armoured midriff. Beobrand had expected the attack, but still Torran’s agility almost caught him by surprise. He stepped back and pushed the sword blade away with the edge of his shield.

  The Picts watching from the walls of Din Eidyn cheered to see their champion attacking once more.

  Beobrand sprang towards Torran, who raised his shield to catch Hrunting. Beobrand took another step forward, again swinging his blade into Torran’s board. A third time he swung at the Pict’s left side, but as Torran raised his shield, Beobrand twisted his body and punched forward with his left arm. He could not have performed the move without the straps that helped him hold the board fast, but with them, the shield became an extension of his arm and hand. The toughened rim of the shield connected hard with Torran’s face. The Pict staggered back falling to one knee.

  Rather than finishing him, chopping down into his exposed neck, Beobrand took three steps back quickly, giving Torran a moment to recover.

  Torran spat blood and shards of teeth into the mud.

  Again Oswald’s host cheered. From Din Eidyn, men shouted their support of Torran, or their hatred for Beobrand. They spoke in their own tongue, so he could not tell which.

  Slowly, Torran pushed himself upright and stood. He spat again, then wiped his mouth with the back of his sword hand. He looked down at the red smear on his hand before turning his gaze upon Beobrand. To Beobrand’s surprise, Torran’s mouth opened in a wide grin. His broken teeth were hidden by blood. He began to chuckle.

  A shiver of unease ran up Beobrand’s spine. What madness was this? He must have known that he was outmatched. And yet he was laughing.

  “I will kill you,” said Beobrand, taking a pace forward.

  Torran was pale beneath the blood-splatter on his face. But still he laughed.

  “Aye, you probably will, but I will take you with me to the afterlife, Half-hand.”

  “It is not my wyrd to die here today,” Beobrand said. A moment before he had believed it, but there was something in Torran’s face. Why was he still smiling?

  “Do you not feel it yet?” Torran asked. “Can you not feel it burning? She said it would burn.”

  Beobrand looked down, following Torran’s gaze. He saw a small stain of crimson on his breeches, just about his left knee. Torran must have nicked him when he had lunged under his shield. He had not felt a cut. It must be small, judging from the tiny amount of blood. But all of a sudden Beobrand noticed a stinging sensation emanating from the wound. His thigh burnt, but the rest of him felt as if he had been plunged into a snow drift. He shuddered, turning his attention to Torran’s blade. It did not shine in the sun the way that Hrunting did. It was dull and dim. And with a sickening feeling, he understood why.

  “What have you done?” he asked, cursing the tremble he heard in his voice.

  Torran spat another gobbet of bloody spittle into the earth.

  “She gave me something. Told me to dip my arrows in it. Said the wounds would burn, and you would die.”

  The stinging burn was getting worse. His thigh was throbbing with each heartbeat, pain radiating from the cut.

  “When you called me a coward before all those warriors,” Torran continued, “I knew I could not refuse your challenge. But I could put to use Nelda’s deadly dew. My blade is soaked in the stuff.”

  Poison. Like a serpent’s bite.

  Beobrand recalled a summer years before in Cantware when his friend, Scrydan, was bitten by a viper. Uncle Selwyn had been close to where they had been playing in the bracken. He had cut and bled the wound, sucking out the poison and spitting it upon the earth. He said by doing so he had saved Scrydan’s life. The boy had moaned and his leg had become swollen and bruised. But he had lived.

  Beobrand’s leg was hot now, the pain becoming worse by the moment. It was only a small cut. Perhaps all was not lost. If he could put an end to Torran quickly, maybe he could bleed the wound. But the wound, small as it was, already sent pangs of pain shooting up his leg.

  There was no time to be wasted. He could hold himself in check no longer. With every heartbeat, death drew closer.

  Beobrand sprang forward, swinging Hrunting in a savage arc, hoping to take Torran’s head from his shoulders. The pain in his leg was searing agony now, slowing him. Torran skipped back from the swing easily. Ignoring the pain, he rushed Torran, hacking with Hrunting again and again. At last Beobrand gave in to the creature that dwelt within him. He welcomed the lust for battle with a snarl.

  As Torran deflected Beobrand’s blows with his shield, Beobrand prayed he had not left it too late.

  Chapter 32

/>   “The mighty Beobrand,” scoffed Torran, grinning. Blood trickled down his chin. Easily, the Pict once again parried Beobrand’s attack. “It seems you will not slay the last of the sons of Nathair. I can see you are weakening. Slowing.”

  Beobrand did not reply. He needed all of his strength for the fight. He hefted the shield that now seemed to weigh down his arm and rushed at Torran. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he sought out Torran’s throat with the tip of Hrunting’s patterned blade. Torran skipped back, avoiding the sword, and then launched a counter-attack. Horrified by his own sluggishness, Beobrand watched as the poison-slick blade flickered towards his face. At the last possible moment, Beobrand summoned enough strength to throw himself backwards and raise his linden board. Torran’s death-bearing sword scraped across the shield, clattering off the iron boss. Beobrand’s boots slipped on the treacherous ground, yet somehow he kept his footing.

  Torran was right. He would not win this fight. The animal battle-speed that had won him so many confrontations before had left him now. The beast had been tamed by Nelda’s poison.

  Or the beast was dying.

  Torran came on, battering his sword into Beobrand’s shield. Splintered cracks began to show. If the blade passed through the wood, it could easily cut his unarmoured arm, just as Broden’s axe had done. It was possible that the gods would allow him to live with one small envenomed cut. Perhaps his wyrd would see him survive against the odds. But he was certain that a second wound would spell his death, as sure as a snowflake melts when it lands on a fire.

  The Picts jeered and screamed from the rock of Din Eidyn. The men of Oswald’s host seemed to hold their breath. Their appetite for this duel had fled. He was not surprised. They could see that their huge thegn, Beobrand of Ubbanford, was struggling for his very life. He had been a fool to tempt wyrd thus. His pride would be his undoing. Oswald praised him for his luck. Where was that luck now? His leg smarted and his vision blurred.