Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  None who saw the feat of Ceawlin’s final death blow would forget it. It was the stuff of legends. But for the story to reach the scops, to be heard on the mead-benches of great halls, someone who witnessed the hero’s act must live. But the Mercian host pressed forward.

  Beobrand spat the blood from his mouth. Damn the gods. They cared nothing for mortal men. The gods laughed to see such chaos. To see hope torn into shreds of despair like mist in a wind.

  Another step backward. Another. The sea of Mercians and Waelisc rolled on, pushing them ever back.

  A spear-tip scraped along his forearm, and Beobrand was glad of the metal plates he wore there.

  Without the gods’ favour, they would not escape death this day. Beobrand’s men were dying. Sigeberht had been slain and now watched with sightless eyes as his folk’s fyrd was destroyed. He had led them here. Would they all perish now? Had Beobrand brought them to their doom?

  What a fool he had been. Death surrounded them, and now it was coming for them. Mayhap he deserved it. He was not worthy of the gesithas who had sworn their oath to him. But they would not fall timidly. If he could not reach Wybert, he would at least give the gods a death worthy of song.

  “Come, my brave Bernicians,” he screamed in his battle-voice, pointing Hrunting’s gore-slick blade at the sky. “If we are to die here today, let us each take a dozen of these whoresons with us to be our thralls in Woden’s corpse hall.”

  Dreogan grinned savagely, his teeth white in a face painted red and black with his soot markings and the blood of his enemies.

  Beobrand nodded to the man, but could not return his smile. He had failed to take the blood-price for Sunniva’s defiling. A sudden stabbing pain made him gasp. For a heartbeat, he thought he too had been pierced by a spear, but he was uninjured still. With a start, he realised that what he felt was the anguished agony that he would never see Octa again. He felt his dismay replaced with ire.

  “Ceawlin has claimed the man to bring him mead in the afterlife,” Beobrand shouted. “Let us fill Woden’s hall with dead to serve us!”

  With a cry, Beobrand pushed his shield forward, stamping down as he stepped with purpose. To his surprise the wall of Mercian and Waelisc shields had retreated somewhat. The weight he had expected from the press of their boards had gone. Beobrand’s remaining gesithas and Wynhelm and his retinue moved forward as one. Could it be that his words had frightened their opponents? Or had Ceawlin’s bravery shocked them into retreating?

  But then he heard it. The unmistakable wailing call of a horn. The thin sound cut through the tumult of fighting. All along the line, men once again faltered, as the battle seemed to take a breath. Again the horn’s cry over the embattled men. Then another horn lent its voice to the first. Then another.

  What was this? Were the Mercians bringing reinforcements?

  On the low ridge of the western side of the ditch there suddenly loomed a row of horsemen. The sun glimmered and shone from their battle gear. They rode beneath a banner of red cloth with a golden emblem stitched upon it. The long red cloth fluttered in the soft breeze and Beobrand saw that the emblem was a great wyrm. The golden dragon glittered as brightly as the war harness of the riders. The flapping crimson banner was a grim reflection of Sigeberht’s bloodied robes that hung on the road to the east.

  “That is the sigil of the Gewisse,” shouted Wynhelm. “The men of Wessex have ridden to war.”

  And as the warriors of Wessex leapt from their horses and rushed down the slope to fall upon Penda’s thronged host, Beobrand’s heart leapt. For with the new threat, the shieldwall before them had fallen away and parted. And there, directly before him, where moments before there had been a mass of enemies, stood the red-bearded giant.

  And beside him, eyes glaring from under the brows of a great helm, was Wybert.

  Chapter 23

  Hope flared within Beobrand at the sight of Wybert. Perhaps it was his wyrd after all to avenge Sunniva. He rolled the tension from his shoulders and neck and prepared to rush at his enemy. The tide of battle could shift in a heartbeat once more; he must not waste the chance that the Wyrd sisters had spun for him.

  To his surprise, Attor and Elmer both leapt forward before him.

  “For our lady Sunniva!” screamed Attor. The words goaded Beobrand into action. He had thought this vengeance was his alone. How had he not remembered the sorrow of his men at having failed to protect Sunniva?

  Around Wybert, men were already forming ranks, bringing their shields into a wall.

  With a scream devoid of words, Beobrand unleashed all of his anger in a torrent. He ran at Wybert, shield and blade light in his hands. Vengeance would be his.

  The red-bearded giant and another warrior had intercepted Attor and Elmer and the four of them were now engaged in a vicious exchange of blows. The fighting men moved quickly between Wybert and Beobrand, impeding his progress. For an instant, Beobrand could see Wybert’s eyes staring at him from the eye guard of his helm.

  Between them, Attor pushed his opponent back, but Elmer was struggling against the giant. Splinters flew from Elmer’s shield as the giant smashed a great axe into the board like a smith beating at an anvil. Around Wybert, the Mercians were recovering from the shock of the West Seaxon attack. Soon, he would once more be protected from Beobrand behind a solid defence of wood and iron.

  “I will kill you, Wybert!” Beobrand shouted, spit and blood flying from his lips. “By all the gods, I swear it.”

  He must reach Wybert, but the giant’s bulk was in the way. The man’s axe was a whirring blur of destruction and it was all Elmer could do to keep his shield high. Beobrand stepped closer. He could take the red-bearded bear of a man in the flank while he concentrated on Elmer. But as Beobrand watched, Elmer’s shield shattered. For a moment, Elmer stood as a hare when seen by a hawk, eyes and mouth wide, body still, as if a lack of movement might turn death away. Beobrand bellowed and lunged forward with Hrunting, but he knew he was too far from the giant. He could not prevent the axe blow from connecting.

  The giant must have heard Beobrand’s approach, for he half-turned towards him. Then, as quick as an eye-blink, he sliced downward with the huge axe and Elmer slumped into the pile of corpses in the ditch.

  “No!” Beobrand yelled, his voice ripping in his throat.

  With a speed that belied his size, the giant spun towards him and caught his sword-thrust on his shield. Beobrand could sense the gathering press of men around them, but he cared for naught in that moment save the giant who had killed Elmer. The giant who had slain the husband of Maida and father of four children. Elmer, son of Eldred, most-trusted of warriors.

  The giant who stood between him and Wybert.

  Beobrand rained blows down on the man’s shield. The giant soaked them up as if they were nothing. The crashing, roar of battle flared around them, reaching a new intensity that seemed to echo Beobrand’s savage attack on the red-bearded warrior. Beobrand caught a fleeting glimpse of Wybert mere paces from where he battled. The sight of Sunniva’s tormentor taunted him. So close, and yet the giant was as immovable as a boulder. How the gods must be laughing.

  Beobrand swiped at the huge axe-man’s legs, but again he anticipated the strike and skipped out of reach, as lithe as a stoat. The man was as skilled as he was massive. Beobrand’s arms were aflame from standing in the shieldwall and his head throbbed from the sling stone’s blow. His strength was waning and he could sense the wind of battle changing its direction. He must take the red-bearded whoreson down if he wanted to get to Wybert before it was too late.

  With a scream, he rushed at the giant, raising his sword to attract him to do the same with his shield. The Mercian’s shield went up, and Beobrand twisted Hrunting, aiming a vicious slicing cut at the man’s belly. But the red-bearded giant had known full well what Beobrand planned. Seemingly without effort, he parried the blade with the haft of his axe. Beobrand’s shield clattered into the Mercian’s and the old wound in his arm screamed. The shock of the col
lision rattled his teeth. It was as if he had run into a cliff. Beobrand was a large man, strong, tall and fast. He was not used to standing before those larger or stronger than he. He shook his head now. He had barely moved the man, and the giant warrior was his match in weapon-skill. He knew he would be able to slay that worm, Wybert, but he was not so sure about this wall of a man. He could almost hear the gods cackling over the death-screams of battle.

  Beobrand and the giant stood like that for a moment, shield to shield. Over the rims of their boards Beobrand stared into the other man’s eyes. They were pale blue and shot through with bloody veins. And they were empty. It was like looking into the eyes of a fish, or staring into icy winter ponds. There was no emotion there.

  With a great shove against the shield, the Mercian pushed Beobrand back. Beobrand knew he could not best the man with strength, so he leapt backwards, trying to connect with Hrunting even as he retreated. But the man saw the attack as if it had been that of a child. He swung his heavy axe and it clanged into the sword blade. The tremor from the blow ran up the sword and into Beobrand’s arm, numbing his hand and wrist. It was all he could do not to drop the sword. Again he retreated. Too late he saw the giant had changed the direction of the axe. The iron head glinted as it sped towards his neck. With nothing more than instinct, Beobrand threw his shield up. But he was too slow. The shield would never reach high enough to intercept the axe. And yet, the sharp iron did not bite into his flesh. For Beobrand had stepped upon one of the many corpses that littered the marshy ground, and his foot had plunged into the bloody cave of the body where the fyrd-man had been opened from navel to breast. Beobrand lost his footing and was falling, even as the giant’s axe skittered through the foetid air towards him.

  The blade did not connect with his neck as the giant had intended, but, as Beobrand fell, it did strike. With a great clangour the axe smacked hard into Beobrand’s helm, in the same spot where the sling’s stone had already dented the metal.

  For a moment, all was black. Beobrand could not make sense of what was happening. He was lying on something soft. His hand was warm and sticky. There was something stinging his eyes. A roaring in his ears, but he could not hear. Pain in his head. The clouds above him were wisps of white against the pale blue of flax flowers. Darkness seeped into his vision then.

  Beobrand shook his head. He knew he must not succumb to the darkness. His skull felt as though it had been cracked open like an egg. Perhaps it had, he thought grimly.

  A shadow loomed over him. The giant. The huge man’s bulk blotted out the sun.

  With a start Beobrand found that Hrunting was still in his grasp. He tried to lift his arm, but it was numb.

  The giant raised his axe.

  Beobrand’s arm refused to do his bidding. He would die now.

  But the blow did not fall. A dark shape, even larger than the giant, flew across Beobrand’s vision. A horse cannoned into the giant, sending him tumbling away.

  Scarcely believing what he had witnessed, Beobrand tried to pull himself up, out of the quagmire of death in which he lay. But still his limbs would not respond. Nothing made sense. His head span and the pain cut into him with each movement.

  A rider leaned down from the saddle of the mount. Beobrand squinted up, willing his eyes to focus. This was a face he recognised. And yet he must surely be dead, or dying. For the face that swam above him belonged to one who was not here in this death-churned ditch.

  “Acennan?” he croaked. “Is that really you?”

  Part Three

  Old Friends and New Enemies

  Chapter 24

  Beobrand closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. The scent of the roasted boar was rich and heady above the other smells in the great hall. Ale, mead, woodsmoke, the dogs gnawing bones in the rushes and the dozens of men at the benches all added their aromas. All around, men talked cheerily, laughing and recounting tales. None now attempted to speak with Beobrand. At first they had made some effort, but the fair-haired warrior had been taciturn and sour company.

  The hall was familiar to Beobrand in the way an old dream might be. He had been here before, but not for several years. And he had never seen the hall from his current position at the high table of the lord and his guests. When he had been here before he had been a child. He had marvelled at the girth of the stout roof pillars and the height of the beams that supported the great thatched roof. It had always been a place of celebration when he had visited. Feasts of Thrimilci and Blotmonath had been held here and everyone from the surrounding area had flocked to Folca’s hall. He remembered the awe he had felt to see thegns, warrior rings upon their arms and fine brooches clasping their long woollen cloaks. How Beobrand had longed to bear a sword and shield in the service of a lord then. To be like his brother, Octa, and their uncle, Selwyn.

  Now his own hall was grander than this. Its beams were higher, its stout pillars cunningly carved and broader. He had rich land. Treasure. And the ear of a king.

  But would he have wanted the life of a thegn, if he had known what awaited him in Northumbria? Death and sorrow seemed to walk in his shadow, but what else would he have done? Tended the land like his father? He snorted and took a sip of the ale in his drinking horn. Even the taste of the drink was familiar to him, bringing with it fleeting memories of his mother’s hearth. His sisters.

  No, he could not stay in this place then, any more than he wished to now. The thread of his wyrd had pulled him north, to Bernicia. To think of what could have been was madness. He could never go back and unpick the weft and warp of his life.

  He looked into the flames of the great hearth fire for a moment. Unbidden, the image of his father’s face came to him. The fire consuming the man and his home, smoke billowing into the sky like an offering to the gods.

  He took another draught of ale. No, he could never go back.

  And yet, here he was. A shiver ran down his spine.

  When he had left Hithe, he had merely been the son of a ceorl. What was he now? A lord who left his oath-sworn men to die in battle, while he fled like a woman.

  “This boar is wonderful,” said Acennan, breaking into his reverie. The stocky warrior sat to his left chewing on a great hunk of meat, oily juices trickling into his beard. “You really should try it.”

  Beobrand shook his head, lifting his horn and draining it of ale. Usually his favourite meat, he had no taste for boar now.

  Acennan frowned, then continued to eat in silence.

  Beobrand knew he hurt his friend. And yet, he had not forgiven Acennan for what he had done. Perhaps he never would.

  He gazed back into the hearth fire, but his mind was far away.

  He recalled the galloping chaos from the great ditch. His head had been swimming and it had been all he could do to stay in the saddle of the horse Acennan had brought for him. All had been confused. Like a dream.

  Or a nightmare.

  The battle had turned. The East Angelfolc had been routed. As Acennan and Beobrand’s wild-eyed mounts had carried them along the floor of the boggy ditch, images had seared themselves into his memory. A man pushing another’s face into a puddle of blood, drowning him in the bubbling slaughter-sweat of the fallen. A pale-faced warrior standing alone, swinging his sword in great arcs, oblivious of the arrow jutting from his neck and that there were no enemies left for him to fight. A boy, sitting calmly in a pool of his own blood, singing a harvest song with the sweetest of voices. He had nodded to Beobrand as they’d galloped past, his face blood-spattered but serene. Who he had been singing to, Beobrand had no idea.

  All the while Beobrand’s head had throbbed, his vision blurring at times. His stomach had churned and he had swayed, clinging to the horse’s saddle. He had followed Acennan, not truly knowing what they were doing or where they were going, so addled was his mind from the blow to his head.

  The mounts had clambered out of the dyke and Acennan had led them into the forest. As the tumult of the battle had fallen away behind them, Beobrand’s head had b
egun to clear. He had remembered Elmer falling beneath the giant’s axe; saw anew Ceawlin’s heroic death blow. But what of Aethelwulf? He was as close to Ceawlin as a brother. And what of brave Attor and Dreogan? He had left Gram being tended by the camp women. How had Wynhelm and his gesithas fared?

  As they had cantered along the path beneath the thick canopy of branches, Beobrand’s head had pounded. His stomach clenching, he had vomited as they rode, retching hot bile down his leg and across his steed’s back. For a time, Acennan seemed not to notice, until Beobrand dragged hard on the reins, halting his headlong rush into the shadowed cool of the woods. Acennan wheeled his horse around then, returning quickly to where Beobrand spat ropes of spit and puke into the dust.

  “We must ride,” Acennan said, his voice urgent. “I will tell you how I came to be here to save you when we are sure not to be caught by Penda and his wolves.”

  “Save me?” Beobrand spat. His head felt too large for his neck. Sweat streaked from beneath his helm. He fumbled with the cords that held the cheek guards close together. Loosening them with a curse, he let the fine helmet fall to the earth. The rush of cool forest air to his head and face made him woozy. For a moment he believed he would pass out. He leaned forward and rested his head against the horse’s mane. It was dark brown and coarse. Comforting somehow. But it was not Sceadugenga’s mane. He had abandoned the stallion as he had abandoned his men.