Beobrand shook his aching head to free it of these thoughts. This was not the time to ponder. Enough of this. It ends now.
He unleashed the beast, leaping forward with a sudden savage glee.
“Now you die!” he screamed.
He had barely taken two strides, when a flick of Wybert’s gaze alerted him to something amiss.
A movement to his right. A sound. And before he could react, a snarling, grey weight hammered into Beobrand. He staggered, agony searing into his leg. For a moment, Beobrand was lost in confusion. What was this thing that had rushed from the tree-shade? Could it be a wolf? He struggled to maintain his footing, as the growling beast savaged his thigh. Looking down he saw that it was a great hound, bearing a thick leather collar. A hunting dog. Of course. How could he have been so stupid? He had been so blinded by the vision of his enemy that he had already tasted the victory before he had even dealt a single strike.
And now, as sudden as the wind changes direction in a storm, the luck Oswald often spoke of had vanished.
What a fool he had been.
Behind the hound, loping between the boles of the trees, came the red-bearded warrior he had faced at the great ditch. The throbbing of his head reminded him of that day, and of the speed and skill of this huge man who would be upon him in an eye-blink. He must rid himself of the dog that had sunk its teeth into the meat of his leg.
Beobrand hammered Hrunting’s pommel into the animal’s head. Once. Twice. But its snarls just grew angrier, and it tightened its jaws yet further. The pain was excruciating. The red-bearded warrior was raising his hunting spear. He would spit Beobrand like the boar he had been stalking.
The hound shook its head, attempting to rend and rip his flesh. Beobrand swung Hrunting down in a desperate arc, slicing into the dog’s back. Dark blood spattered and the animal’s growls changed in pitch.
Red-beard pulled back his arm for an overarm lunge with his spear. He was no more than ten paces from Beobrand.
The first cut had hacked the hound almost in two, but it seemed not to know that it was dying. Beobrand chopped down again with all his strength and hewed the dog’s body in two. The jaws were yet clamped onto his leg, but he was suddenly free of the bulk of the animal.
The giant came on, thrusting the spear forward in a blow that would have burst through his byrnie and pierced his chest had not Beobrand managed to spin towards his attacker and raise his linden-board. The spear-tip gouged a great splintered furrow across the board and clanged from the shield boss.
Beobrand staggered back, his leg a burning agony. A quick glance showed him the dog’s head was yet attached to him by its maw, the beast’s fore legs and gore-dripping chest flopping, almost tripping Beobrand, as the red-bearded warrior advanced towards him.
Chapter 38
The cool weight of the seax grounded Rowena. Somehow it seemed like the only solid thing in that accursed glade. Everything else felt like a dream. Nelda was smiling her terrifying grin at her, clearly overjoyed at the delivery of Beobrand’s woman for her bloody vengeance. Rowena shuddered.
She glanced at Reaghan. The girl’s face was the colour of whey. Her mouth was open in shocked realisation at what awaited her here, beneath the creaking, moss-clad trees. The trickle of the stream was loud in the cloying stillness of the clearing.
“How? Why?” Reaghan asked.
Gods, the girl was stupid. She had never even been a good thrall. How Beobrand could have made her his lady was something Rowena could not comprehend. The wind swirled in a sudden gust, shaking the spirit-gifts hanging from the branches. Reaghan’s long, auburn hair was thrown back from her face. Her dress pressed against her slender form, accentuating her breasts and the swell of her hips. Rowena snorted. Of course she knew what Beobrand saw in the girl.
Men. Idiots one and all. But oh, how she had missed the warmth of a man in her bed. She forced herself to breathe slowly, to calm herself.
Nelda took a step forward. The jackdaw on her shoulder let out a single cry.
Reaghan shivered, but she did not retreat. The girl had some steel in her, thought Rowena. Good.
“It is simple, child,” said Nelda, her voice soft, as one who speaks to a sick child. Or to someone on the verge of death. “I have sworn to destroy Beobrand, and to heap upon him such suffering as I am able before his death.”
Reaghan spun to face Rowena.
“But why? Do you hate me so much?”
Rowena did not answer. The seax in her hand was heavy. She had hated Reaghan, it was true, but part of her knew it was not of the girl’s doing. The Waelisc thrall had ever been subject to the men in her life. As all women were.
“Rowena here has a more practical reason for seeing you dead,” Nelda said. “With you gone, her daughter can marry Beobrand and become the lady of Ubbanford. We mothers must always do what is best for our children. Isn’t that so, Rowena?”
She gave Rowena her lopsided, horrific smile, as if they were the best of friends.
Rowena hated herself for her own weakness. By Frige, what had she been thinking? She gripped the bone handle of the seax as tightly as she could. Her hand trembled.
The wind shook the boughs of the birch and beech trees all around them. Nelda raised her voice to be heard over the forest-hiss of the trees.
“But you are no mother, are you Reaghan? You sought to be rid of the burden of a child. You should already be dead. Isn’t that so?”
Nelda had told Rowena of how she had almost succeeded in taking Reaghan’s life the summer before. But somehow the girl had survived. Helped by Maida and Odelyna most likely. Rowena recalled the days when they had said Reaghan was unwell. She had not given it any thought until Nelda had told her of Reaghan’s plight and the poisoned gift she had given the thrall.
Reaghan squared her shoulders. Colour had risen high in her cheeks.
“But I yet live, witch,” she spat. Her voice shook, but with defiance or fear, or both, Rowena could not tell.
“Well, child,” Nelda said with a savage-looking smirk, “now you will die. It is your wyrd.”
Nelda turned to Rowena.
“It is time,” she said, glancing down at the seax in her trembling hands.
Rowena swallowed. She slowly drew the sharp blade from its leathern sheath. She dropped the scabbard and the sack to the mossy earth. Now was the moment she must act. Her heart thundered in her breast, her blood roaring in her veins. To think she had come so very close. How had it come to this? She loved Edlyn. More than anything. She was all she had left. But this was not the way to help her daughter. She knew that now. As she had many times already this morning, she offered up thanks to Woden, Frige, Danu, even the Christ, that Bassus had come to her the night before. She had so craved a man’s touch again, to feel the heat and strength of a warrior beside her in her bed. But more than that, she had longed for a strong man’s counsel. Was she truly so weak that she needed a man to make her decisions for her?
Reaghan stood, white-faced and transfixed at the sight of the polished seax in Rowena’s hand.
“No, Nelda,” Rowena snapped, “it is you who will die here this day. I had been blinded by my love for Edlyn, but you are no friend of mine. You bring death and pain with you. You have caused too much harm. Now, like a moon-touched dog, you must be killed so that you can hurt no more.”
Rowena raised the seax. The time had come to put this right. Bassus had the truth of it. She must end this here. Now. She advanced towards Nelda.
As if a cloud had passed before the moon, Nelda’s expression changed instantly, pulled into a nightmare scowl of anger and hatred.
“I curse you, Rowena, wife of Ubba. I curse you and your daughter.” Above them, the sky grew dark. The wind picked up, shaking the trees, tugging at their clothes. Nelda’s hair billowed about her face. The jackdaw flapped into the air, adding its own angered cries to those of its mistress. “You will die terrible deaths,” screamed Nelda. “Your flesh will melt from your bones, your eyes will be blinde
d, your tongues will shrivel. You will choke on your own blood.”
Rowena was suddenly filled with a great strength.
“I am the bride of Ubba, thegn of Bernicia,” she shouted, her voice firm and loud in the windswept forest glade. “I will not be cursed by the likes of you, Nelda, Hengist-mother. I am old and my remaining days may well be few, but Edlyn will live long and happily. I swear this on your blood, which I offer to the gods and the spirits of the forest.”
Rowena moved forward, gripping her dead husband’s seax firmly.
But Nelda did not wait for her to close the distance between them. With snake-like speed, she produced a wicked knife from the folds of her dress.
“We shall see whose blood is spilt here today,” she screamed, and with an ululating shriek she rushed at Rowena, the knife blade lambent in the woodland gloom.
Rowena tried to gauge where Nelda’s knife would strike. She was sure she would be able to slay the witch, but she was no warrior. She had no blade-skill. It would be all she could do to ensure that her seax found its mark. Nelda would almost certainly wound her too. Perhaps mortally. So be it. She must hold on to life long enough to kill the cunning woman. For Edlyn.
She braced herself for the collision.
But Nelda never reached her. With a speed belying his huge bulk, Bassus crashed from the undergrowth into the clearing. He shouldered past Reaghan, who watched, aghast and unmoving. In his right hand Bassus held aloft his great sword. It flashed once in the dim dappled light of the forest, bringing Nelda to a crashing halt. She crumpled under the force of the blow. Bassus stepped quickly over her prone form. He kicked the blade from her hand and glowered down at her.
Nelda panted, gasping for air. Her dress was plastered to her body, dark and blood-drenched. Blood bubbled at the edge of her twisted mouth.
“The giant…” she said, loathing in her eyes. “I should have foreseen this.” She coughed weakly, dribbling blood. “Bassus, son of Nechten, I curse—” Her words were cut off as Bassus rammed the point of his sword into her mouth, pinning her head to the loamy earth. Nelda fixed him with her glaring eyes, her mouth yet working against the steel of his sword’s blade.
“Your days of cursing anyone are over,” Bassus said, returning her gaze. He waited for a long while until the light of life departed her eyes. Then he pulled his sword free with a grunt.
The wind calmed and the forest was suddenly silent around them. Without a thought, Rowena dropped the seax to the ground and rushed to Bassus. She flung her arms around his neck. He stood there, solid and stiff, unable to return her embrace due to the sword in his grasp.
Like one who is woken from a nightmare, Reaghan was dazed and confused. She took a tentative step forward, shaking her head as if to clear it of what she had just witnessed.
From the branches of the alder, the jackdaw looked down, twitching its head this way and that, its white-rimmed eyes bright against its charcoal feathers. The sound of its call made Rowena’s skin prickle. Her trembling increased and, at last, hot tears began to flow down her cheeks.
Chapter 39
The red-bearded giant advanced, the stout boar spear fast and deadly in his meaty hands.
Beobrand watched in dismay as another hunter ran from the forest, making the number Acennan now faced three. Without help, Beobrand was unsure how long Acennan could hold out.
Mayhap it was their wyrd to die here this day after all.
But there was no way Beobrand could help Acennan whilst this monster of a man stood before him. He took three quick steps back, giving himself a moment to reach down and use the edge of Hrunting’s blade to lever the dog’s jaws from his thigh. The weight fell away and the pain doubled, blurring his vision. His breeches and leg bindings were soaked, drenched with his own blood.
The huge Mercian rolled his shoulders, loosening muscles.
“That was a good hound,” he said with a frown. “Now I will finish what I started back in that shit-filled ditch in East Angeln.”
As fast as a snake, the point of his spear lanced towards Beobrand’s stomach. Beobrand caught the blow on his shield, but before he could counter, the spear flickered at his exposed neck. He twisted his body and the blade missed him by a finger’s breadth.
Gods, but he had forgotten how quick this giant was.
The Mercian pushed him back with a flurry of blows that Beobrand was barely able to deflect or dodge. Cursing his own stupidity at not having thought there might be more hunters with Wybert, Beobrand stepped back, keeping out of reach of the spear.
The crash of weapons on a shield and the jeers of defiance from Wybert and his companions spoke of Acennan’s struggle some way down the path. Beobrand could not spare a moment to see how his friend fared, but he knew it must only be a matter of time before Acennan would be overrun by his three opponents.
Beobrand parried another spear jab with Hrunting and then slid the blade along the haft in an effort to sever the giant’s fingers. But the spear was long, and his adversary was nimble and quick, despite his bulk. He skipped back out of range, smiling broadly.
“You’ll not get me with your shiny sword, Bernician,” the massive man said with a grin. “I’ll have your head on this spear-tip before the day is through.”
Beobrand’s mind raced. The big man was right. With his long-hafted spear, speed and skill, there was little chance of Beobrand landing a blow. Especially not with the wound in his thigh, which pulsed hotly as more blood oozed into his breeches.
Another fierce attack from the red-bearded warrior left Beobrand panting, his shield-arm numb. He would not hold out much longer. His head ached terribly now, and he recalled how he had narrowly avoided death at the hands of this monster at the great ditch. He jumped back again, using his agility to allow the spear to slip harmlessly past him. His foot caught on a tree root and he stumbled, almost falling. To fall now would be certain death.
And just like that, an idea crept into his head.
The man was sneering at him now, scenting the kill. Beobrand may have byrnie, helm and shield, but he was also dripping blood from the savage bites from the hound, and his shorter weapon and reach made him only able to retreat.
Beobrand lowered his shield and sword almost imperceptibly and allowed the next strikes from the massive Mercian to come even closer. He continued to parry and deflect the blows on his shield, but he shifted the direction he was retreating, side-stepping, only half-pretending to stagger. The huge warrior’s smile widened as he pushed forward. It was all Beobrand could do prevent the spear from hitting its mark and to keep his retreat angling back the way they had come.
Sweat poured from beneath his helmet, stinging his eyes. His arms screamed from the efforts of defending against the powerful attacks. His leg was a throbbing, heart-beating agony.
He heard a scream of pain from down the path, but he dared not look away from the bearded giant before him and his whirring spear. He could wait no longer. Offering up a silent prayer to Woden, Tiw and Thunor that his plan would work, he suddenly crouched low and sprang at the giant. He did not attempt to strike with Hrunting, instead all he sought was to deflect the spear and then barge into the huge man with his shield. The bearded warrior was a bear of a man, hugely muscled, with great tree-trunk legs; he would not be easily toppled. But Beobrand, whilst not as massive, was tall and broad, and he had timed his rush perfectly. For a heartbeat, his opponent was caught off guard, having expected Beobrand to continue his backward motion. But just as quickly, he regained his composure, changing the angle of his spear and stepping back to gain a better position. If the ground had been flat – the lathed and sawed boards of a hall perhaps – he would have taken control of the fight once more. But this was no hall, and Beobrand had manoeuvred him with his own retreat so that his foot stepped in the steaming entrails of the rear half of the hunting dog. The man’s eyes widened as he began to lose his footing, and Beobrand surged forward, shoving with his shield to send the huge man sprawling onto the carcass of his own
hound.
There was no time to waste. This was his chance to be done with the fiery-headed brute and to aid Acennan.
Beobrand carried on forward, stepping on the spear haft, and swinging Hrunting down. He meant to take the man in the throat, but the giant was too quick. He twisted and raised his arm and, instead of ripping out his gullet, Beobrand’s sword hacked into the man’s upper arm, shattering bone and sinew. The giant screamed and blood spurted hot and bright in the cool forest air.
Beobrand did not pause. He kicked the giant in the face, snapping his head back and silencing his screams. Then Beobrand limped down the slope as fast as he was able. With each step, pain engulfed his leg. He clenched his jaw and pushed on to his friend’s aid.
Acennan had his back to the trunk of a great oak. Before him lay one of the hunters, unmoving, skin as pallid as whey. By the position of his body Beobrand saw that he was dead. Wybert and the newcomer to the fight were jabbing at Acennan, but like Beobrand he too suffered against the range of the long boar spears the Mercians wielded. Acennan was quick and skilled, but he could not reach his opponents. Nor could he shield himself from two spears with one linden-board.
As Beobrand staggered down the slope, his vision blurring with the sweat-sting and pain from the dog bite, he saw Wybert flick his spear-tip at Acennan’s face. Acennan raised his shield, catching the metal blade on the rim and deflecting it away from him. But at the same moment, the other Mercian lunged at his midriff. Beobrand, yet too distant to attack, watched in horror as the spear slid beneath the shield.
“No!” screamed Beobrand, willing his injured leg to carry him forward more quickly.
Chapter 40
Acennan grunted and chopped down with his sword into the ash haft of the spear. The wood splintered and Acennan, face pale with rage and pain, surged forward. The severed spear fell to the earth and both Wybert and the other hunter took a step back, shocked at the sudden attack from the stocky warrior who should have been pinned to the oak by the stout spear.
Killer of Kings Page 27