Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  "Come," he beckoned to the short Waelisc, "we will fight here. But when I kill you, your men will mount their steeds and ride out of Northumbria."

  Mynyddog Mwynfawr said a few words in his own tongue to his men. One of them replied, but Mynyddog cut him off with a sharp word. He made his way to where Beobrand waited.

  "If you slay me," he said, with a twisted smile, "the men of Hyfeidd the Tall will leave this place and ride south. But what if I kill you?"

  "Such a thing will not happen," said Beobrand, enjoying the banter with this stranger, despite the threat of death and the weariness that lurked just beneath the current of energy that flowed through him at the approach of battle. "But if by some twist of wyrd, I should fall, your men may take the weapons and byrnies of my gesithas. You will leave them their lives and their horses, that they may return to their homes. The death of one of us should be enough. Too many brave men have already died this day."

  Beobrand heard the grumble from his men at his words.

  Mynyddog smirked.

  "They do not sound as though they would honour your bargain."

  Beobrand scoured his gesithas with his gaze. They fell silent.

  "They will do their duty and do that which their lord wills. And if they do not," he said with a grin, "you are more than twice their number. I am sure you could convince them."

  Mynyddog Mwynfawr shrugged. Then, with a nod, he said, "We have a bargain, Beobrand, Half-handed. To the death then."

  All trace of humour dropped from his face, as quickly as ice and snow slips from a steep roof when the thaw comes. Mynyddog crouched into the warrior stance, sword held high over his shield.

  Beobrand glanced at the ground, checking for anything that might cause him to lose his footing. Lichen- and moss-covered rocks were strewn about the hillside, but this flat meadow of cropped grass provided ample space for sword-play. Much more than the space of an extended cloak that the gesithas used for practice bouts.

  The instant he looked up, Mynyddog leapt forward, as Beobrand had known he would. He hefted his shield, soaking up the flurry of blows and stepping backward. This was not the shieldwall, where no quarter could be given, this was a duel, and Beobrand was a master with sword and shield. He had tested his skill against the best warriors in the land with a wooden practice blade and many a wager had been placed on him over the years. Those who placed bets on him had seldom had to part with their stakes. And of those who had stood against him with sharp, naked steel, most had become food for crows and foxes. His skill was legendary, the thing of scops' tales and songs.

  But as he defended against those first strikes of Mynyddog's sword, Beobrand knew he had perhaps never faced a man as quick. This Waelisc was a true swordsman, his blade like a living thing. Entranced, Beobrand watched Mynyddog's feet as the diminutive warrior skipped and paced, as lithe as any dancer.

  This would be no easy fight. Mynyddog's blade was a blur. Beobrand again parried a series of attacks on his splintering linden board, then, as fast as a striking adder, he lanced Hrunting's point at the Waelisc warrior's throat. It was a desperate lunge, and a move that Beobrand had used before, always to devastating effect. But Mynyddog was unperturbed by the assault. He swayed to the side, avoiding the strike and effortlessly lashing out with his own counter-attack.

  Beobrand leapt back, his right bicep burning. Mynyddog's sword had found its target. Beobrand flexed his arm and risked a glance at the wound. Blood seeped from a short cut. It stung terribly, but it was not deep.

  "Did that wake you up?" sneered Mynyddog. "I had heard tell that you were fast. I've seen the dead move more quickly."

  The Waelisc onlookers let out a cheer at their leader's insult and the drawing of first blood.

  Beobrand took a deep breath, willing himself to be calm. He could almost hear Bassus' words when they trained together: "Do not let him anger you. Focus."

  He stepped forward, and Mynyddog retreated. The man was no fool. He may make light of his adversary with his taunts, but he knew that Beobrand was deadly.

  They circled each other, each ready for the slightest movement, the smallest gap in the other's defences.

  Without warning, Beobrand roared and leapt forward, hammering Hrunting down, keeping his shield ready for the counter he knew would come. Mynyddog caught the great blow on his shield and attempted to slide his own blade beneath Beobrand's guard. Beobrand swung his board to intercept the attack, pushing the sword aside. But rather than retreat, he pushed himself forward, inside the Waelisc warrior's reach. Mynyddog was momentarily off balance and Beobrand kicked out at his right knee.

  Mynyddog grunted and then both of them were parting, jumping apart as quickly as they had clashed. Beobrand noticed the narrowing of the small man's eyes. That had hurt. Beobrand hoped it would slow him down.

  They circled again. Each staring at the other, intent on the eyes and the feet, for those were what would show when and from where an attack would come. Beobrand's Bernicians were shouting their encouragement now too, their voices mingling with those of the men of Powys so that the small patch of grass on the hill sounded like a battle between two warbands, and not just two men. Beobrand ignored the noise. He could not afford to be distracted.

  He was panting now, sweat flowing freely from beneath his great helm and trickling into his eyes, stinging them.

  "How is it I have never heard of you?" he asked, wishing he could pause for a moment to wipe his brow. "I would have thought one of your skill would be sung of in all the mead halls of Albion."

  Mynyddog laughed, but did not cease his stealthy pacing around the grassy patch of ground. Was he favouring one leg? Beobrand could not be certain, but he thought he detected a slight limp.

  "You must listen to the wrong bards," Mynyddog said. "Typical of you Seaxons. You believe your kind is better at everything and cannot begin to think that one of my people could possibly best you in anything. Well, prepare to learn, Seaxon."

  And with that, Mynyddog pounced as fast as a cat. Beobrand was forced backwards, such was the frenzy of the attack. Blow after blow crashed into his shield. The watching Waelisc screamed and jeered. Beobrand parried frantically, looking for any weakness. If Mynyddog had been limping, there was no sign of it now.

  Sparks flew from the blades as they rang together. Beobrand was careless of Hrunting's edge now. This was a foe to be reckoned with. If he did not turn the tide of this fight soon, he would have no need of his blade, save to grip its hilt in the hope that Woden would notice him fall and usher him into his corpse-hall.

  Halting his backwards motion, he reached forward and down, aiming a huge blow at Mynyddog's leg. Had the strike connected, it would have slain the warrior from Powys. It was a powerful swing with the fine sword and would have more than likely severed the leg, or at least cut deeply and shattered the bone, killing Mynyddog just as surely as a cut to the neck. And yet the slicing blade did not hit its target. As he reached out, Beobrand's weight shifted and his left foot slipped on the trampled grass, that was now slick from being crushed by the duelling men.

  His leg slid from under him, and he crashed to the earth. In an eye-blink, Mynyddog stood over him. Beobrand made to swing Hrunting up into his adversary, but the blade did not move. With a shock, he saw that Mynyddog was standing on the blade. Panic seized Beobrand then. He stared up at the small Waelisc warrior. Gone was the twinkling eye and the ghost of a smile, this was the implacable face of death.

  The watching warriors were baying like hounds who scented blood, but the sounds they made receded as Beobrand lay there on the shadowed slope. The green scent of the grass filled his nostrils. The sky above Mynyddog's head was afire with the last rays of the sun. Beobrand drew his gaze away from what would be his last sunset, back to the set features of Mynyddog's face. The Waelisc warrior had placed his sword at Beobrand's throat and he found himself staring along the burnished length of the blade.

  He had known this day would surely come, when he would meet his match. He did not wish
to die, but he was so tired. To close his eyes for a time would be welcome. But he would not look away from death. Clutching Hrunting's grip tightly, he ceased struggling to free the blade. He would miss Octa growing into a strong man, but perhaps he would soon see his older brother after whom he had named his son. Maybe there was a place in the afterlife where he would meet again with all those he had lost. His mother. His sisters. Sunniva.

  His gaze met Mynyddog's.

  "Do it," he whispered. "Make it quick."

  But Mynyddog withdrew his sword, shifting it to his left hand, where he held it awkwardly along with his shield. Then, leaning down, the bright sky turning his grinning face to shadow, he offered Beobrand his hand.

  Beobrand blinked, unsure and confused.

  Mynyddog laughed at his discomfort.

  "You tripped, man," he said. "I would not be known as the man who slew the great Beobrand with the help of some damp moss."

  For a moment Beobrand lay there panting, drawing in great gulps of air. He could taste the freshly-crushed grass in his throat. The air was cool and sweet, revitalising him as if it had been cold river water.

  He reached out his hand and allowed Mynyddog to haul him to his feet.

  Mynyddog took a couple of steps back, allowing Beobrand to retrieve Hrunting. Beobrand wiped the sweat from his face and readied himself once more to face the Waelisc swordsman.

  The cheering from the two warbands intensified. The men of Powys must have been full of pride at the bravado shown by their man. The Bernicians strained their voices in the hope that they would lend their lord the strength and skill to vanquish Mynyddog. Beobrand's mind was reeling. The man had let him live. The shame of it hit him like a slap. How could he fight him now? And yet, did he have a choice? The lives of his gesithas hung by the thread of his wyrd.

  Mynyddog ended his moment of reflection with a lightning attack, which Beobrand barely managed to parry.

  "Come on," taunted the Waelisc man, "it will be dark soon, and one of us must be dead before then."

  And so they continued to duel. The watchers marvelled at the prowess of their two leaders. Mynyddog and Beobrand clashed again and again, each time, their speed and weapon skill enough to finish a lesser opponent. But these two men were both masters of their chosen craft, and each attack ended with the strike being avoided. Often this took the form of a block that further tattered and splintered the men's hide-covered linden boards. At other times, the warriors simply darted out of reach of a scything blade, skipping over the grass and sparing their shields and swords further damage. When particularly pressed and desperate, the men would parry with their blades. The clang of steel on steel made the watching men wince. They all knew they risked blunting and chipping their swords, or worse, shattering the metal.

  But the blades were well-wrought, and the men were so skilled that neither could find a gap in the other's defences for a long while. They were both panting and sweat-drenched now, taking longer pauses to regain their breath between bouts of vicious fighting.

  And they were slowing.

  These were the best warriors those watching had ever beheld, but they were not gods. Their breath was ragged, their deflections and dodges ever slower.

  Mynyddog danced forward, feinting at Beobrand's head. But Beobrand had been studying the wily Waelisc and anticipated the true attack, that would be a thrust to his groin. When the lunge came, Beobrand side-stepped and crashed his shield rim down into Mynyddog's sword hand. Beobrand timed the move well, but he knew that if his adversary had not been tired, he would never have connected with the shield. And yet, weary as they both now were, it was not merely skill that would win the contest. Guile, chance and luck would all play their part.

  Mynyddog's sword fell to the churned grass and mud. Grimacing at the pain in his wrist where Beobrand's shield had struck, he leapt quickly out of Hrunting's reach. Beobrand stepped forward and placed his foot on Mynyddog's blade. The Waelisc warrior, clearly in pain, held his right hand up behind his scarred, white shield. He offered Beobrand a twisted smile.

  "Well, about time you scored a hit," he said, his voice coming in gasps as he tried to regain his breath. "After all, I did give you a lie down and a rest before!"

  Beobrand returned his grin. Gods, the man was a strange one, to laugh in the face of death. For surely Beobrand must slay him now. He looked down at the sword beneath his foot. Mynyddog had let him live when he had fallen, could he slay him now, as he stood weaponless before him?

  They stared at each other for several heartbeats, both breathing hard, glad of the respite, but knowing blood and death were not far away now.

  Something drew Mynyddog's gaze from Beobrand. For a moment, Beobrand thought this was some crude trick to make him turn, but then he heard it.

  Hooves.

  Galloping hooves of many horses. On the hilltop his men were rattling their spears and swords against their shields, cheering more loudly now than the Powys men, who had fallen silent.

  Beobrand turned and stared down into the valley. For a moment he was unable to make sense of what he saw, he had been focused for so long on his opponent that it was difficult to take in the wide expanse of land, dappled in shade and the golden light of the sunset. But then his heart soared. From the north came some twenty mounted warriors. Their war gear glimmered and glinted in the sun's dying light. And instantly he knew why his men atop the hill rejoiced. For these were battle-hardened men of Bernicia, warriors without compare. They all carried black-painted shields and followed a fair-haired young warrior who rode as if he had been born to the saddle.

  Cynan!

  The men from Powys were hastily forming a defensive square, seeing that they would very soon be facing enemies from two directions.

  Beobrand rammed Hrunting into the ground, then, stooping, he lifted Mynyddog's sword from the earth.

  A movement from the birch on the hill caught his eye. Perhaps startled by the sudden noise of the arriving horsemen, a white bird flapped from the canopy of the tree and flew overhead. A dove. Beobrand frowned, thinking of Oswald and his omen.

  He proffered the sword towards Mynyddog hilt first.

  "Go, Mynyddog, lead your men away from here with your honour."

  There was no smile on the Waelisc man's features now. He fixed Beobrand with a stare as cool as a winter's night.

  "But not with my lord," he said.

  From below them came the sounds of men dismounting. Shouted orders rang out as warriors formed shieldwalls. Beobrand did not remove his gaze from Mynyddog's.

  "No," he said at last, rubbing his calloused right hand over his face and smearing the dirt, dried blood and sweat there, "no-one can bring back the dead."

  Mynyddog's eyes narrowed. He sighed and took a deep breath. He accepted his sword from Beobrand and sheathed it with a fluid flourish. Nodding, he spat and then grinned once more.

  "Until we meet again, Beobrand, the Half-handed," he said, and returned to his men without a backward glance. Mynyddog joined his warband and ordered the men to mount up.

  "Let them go!" Beobrand shouted to Cynan, who acknowledged the command with a wave of his hand.

  "Oswald was right," Acennan said, from beside Beobrand. The gesithas had descended the hill and now stood around their lord.

  "Right?" Beobrand said, almost too tired to speak.

  "You are one lucky whoreson."

  Beobrand hawked and spat.

  "My mother was no whore," he said.

  Acennan chuckled.

  Beobrand watched as the men from Powys rode away. They cantered south, the white shields strapped to their backs flashing blood red in the final rays of the day's sun.

  Beircheart suddenly bellowed after them, "Go on and run, you Waelisc scum!"

  "Charming, that is," said Cynan, leading his horse up the hill to meet them. "I didn't expect to be welcomed with a feast, but, after riding to your rescue, I had thought to receive better than that, Beircheart."

  Chapter 33

  Re
aghan took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm. The room was filled with the sounds and smells of a feast. A small boy turned a sheep on a spit over the hearth. Mutton fat dripped into the fire, sending up sizzling sheets of flame. The fresh ale had been served, and more had been fetched by the other women of Ubbanford, who were all present. In fact, there was nobody from the settlement who was not crammed into the hall. They drank, ate and laughed, but Reaghan also sensed their gaze upon her and her guests. After all, it was not every day they got to see a queen.

  "She is not a queen," Rowena had told her that afternoon, after sending one of her new slaves down the hill to fetch a large cheese that had been hanging in Ubba's hall, "just the wife of an atheling." That may be so, thought Reaghan, but as she looked over at the beautiful woman, who delicately lifted her eating knife to skewer a morsel of meat, she could not make the distinction. Cynethryth was clearly a woman of breeding.

  Reaghan was breathless to think that she, who had once been a thrall, was the hostess here, and Cynethryth, wife of Eowa, atheling of Mercia, a guest. She had hardly believed the number of chests and coffers Cynethryth had brought with her. And her clothes! By Danu, Mother of all, Reaghan had believed that some of the garments she had fashioned from cloth purchased from Aart the peddler were fine. But they were rags when compared to the finery Cynethryth wore.

  The Mercian lady seemed to sense her gaze, for she looked in her direction and smiled. Blushing, Reaghan turned her attention to the slices of meat and freshly-baked bread before her. She cut a small sliver of mutton and placed it in her mouth, trying to emulate the way that Cynethryth used her knife. She chewed slowly. Don't be so foolish, she told herself. Cynethryth is just a woman, the same as you. But no matter how many times she told herself that, she could not bring herself to believe it. She did not look the same as her, and Reaghan could not imagine she felt the same either.