The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  Edwin returned the smile, but his unease did not abate.

  That night they camped with the enemies’ campfires in sight. The ever-swelling numbers of the fyrd had fallen into a routine at each evening camp, but this night was different. Where before the younger men had trained with spear and shield before sinking down beside the large fires to listen to the older warriors’ tales of battle and glory, this night the men were nervous. The excitement had fled and they smothered their fears with drink. Mead and ale were consumed in huge quantities and many of the warriors were unconscious before midnight.

  Beobrand drank sparingly. Early in the night, Bassus approached where he was sitting with Tondberct and some other young warriors and pulled him aside.

  “Don’t drink any more tonight, Beobrand. We fight at first light and the drunken men will be the first to die tomorrow. You need your wits about you.”

  “Pay no heed to that old worrier,” jeered Tondberct, already well on his way to drunkenness. “Anyone would think he was your mother, the way he fusses over you.” The others laughed.

  Bassus gave them a stern look, then shook his head and left them to their youthful jests. Before he left, he patted Beobrand on the arm and said, “Seek me out in the morn. You will stand with me in the shieldwall.”

  “Come on, Beo,” said Tondberct. “There is plenty of drink to go around.” Tondberct passed him a flask and Beobrand drank, but sparingly. He heeded Bassus’ words and would not let himself be goaded into drinking heavily, no matter how persuasive Tondberct could be. Gods, but it was hard to refuse him. He smiled and passed the mead back.

  Tondberct had become his closest friend over the days they had trudged south. They had practised spear-play together in the evenings and both shared the common dream of becoming great warriors. Most of the other men had also been good to him, accepting him. They had talked and joked as they walked and sometimes he had even managed to keep his mind from picking at the scabs of the past for long stretches at a time.

  He looked around at the men of the fyrd. They knew battle would be upon them with the dawn, yet they didn’t seem to care. But Beobrand listened to Bassus and only sipped ale for a while until he decided to get some sleep. He found it very difficult. The noise from the men was distracting, but what really prevented him from sleeping was the growing feeling of fear. It had turned his stomach to water. But it was more than fear. It was excitement too.

  What would the next day bring? Would they be victorious? Would he bring glory to his name?

  Would he live up to Octa’s memory?

  He wrapped himself in his cloak against the chill of the night, but still shivered. One thought surfaced, pushing all others from his mind.

  Perhaps the next day he would join Octa in the afterlife.

  Bassus woke Beobrand the next day before dawn. Men were readying themselves all around them. Many were vomiting, leaving steaming puddles dotted throughout the encampment. Bassus handed him his spear and made sure he was holding his shield correctly. Bassus was wearing his full armour and in the dark he looked like a giant from a scop’s tale.

  “Here, take this.” Bassus handed Beobrand a seax. It was short, not much more than a knife, with a simple bone handle. The single-edged blade shimmered with the patterns of finely-forged metal. “It doesn’t look like much, but it is a good blade and holds its edge well. Once we are in close, you’ll find it more use than the spear. Your brother gave it to me and it served me well. He would have wanted you to have it.”

  Beobrand thanked him and they walked together towards the edge of the camp. The shieldwall was forming there. Edwin had taken Bassus’ advice and set up camp to the east of the Mercian and Waelisc host, so that when they attacked, the sun would be in the eyes of their enemies.

  Nearing the centre of the line, Beobrand saw that Edwin and Osfrid were standing there, metal-garbed, battle-ready and proud, with their gesithas around them. They parted and allowed Bassus and Beobrand to take up places in their ranks.

  Beobrand looked along the line. Spears bristled, held aloft, a deadly winter forest. Armour and weapons jingled. Somewhere a man laughed. A short, wiry man to his left drew a stone slowly along the length of his seax with a grinding rasp. Beobrand’s whole body thrummed. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

  Bassus said in a calm voice, “Easy now, Beobrand. This is your first battle and you will not be wanting to die in it, so listen to me.” Bassus took off his helmet and Beobrand could just make out the scar running above his left eye. “Use what I have shown you. If you stick by me, you’ll be all right. And remember, if I get one of their shields down, get in quick and skewer the bastard.”

  Beobrand nodded and turned his attention towards the enemy. Cadwallon’s and Penda’s hosts had seen the Northumbrians readying for battle and they were forming their own shieldwall. They stood in a ragged line at the top of a small rise, the sky behind them a dark purple. In between the land was flat and boggy. To the centre of the enemy line Beobrand made out a standard bearing a wolf’s head and several wolves’ tails. To the left of that he saw another banner, this one carried a human skull and a crossbeam from which dangled what appeared to be human scalps. The men below those standards were lifting up spears, and hefting shields. Preparing for battle. Preparing to kill.

  Smoke billowed from the campfires behind them, mingling with the ground fog.

  Would one of the men he could see in the dim pre-dawn light kill him soon? He felt sick all of a sudden and started breathing through his mouth in an effort to calm his stomach. He closed his eyes and leant his head against the ash haft of his spear.

  Images from the last six months flooded his mind. Edita’s tiny body, swaddled in a shroud being lowered into the ground. Rheda, sweet Rheda, her hollow eyes boring into his as he mopped her burning brow with a cool cloth. She tried to smile for him even then. His mother, shaking with fever, lying on the straw-stuffed mattress, soaked in sweat, reaching out to clench his hand in a grip that belied her frailty.

  “Don’t stay here, Beobrand!” she had hissed. “You have nothing to bind you here now. I know you wish to be gone, to seek out your brother. You were meant for greater things than tilling the land, my son.” She had closed her eyes. Her breathing was so shallow he’d thought her spirit had left.

  Then her eyes had opened again and she had spoken for the final time, summoning all her strength to say those last words.

  “You…are…not…your…father’s…son…”

  What had she meant? He would never know. Her breath had left her with a sigh and his father’s bones now lay in the charred remains of his house.

  “Wake up, boy!” Bassus’ gruff voice brought Beobrand back to the present. To the battle. To kill or be killed.

  All of his dreams with Octa and Selwyn had come to this. He had taken heed of his mother’s words and left Hithe. His father had confronted him for the last time. He was a farm boy no longer. He was a warrior in Edwin of Northumbria’s warband.

  He cast a glance at Bassus and the huge warrior flashed his teeth in a grin.

  The sun was just beginning to peak out over the trees, shedding a pale light over the battlefield. The Northumbrian warriors cast long shadows in front of them.

  “Come, my countrymen!” shouted Edwin. “The moment of truth is now upon us. You have answered my call to the fyrd and stand here shield to shield with your kinsmen in defence of the land that is ours by right of blood.

  “I am Edwin, son of Aella, direct descendant of Woden. The blood of the old gods flows in my veins and the new God, the Christ, is on our side. Paulinus has blessed us in His name and I have promised to build Him a great church when he grants us victory.

  “We cannot be defeated this day. Together we will send these pagans to hell where they belong.

  “I will quench my sword’s thirst in the blood of these Waelisc and Seaxon Mercians.”

  He flourished his fine battle-blade above his head. It glinted in the dim sunlight.

&nb
sp; “Take up your weapons with me. Guide them with cunning and might.

  “Kill them all! Attack them now and kill every one of them!”

  “For Edwin!” came back the raucous response from the host, Beobrand’s voice as loud as the next man’s.

  The shieldwall surged forward. Beobrand felt his shield bang against the man on his left as they ran. He tried to keep pace and to hold his shield in the right position. He could hardly believe what was happening; what had been a distant dream was now vivid reality. And then there was no more time for thinking. The men around him let fly their javelins with shouts of defiance. At the same time, the enemy threw theirs. Beobrand had no javelin but he watched as the light throwing spears were silhouetted against the sky. Those of each side mingled together at the apex of their flights, and then he could see the burnished point of one spear glinting as it fell straight towards him.

  He raised his shield above his head and kept running. Something hit the rim of the shield, but he was not wounded. The man to his left screamed, tripped and fell. Beobrand caught a glimpse of a javelin piercing the man’s right leg just above the knee. He looked away. The enemy were mere steps away.

  The two shield lines crashed together like waves hitting a cliff. Beobrand’s shield smashed against another. He pulled back, trying to get an opening at the warrior in front of him. As he did so, he realised it was a mistake. His opponent, a brutish, red-bearded Waelisc, wearing a leather helm, pushed hard as he stepped back. Beobrand lost his balance and fell sprawling to the muddy ground. The Waelisc warrior, smiling at how easily he had broken through the shieldwall, pulled back his spear for the killing blow. Beobrand tried to rise, but the Waelisc moved in too quickly for him to get to his feet.

  But at the moment the spear point came hurtling towards Beobrand’s exposed chest, Bassus turned and parried the blow with an over arm swing of his barbed spear. He swung with such force that the warrior lost his grip. The spear fell harmlessly to the ground next to Beobrand.

  With practised skill and uncanny agility, Bassus thrust his spear into the Waelisc’s wooden shield. The barbs caught, and Bassus leant on the spear shaft, using his weight to pull the shield down.

  “Now, boy!” Bassus shouted, struggling to hold on to his spear and avoid the cleaver-like blade the Waelisc had unsheathed. Beobrand scrambled to his feet. He snatched up his spear and, letting out a roar that was lost in the tumult of battle, thrust his spear at the Waelisc’s midriff. The man attempted to parry, but was hampered by his trapped shield. He only succeeded in deflecting the spear upwards towards his unprotected face. With all Beobrand’s weight behind the thrust the point grazed over the man’s right cheekbone and pierced his eye. He collapsed instantly and the sudden dead weight on his spear pulled Beobrand down. He stumbled, landing in a heap on the warrior’s twitching corpse.

  The anvil sound of metal on metal and the screams and grunts of warriors crashed around him. He struggled to free his spear from the eye socket of the warrior, but it was lodged fast. He pulled for a few heartbeats and then remembered the seax that Bassus had given him. He unsheathed it. It felt natural in his grip and with abandon, he threw himself into the rift in the shieldwall. He had killed an enemy and all his fear had vanished like morning dew in the light of the sun. The noise of battle subsided around him and an inner calm washed over him.

  A snaggle-toothed man with blood-shot eyes, peeked over a shield in front of him. Beobrand’s seax flicked out over the shield and rammed down the man’s throat. Bassus was screaming beside Beobrand, hacking and slashing with his sword, splinters from the enemies’ shields making a dusty cloud about him. The Northumbrian line was moving forward. A fallen warrior clawed at Beobrand’s leg, whether friend or foe, Beobrand neither knew nor cared. Battle lust was upon him and he had no time for the wounded. He stamped on the man’s fingers, feeling them snap under his foot and pushed his shield forward to meet the next enemy.

  The enemy shieldwall parted and a grey-haired man wearing a fine suit of scale mail stood before him. He was wielding a blood-drenched sword and there was a pile of corpses at his feet. Beobrand thought not of the danger. He saw a gap in the line and walked forward to fill it. The old warrior looked surprised and almost saddened as Beobrand, with no armour and only a splintered shield and short seax for protection, walked towards him.

  Something in the warrior’s grim features penetrated through the red mist that had descended on Beobrand. He looked around to see where Bassus and the other Northumbrians were, searching for aid against this mighty warrior. Too late he saw that he had become cut off from his shieldwall. The tide of the battle had shifted and the Mercians and Waelisc had outflanked the Northumbrians. Edwin’s host had fallen back towards the encampment, leaving Beobrand stranded and surrounded by enemies.

  CHAPTER 4

  Death surrounded him.

  Screams of the dying mingled with the clash of weapons, creating a hellish cacophony.

  The foetid bowel-stench of the slain hung over the battlefield, the miasma of defeat.

  The calm that had made him formidable moments before had vanished as quickly as it had come.

  Beobrand faced the grey-haired warrior. His legs were heavy. His stomach in turmoil. The warrior strode down the slope towards him. Beobrand struggled to lift his shield and seax in a menacing manner.

  The grim warrior swung his sword, effortlessly swatting the seax from Beobrand’s hand. Beobrand stepped backwards, vainly attempting to raise his shield. All strength had fled from his limbs. His right hand throbbed from the sword blow. The shield in his left was too heavy, as if being dragged down by unseen forces.

  He knew then, looking into the dire, grey eyes of the warrior, that he was going to die. From deep within himself, a spark was rekindled. If his wyrd was for him to die this day, he would at least die fighting. Not cowed and mewling like a woman.

  He scooped up a fallen spear and stood tall; straightening his back, squaring his shoulders. He would not die so easily. This old man would regret attacking Beobrand, son of Grimgundi.

  Letting out a scream of defiance against all that the gods had taken from him, Beobrand charged towards his enemy. Too late, he saw the old warrior step nimbly to the side. The momentum of his headlong rush carried him forward. He stumbled, off balance. He tried to recover his balance, to bring his shield to bear. But it was hopeless. The linden-wood board was too heavy. He was too slow.

  Before he could regain his footing, he was struck a jarring blow to the temple.

  Dazed, he staggered and then fell back onto the corpse of the snaggle-toothed warrior.

  He looked up at the sky, unable to move. Carrion crows circled, patiently awaiting the feast that the battle-play would provide. The noises of death and battle grew in his ears, became distorted. The grey clouds scudding in the sky turned crimson.

  He fought to retain consciousness. His thoughts became addled. His sight faded. So, this is what was it to die. Beobrand’s hold on middle earth slipped.

  His mind turned to Octa. He would see him soon.

  Beobrand came round to the sound of laughter. Voices, indistinct and distant, sang a bawdy song. Somewhere far off someone was screaming. He could feel cool water hitting his face. His head ached and there was a sharp pain in his chest as he breathed. He tried to open his eyes but found that the left one would not obey his command. With his right eye he could see that the sky was darkening and the water that hit his face was rain.

  He couldn’t move his arms. He lifted his head and looked down to see what was impeding their movement. He immediately saw what was causing the pain in his chest. A warrior lay face down on top of him. The boss of his shield was pressed into Beobrand’s ribs, the man’s weight on it. The warrior’s head had been smashed, a mess of dried blood, bone and matted hair. The stench of death slowly pervaded Beobrand’s awareness.

  He felt faint and let his head fall back. He twisted his head towards the sound of voices and could just make out the shadows of men, silhouette
d in front of a large fire. Next to the fire stood the wolf standard of Penda and the grisly skull totem of Cadwallon. So, Edwin had lost the battle.

  And Beobrand had survived. He should have given his life with honour. It was the duty of a warrior to die with his lord. But now the thought of death in battle seemed less noble than it had that morning. He had seen it first-hand. He had killed two men. Seen the life fade in their eyes. Heard the wails of the wounded. Smelt the blood and shit of spilt innards. And now here he lay, covered in cloying blood, both his own and that of others. Gone were the dreams engendered by Selwyn’s tales on the mead benches. The truth of the shieldwall would make poor songs. He was lucky to be alive, he knew, and he would have to be careful if he wanted to live through the night. If Penda and Cadwallon’s men should discover him, all would be lost.

  From the way he was feeling Beobrand was certain that he wouldn’t be able to move very quickly, let alone fight. He decided to wait till nightfall before attempting to get up. With luck, the men would be too busy celebrating their victory to search for survivors amongst the enemy fallen.

  In preparation for making his escape he began to move his arms and legs slowly, flexing his muscles, working the long period of inactivity from them. The rain was falling harder now and within moments he was soaked.

  By the time it was dark enough to stand without being seen from the camp, Beobrand was shivering uncontrollably. He carefully slid out from under the corpse that had partially shielded him from view. The pain in his ribs was much worse now and he bit his lip to avoid crying out. He lay there, beside the body, on the muddy ground, and willed himself to get up. He reached up to gingerly touch his left eye, thinking that it may have been stuck closed with dried blood. The side of his head throbbed and the eye was swollen and tender to the touch. It would not open. No wonder he had been left for dead. His face must look awful.