The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  As if in response to his words Tondberct’s voice, breathless from exertion, called through the doorway. “Beobrand, come outside. We don’t want to hurt you.”

  Beobrand’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom inside the hut and he was able to make out Alric, armed with an axe, standing beside Wilda, who was clutching a large knife. “Beobrand?” she asked, “Is that you?”

  Alric stepped forward. “What have you done, boy?” He moved towards Wybert. “You’d better pray he’s alright.”

  “He should be fine,” answered Beobrand. “I’m sorry. There was no time to talk.”

  “I can hear you talking in there!” came Tondberct’s voice. “Come on out and we can all talk together.”

  Alric helped Wybert up and moved him with Leofwine’s help to the back of the hut, where they lay him on a low pallet. Wilda moved to his side, fussing over him. He moaned groggily.

  Alric and Leofwine turned back to Beobrand. Alric hissed, “What is happening? Who are the people outside?”

  “There’s no time to explain,” said Beobrand. “You have to trust me. There are five armed men in the village. Three here and two more at the monastery. I think they mean to kill Coenred. Perhaps others too.”

  Alric’s face hardened. “We’ll see about that.” He reached up to one of the roof beams and brought down a horn that had been hanging there. He moved towards the doorway, placed the horn to his lips and blew five short blasts. The sound was loud in the confines of the hut, but much of the sound was directed out of the open doorway. Alric paused, took a deep breath, then repeated the five blasts on the horn.

  “That should bring us some reinforcements,” he said, with a cold smile. “We’ve not been idle since you left, Beobrand. Now you’ll see.”

  Wybert sat up, despite his mother’s protestations. “You bastard,” he rasped, looking at Beobrand with utter hatred. He made as if to stand up, but Wilda firmly pushed him back.

  “We need to fight our enemies, Wybert,” said Alric, looking at Beobrand appraisingly. “Not our friends.”

  Reaching his hand to his chin and wincing at the touch of his probing fingers, Wybert answered, “Friends don’t punch you in the face.”

  “Enough!” said Alric, drawing a conclusion to the conversation. “If you are strong enough, Wybert, pick up your weapon and prepare to stand strong in defence of Engelmynster, your friends and your kindred.”

  Wybert got up shakily. He gave Beobrand a sour look, but said no more.

  For a moment, nobody spoke and the only sounds were the constant drone of the rain falling on the thatch and the crackle of the fire on the hearthstone. Then a horn sounded somewhere not too far away. Three long blasts. A reply to Alric’s call to arms.

  Alric raised his horn to his lips again and blew.

  Hefting his axe, he turned to Beobrand, Leofwine and Wybert. “Let’s show these ruffians what happens when you attack Christ’s children.”

  With that Alric strode out of the hut into the driving rain. Beobrand didn’t think he counted as one of Christ’s children. Nonetheless, he drew his langseax, unslung his shield from his back, lifted it on his left arm, tensing slightly at the jolt to his still-tender ribs, and followed Alric outside. Leofwine and Wybert trailed out after them.

  In front of the hut stood Tondberct, Hafgan and Artair. All three brandished their weapons, but didn’t have the confidence they’d displayed only moments before when attempting to draw Beobrand out from shelter. Beobrand was now flanked by three armed men, making them outnumbered. The horn sounded again, this time closer. More allies were coming. The three of them stood close together, gaining strength from their proximity to each other. Their eyes were frightened.

  They could see the reinforcements approaching now. Five more men. Armed with knives, cudgels and spears were walking determinedly towards them through the mud and rain.

  The new group of villagers was getting close. Soon Tondberct and the two Waelisc brothers would be surrounded. They would have to fight. It was a fight they knew they could not win.

  Some silent communication passed between them, and, as one, they turned and fled towards the forest.

  The new group of villagers let out a cheer and ran forward, meaning to give chase. Alric held up his hands to stop them. “Wait, there are two more,” he said. “At the monastery. We think they mean to kill Coenred. There’s no time to waste.”

  Without waiting for a response, Alric broke into a lumbering run towards the monastery buildings at the other end of the village clearing. Beobrand ran at his side. Leofwine, Wybert and the others needed no further encouragement.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here?” Hengist sneered from the doorway. He moved into the room, allowing Dreng to enter behind him. The small chamber was already crowded with the five novices, Abbot Fearghas and the workbench. The overbearing presence of the two large warriors made it cramped. The novices moved as far from the two intruders as they could, cowering against the far wall.

  Fearghas stepped forwards, placing himself in between the warriors and the boys. “This is a place of worship and reflection. These boys are studying the works of God. Do you seek food or shelter from the rain? I’m sure we can find something to give you. Perhaps you could dry your wet clothes by a fire in the village.”

  Fearghas knew the men had not come for food or shelter, he could see the malice in their eyes. They reeked of wet wool, sweat and wood smoke. A lust of violence radiated from them like one more stench. Perhaps they were possessed by evil spirits. He did not know how, but he must protect the boys in his care from these men. Please Lord, protect these innocents from these men of war, he prayed silently.

  Hengist laughed. “We can take the food we need. We want to complete what we started back in the autumn.” His eyes roved across the novices and settled on Coenred. “As I recall, we were going to cut off your head and display it on a spear. Before your friend interrupted us.”

  Coenred felt sick. He had tried not to think about his brief time in the woods with these men. He’d thought he’d never see them again. That they would become a bad memory. Yet here they were, the large bearded leader and the evil-looking, toothless old one and there was nobody but Abbot Fearghas to protect him. Fleetingly, he thought that he should pray. Christ would protect him. Then he looked straight into Hengist’s eyes. He saw the madness and cruelty there and all thought of prayer left his mind, like smoke borne away on a breeze.

  Hengist made to take a step towards Coenred and the novices. Fearghas stood his ground. “You cannot have him or anyone else. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, be gone from here!” Abbot Fearghas’ voice was surprisingly strong for one so frail.

  Hengist paused. He didn’t know what magic this old man was capable of by invoking the names of his new gods. He had seen people wither away after being cursed. His own mother used to weave her spells with words of power. Who knew what powers this new Christ god had, especially inside his sacred buildings? He shuddered. The old priest must be silenced and they should get outside, where the wind and rain could wash away his incantations.

  Without warning Hengist struck Fearghas across the face with the back of his left hand. His knuckles connected solidly with the old man’s nose, crunching the cartilage. His eyes glazed over, rolling back into his head. Blood was already flowing from his nose, as he sank to the floor, dazed. Any other man who had stood against him as the old priest had would already be dead. But something in his demeanour made Hengist decide not to use his weapon. Perhaps striking him down with the words of his spell still on his lips in this enclosed space would bring down the wrath of the Christ god. Hengist feared no man, but he had a healthy respect for gods, both new and old.

  Dreng had drawn his seax and pounced on Fearghas’ senseless form.

  “Leave him!” shouted Hengist, the extent of his own fear surprising him. “We’ve come for the boy.” He pointed at Coenred, who felt his legs grow weak. He moved as far as he could from the two war
riors, pressing his back against the rough wall.

  Dreng moved grudgingly away from Fearghas. He pushed past the workbench to get to Coenred. The boys moved aside, allowing the old warrior to get to his new prey. When he reached the last boy before Coenred, the young monk did not move. It was Dalston and he was paralysed by fear. Dreng grabbed the young novice by the hair, using it to pull him out of the way. Dalston let out a whimper and his bladder released. The sharp tang of warm piss filled the air, as shivers began to rack the boy’s body.

  Ignoring the weeping youth, Dreng seized Coenred by the ear. Twisting it savagely, he pulled Coenred towards Hengist and the doorway. Coenred didn’t resist. He tried to keep pace with the old warrior to alleviate the pain in his ear. He managed a quick look back at the frightened faces of the novices in the room before he was dragged out into the pelting rain. There would be no help from that quarter.

  The cold rain and wind buffeted Coenred’s face. Dreng let go of his ear and gave him a hard shove in between his shoulder blades. Coenred sprawled in the mud. He pushed himself up onto his knees, but before he could stand or contemplate running away, Hengist kicked him in the stomach with such force that he was lifted off the ground. He landed on his back, unable to breathe. He lay in the mud looking up at the dark clouds roiling overhead. He struggled to draw a breath. Panic engulfed him. So he really was going to die. His vision blurred, darkening at the edges.

  After what seemed like a long time, when he thought he was about to pass out, Coenred finally managed a shuddering intake of air. As the air filled his lungs, his senses flooded back and with them an intense pain in his midriff where Hengist’s boot had connected.

  From the village came the sudden sound of five notes on a horn. They were muffled by distance and the storm, but clearly audible. Coenred recognised the signal Alric had made to warn of attack. About time. Perhaps he wasn’t going to die after all. Would Christ see fit to spare him again?

  He turned his head and saw Hengist and Dreng standing over him, rain streaming down their faces. They were not looking at him.

  “By Tiw’s cock, what is that? And where are Beobrand and the others? I thought they were right behind us,” said Hengist, peering into the driving rain in the direction of the sound of the horn.

  The mention of Beobrand made Coenred start. So he was still alive and with these men. What part did he have in this? Surely he couldn’t want to kill him.

  Just then another horn sounded. Longer notes this time, a different pitch.

  Despite the pain in his stomach and the waves of nausea that were now making his mouth fill with saliva, Coenred saw an opportunity to escape while the warriors’ attention was diverted. He hadn’t prayed for help, so it was unlikely God would save him.

  He had better help himself.

  The first horn sounded again. The warriors were distracted. Coenred scrabbled up from the ground away from Hengist and Dreng. But they were standing and Coenred was starting from lying flat on his back in the mud. After only a few strides he was pulled back by a strong hand gripping his robe. He was brought to a halt and he felt the cold iron of a blade pressed painfully into his throat.

  “Where do you think you’re going, eh?” Hengist held him tightly. The blade at his neck kept him still. “We’ve got plans for you.”

  “Looks like we’ve got company,” said Dreng. He went to the horses and retrieved both of their shields from where they had been tied to the saddles. Dreng held his shield in his left hand and then grabbed Coenred by the throat while Hengist readied his own shield.

  Running through the rain towards them came Beobrand and eight other men. All armed, but none wearing armour. Only Beobrand carried a shield. His face was dark with fury. Hengist grinned.

  Dreng spoke quietly beside him. “It is good that Beobrand’s angry. The boy is good with a blade, but he’s no match for you.”

  Hengist snorted. “Beobrand won’t be a problem. But where are Tondberct and those two damn Waelisc inbreds?”

  Dreng scanned the village for sign of their friends. “Two against nine are not good odds.”

  “No, but not impossible odds. Not against these peasants,” said Hengist.

  Beobrand and his companions stopped a few paces away from them.

  “Come to see us kill your little friend, Beobrand?” said Hengist. “Did you believe I wouldn’t come back for him? He’s been dead these last months. He just hasn’t known it.”

  Beobrand stopped a few paces from Hengist. He looked Coenred in the eye and saw the fear there. It struck him that Coenred didn’t respond in any way to him. He is not sure if I am here to help him or to help them kill him. The thought saddened him.

  “If you kill Coenred, you will both die. There are nine of us.” He waved his arm in the direction he had come. “Tondberct, Hafgan and Artair have fled.”

  Dreng looked around furtively. He licked his lips. The rain stopped falling abruptly, throwing a blanket of eerie silence over the village.

  Hengist smiled. “We will kill the boy if you try to attack. We can take him with us. Ride away from here. You’ll never catch us.”

  Beobrand saw the truth in Hengist’s words. A shiver ran down his spine. It was not brought on by the cold wind on his rain-soaked clothes. He had to stop them from leaving with Coenred.

  “You came here for a death. Let him go and face me instead.”

  Hengist’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “To prove you can best me. I have beaten all the others, but you have never fought me. I wonder if you are craven.”

  “As soon as I release him, they will set upon us. You think I’m a fool?”

  “You have my word that if you beat me in single combat, they will let you leave in peace.” Beobrand turned to Alric. “Swear an oath on whatever you hold sacred that your people will let this man go if he beats me.”

  Alric appeared troubled. He looked Beobrand in the eye for a long time. Beobrand gave a slight nod.

  “Aye. I swear on the bones of our Lord Jesu Christ that you will be given free passage should you beat Beobrand in combat. But first you must let the boy go.”

  Hengist hesitated. Dreng shuffled his feet in the mud. Coenred looked from Beobrand to Hengist.

  Beobrand broke the silence. “A coward it is then. Too scared to face me? Unbelievable. The great Hengist is scared of the boy he trained.”

  “Let him go.” Hengist waved at Dreng, but his eyes never left Beobrand’s. There was murder and death in that stare. Madness too. Fear suddenly gripped Beobrand. He’d seen what Hengist was capable of. He was no match for the older warrior. His stomach tightened.

  Dreng pushed Coenred away. Hengist sheathed his knife and drew his sword slowly from its plain scabbard.

  All eyes were on the blade as Hengist pulled it out with great ceremony. He held it aloft for a moment, and then pointed it at Beobrand. The shimmering patterns from the forging of the blade made it look like the skin of a serpent. Or the rippling waves of the ocean. It was a thing of beauty and great value. It was a noble blade.

  “Where did you get that sword, Hengist? Why do you never unsheathe it?” asked Beobrand, readying himself for the attack that would come all too soon. He sensed the men behind him back away, giving them space to fight. A glimmer of emotion passed over Hengist’s face, sowing a seed of a thought in Beobrand’s mind. “Did you steal it?” he asked. Hengist’s eyes widened. Then, almost as an afterthought, Beobrand said, “Like the coward you are.” To the onlookers, he seemed calm, in control. Inside he churned with pent up emotion. And fear.

  Hengist’s jaw clenched.

  “I am no coward, Beobrand. It was I who saved Edwin. This sword is named Hrunting and it was my wyrd for it to be mine. I didn’t steal it. I brought the justice of the gods on them both!” Beobrand didn’t understand Hengist’s words, but he had clearly struck on something to rile his foe. He needed any advantage he could get, so he pressed on.

  “Your words make no sense, Hengist. Are y
ou spirit-touched? You talk of justice. What do you know of justice?”

  “I know that betrayal should be paid for with death. That is why I killed Elda,” spittle flew from Hengist’s mouth. He was working himself up into a rage. “And why I killed Octa!”

  Without warning Hengist charged.

  Despite being prepared for the attack, Beobrand was startled. He threw up his shield to ward off Hengist’s long-reaching lunge but he did not feel the impact of metal on the leather-bound wood. Hengist skipped to the side, lithe and agile, sure-footed even on the muddy ground. As he moved, he flicked out the tip of his sword behind Beobrand’s shield and opened up a cut on his arm. Beobrand staggered backwards. Off balance. Feeling clumsy. His arm stung. The warmth of blood trickled inside his sleeve.

  His mind was in turmoil. Had Hengist really killed Octa and Elda or was he trying to make him lose concentration? Beobrand could not allow that to happen. He pushed the thoughts from his head. He was going to need his full focus and everything he had learnt if he was to have any chance of surviving this fight. He regained his footing and resumed the fighting stance Hengist had taught him.

  Hengist laughed. “Come on then, Beobrand. Show us what you’ve learnt.”

  They circled each other. Beobrand tense, keeping his guard up, Hengist relaxed and loose, his shield held at his side, his sword dancing in intricate patterns. The watchers were silent. Coenred held his breath.

  Hengist attacked again. He led with his shield, crashing boss against boss. He followed through with a cut to Beobrand’s feet, but this time Beobrand anticipated the move and leapt backwards.

  They circled again. Each looking intently for signals that would give away the other’s next move.

  Beobrand was biding his time. He hoped more than anything for Hengist to make a mistake. He kept his shield up and continued to mirror Hengist’s movements. His shield arm was tiring. The pain from the cut was getting worse. He would have to attack soon.

  As fast as a cat, Hengist attacked once more. They clashed shields again, Hengist using his forward momentum and strength to lever Beobrand’s to the side and down. He sent a probing cut with his sword over the shield’s rim, aimed at Beobrand’s face. Beobrand twisted his body and was able to parry the strike with his langseax. Though how, he was not sure. He had barely seen Hengist’s attack. Sparks flashed briefly in the dim light as the two blades collided.