The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  At the head of the host was carried a standard. Beobrand had seen it before. At Elmet. It had been topped with a human skull then, but now it also had a head, which still bore flesh and hair, but it was too far away to make out the features of the severed head. Several straggling human scalps dangled from the crossbeam.

  Scand peered at the standard. It was still some distance away. The dust in the air made it hard to be sure, but the head looked familiar to him.

  He let out a gasp. He had known the face well in life and its features had suddenly become clear to him. His worst fears were confirmed. His lord Eanfrith was dead! He should have been there at his ending. It was his duty to fall with him.

  One of the other thegns recognised the head and let out a cry. “We have failed our lord. He is killed by his enemy and we were not there to protect him.”

  A ripple of disquiet ran through the men of the shieldwall. Scand knew that this battle could be lost before it began if the men lost morale. He stepped forward and addressed them, turning his back on the enemy amassing on the other side of the river.

  “Do you see the head of our lord king? These Waelisc pigs have slain him with treachery. But they have made a grave mistake. They have come to us showing their vile deeds openly. Their crime is there for us all to see. And they have brought back our lord! Eanfrith watches us from Woden’s Hall. Will you disappoint him? Will you let him see us fail here? No! We will make them pay the weregild for a king with their blood. With their lives.” He could sense the moment of doubt had passed. The men were once again ready for battle.

  “Will you make them regret killing Eanfrith king?”

  “Yes!” came the answer from the shieldwall. As they raised their voices, so they raised their spirits.

  “Will you make them pay?” he screamed.

  “Yes!” they replied in a raucous roar of inchoate anger.

  “Make your king proud!”

  They cheered and jeered at the Waelisc.

  Scand stepped back into the centre of the line, lifted his shield and drew his sword. Yes, we will make them pay for what they have done.

  The men saw a strong, grey-bearded thegn, resplendent in metal-knit shirt and polished, boar-emblem helm. But his weapons were heavy and his helm weighed down on his head.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. A wave of tiredness and grief washed over him.

  He felt old.

  The first Waelisc to arrive stopped someway short of the river. The others were forced to spread out behind them.

  Cadwallon rode at the head of the host. He sat astride a fine dappled gelding. Gwalchmei rode at his right hand on his enormous black stallion. They reined in to survey their enemy and the black horse took a bite at Cadwallon’s mount. The king’s steed skipped to the side to avoid the other horse’s teeth. It was not the first time this had happened on the short journey up from the Wall and Cadwallon was annoyed.

  “Apologies, lord king,” said Gwalchmei. He tugged at his reins to let his horse know who was truly in control.

  Cadwallon wondered whether Gwalchmei’s horse’s obvious dislike reflected its owner’s true attitude towards him. The young warrior always seemed so self-assured of his position. He had always been faithful and useful, it was true, but there was no need to act as if it was an accepted fact. His smugness prickled Cadwallon. He would soon have to tug on Gwalchmei’s reins. It was time he understood the reality of his situation. He would be nothing without his king.

  They had stopped just beyond a spear throw’s distance from the river. Before them they saw the force that Eanfrith’s loyal retainers had managed to organise. There were little more than a hundred of them. They stood two men deep in a shieldwall that bristled with spears. The afternoon light sparkled on the water and the polished helms and spear points of the Seaxons.

  “They have chosen their position well,” said Gwalchmei. “We will not gain full advantage of our numbers.”

  Cadwallon shrugged. He could see it was true. The path to the ford was heavily overgrown on either side, with large trees along the banks of the river forming a natural barrier.

  “No matter. Form the men up into ranks. We will use the weight of our numbers to push them back and crush them.”

  Gwalchmei turned his horse and started shouting orders at the men.

  Cadwallon remained where he was, looking over the water at the defenders of Gefrin.

  He watched as an old warrior wearing fine battle gear stepped in front of the ranks of warriors. The greybeard turned his back towards him and shouted words of encouragement to the men in the shieldwall. It was difficult to make out the words over the noise of his own warhost behind him, but Cadwallon caught some words. He smiled. It seemed they had seen the latest addition to his standard. They shouted and cheered, but he knew the damage had been done. They had seen their lord defeated. Their resolve would soon buckle like a poorly forged sword.

  He would defeat this last resistance before nightfall. He was feeling confident. He had conquered Deira and killed three Seaxon kings in under a year. Men had flocked to his banner. Even some Seaxons, hungry for spoils of war and to be on the winning side. He could accept some of their kind to make up the front ranks of the shieldwall. They were strong and savage, but he was pleased that the size of his host now meant he no longer needed that damned brute Penda of Mercia to help him.

  Bernicia would be his alone.

  Acennan passed Beobrand a leather flask of water. They had been standing now for a long time and they were all drenched in sweat. The Waelisc formed up into a strong shieldwall of several men deep. Beobrand took a swig of the warm water. It tasted sharp and tangy. He spat and handed the flask back to Acennan.

  “Looks like the waiting is over,” he said.

  “Thank the gods for that,” answered Acennan. “Perhaps we can kill these whoresons and go home before dark. I’m tired.”

  A few men chuckled.

  Beobrand turned to Leofwine to his left. “Heed me when the battle starts, Leofwine. I’m expecting a song about it later.”

  Another ripple of laughter, but the mood was tenser than ever now. Leofwine smiled a thin smile, but could not tear his gaze away from the enemy host as they started to make their way towards the river.

  “Hold your ground, men,” shouted Scand. “Make your fathers and your lord king proud.”

  There was a tremor in the shieldwall as men hefted their shields and weapons, readying themselves for combat.

  The Waelisc walked slowly down to the water’s edge. There they paused. Several threw javelins and other projectiles. Most clattered harmlessly off of raised shields. One stone hit Beobrand on the shoulder, making him wince. The boy who had vomited earlier mistimed lifting his shield and a short throwing spear struck him in the hip. He screamed and fell back. He was replaced in the shieldwall and pulled to the back of the line, whimpering.

  Cadwallon’s men stepped into the shallow water of the ford. The water lapped around their ankles.

  Those who had something to throw now returned the Waelisc attack. Spears and stones flew across the river. A few spears landed in the ranks behind the shieldwall and men cried out in pain. But the warriors did not falter and they were now so close that Beobrand could make out individual faces and details.

  Both sides let out screams of defiance. The noise was deafening, terrifying.

  Fear gripped Beobrand then. He shivered, the sweat on the back of his neck suddenly chill. He stared at the man moving towards him. The man he would meet in battle in moments. The man he must kill. Bile rose in his throat and he thought he might disgrace himself.

  “Hold!” shouted Scand, his voice carrying over the battle-cheers of friend and foe alike.

  Before Beobrand loomed a hulking figure. Iron-knit shirt, white, leather-clad shield, with gleaming boss. Blood-shot brown eyes and wild hair. The Waelisc line took a step forward and the shieldwalls met with a clash.

  Beobrand used his weight to push forward, then pulled back momentarily. Acenna
n pushed his spear into the gap. The man with the blood-shot eyes wavered, tried to defend the blow from Acennan. Beobrand did not hesitate and pushed his own spear overarm into the man’s throat. The man’s gurgling scream went unheard over the cacophony of death. He fell into the shallow water of the ford and was trampled by his companions as they stepped into the breach.

  Beobrand let his spear fall with the man and quickly drew Hrunting. His fear had fled like a coward flees combat. He welcomed the cold anger of battle lust like a long-lost friend. Gone was the time for fear or thought. He had become an instrument of death once more. He grinned at Acennan.

  He swatted away an ineffectual swipe over his shield, then thrust his sword under the shieldwall and felt it connect. He jabbed it harder and it opened up flesh and sinews, till brought to a halt against bone. He twisted the blade and pulled it back. The face of the young man before him went deathly white. The sword had opened a terrible wound in his groin. Dark blood spurted and the boy collapsed.

  All along the line the Bernicians were faring well. The Waelisc had poor footing at the edge of the river and were attacking up the slight rise out of the ford. The Bernicians were defending their homes and their loved ones. They could not give any ground.

  Acennan and Beobrand quickly fell into a pattern of teamwork. Singly they were each formidable foes, but together, they were unstoppable. Blood misted the air before them.

  Beobrand swung his sword in a downward chopping motion into the unprotected head of a man with straggly grey hair. Acennan shoved his shield forward, hacking downwards with his sword into the shins of their enemies. The river was clogged with bodies. Sweat, blood and splashed river water covered every man with a slumgullion of gore.

  The Waelisc fell back from the onslaught leaving a space around the two. Beobrand stepped forward into the gap, meaning to drive towards the grisly standard and Cadwallon, who fought at the centre of the line. Acennan pulled him back.

  “We must not break the shieldwall! It would be our undoing.”

  Beobrand remembered Elmet and how he had been cut off from his companions. He nodded and stepped back into his place. Acennan smiled, showing his teeth. They were stained with blood. His lip was bleeding but he was oblivious.

  Beobrand looked left and right, trying to assess the passage of the battle, but it was impossible to tell which way things were going. All along the line men were killing and dying, but the gods alone knew if either side was winning.

  Many had already fallen on both sides, but the Waelisc seemed to be taking the worst of the battle. Some men were able to stagger back behind their lines, others lay where they fell and were either pulled out of the way or trampled. All was chaos. Chaos and death.

  He caught a glimpse of Scand’s polished helm and white beard. He was laying about him with a fine blade that flashed silver in the sun. The Waelisc were scared to approach him. Closer he saw Leofwine and his heart rejoiced at seeing him still hale. The young scop was standing tall. He was pushing his shield against the Waelisc shieldwall, jabbing over the rim with his spear.

  As Beobrand looked, he saw Leofwine’s spear point find its target. It raked down his enemy’s unprotected arm. Blood flowered, but the man did not fall back.

  “Beobrand!” Acennan’s shout alerted Beobrand to the danger that faced them. He turned back to the river. In front of them, the men had regained their courage. The Waelisc shieldwall had reformed and the warriors charged forwards. Beobrand and Acennan braced themselves. Beside them their companions did the same. The shields once again smashed together with jarring force.

  Beobrand sensed more than felt a seax coming under his shield rim. He slid his shield down as hard as he could and caught the wrist that wielded the seax with the rim of the linden board. The knife fell to the ground to be stamped into the mud.

  Taking advantage of the opening presented by the lowered shield, a black-haired man with striking green eyes swung a huge axe at Beobrand’s face. Beobrand barely managed to lift his shield in time and the strength of the blow splintered the linden. The axeman swung again and again. His attack was so ferocious and his strength so prodigious that Beobrand found himself being battered backwards. After a few blows his shield was a tatter of splinters and leather strips, with merely the boss remaining intact. He was breathless. He could not carry on like this. He took a step back and forced himself to be calm.

  The man stepped forward and once more lifted his axe over his head. Beobrand parried the downward cut with his shield boss and saw that losing most of his shield would provide his salvation. He could see his adversary’s movements clearly, and his attacks had become all too predictable.

  The axeman took another swing. Beobrand changed his footing and sprang forward. His sword slid through the links of the man’s battle-net and deep into his belly. His green eyes were wide with surprise. A heartbeat before he had been so sure that after the battle men would sing of how he, Cadman, had slain the blond devil with his mighty axe. Now he could feel the strength leaving him as his lifeblood poured into the mud. The axe swung down and then fell from Cadman’s fingers. It bounced off Beobrand’s back and grazed against his calf, drawing blood. Their eyes met for a heartbeat before Beobrand punched him full in the face with his shield boss. Teeth smashed and the light went out of the green eyes as Cadman fell on the muddy beach of the ford.

  Beobrand had been forced back but now returned to Acennan’s side.

  “I thought you would be joining your ancestors then,” Acennan said, smiling his bloody grin.

  “I have other plans,” laughed Beobrand.

  Again the area in front of them opened up, giving them a moment to catch their breath. Both lines were tiring now. Their arms were aching, leaden.

  Surveying the battle, they could see that the fighting was most fierce around Scand. Cadwallon’s banner was there and his closest retainers were trying to break the shieldwall by killing the Bernician leader. Scand and his gesithas were putting up a defence worthy of legend. A pile of dead and dying lay before them.

  Beobrand searched for Leofwine and saw that he was still in the line, shield and spear in hand. He had a cut to his head, and blood soaked his long, flaxen hair. As Beobrand watched he saw with dismay that a new enemy stepped up to face Leofwine. He recognised him instantly. His face had once been handsome, but now it was a mask of terrible ugliness. The puckered, raw scar from eye to chin had been inflicted by Beobrand himself. He gripped the hilt of his brother’s sword, anxious to be able to finish what he had started.

  “Hengist!” he screamed. But Hengist did not hear him. He strode towards Leofwine, who looked like a hare that had been fixed in the gaze of an eagle.

  Beobrand could not stand by and watch. He must protect his friend. Vengeance was within his grasp. Hrunting was already slick with the gore of his enemies, now it would drink the blood of his brother’s slayer.

  He started to move towards his enemy, but Acennan held him back.

  “I must help Leofwine. Let me go!”

  But Acennan shook him. “If you go, the shieldwall will part and we all will die! Look, they attack again!”

  The battle raged on till the men on both sides were exhausted. Time and again the Waelisc threatened to break the Bernician shieldwall, but each time Scand’s men rallied. Still, in the end they would have been overwhelmed despite their bravery and the toll they took on their enemies. It was as inevitable as night following day. More than half their number had fallen. Of those left standing, few were uninjured and all were so tired they could hardly think.

  They would have been defeated but for wyrd.

  For it must have been wyrd that made Scand’s fine sword blade shatter.

  Scand stood in the front of his line and fought with courage. He defeated all who stood against him. He seemed invincible, despite his age. The Bernicians took heart at their leader’s war-prowess. Their enemies’ resolve began to falter. This battle should have been over quickly. Yet the Bernicians stood fast. The sight of their w
hite-beard lord slaying foes like a young man filled them with pride. They would make him proud. They would make their dead king, who looked on from atop the Waelisc banner, proud too. They would not back down.

  But they would be defeated.

  They were only men, and men can only do so much. They fought on. For honour and to make the Waelisc pay dearly for this land. But as the sun dropped in the sky and the shadows lengthened, they did not fight to win.

  Then, weary and half blinded by sweat and blood, Scand stepped forward to meet the next in a long line of men to kill. The young Waelisc staggered over the heap of dead, half sliding towards the grim warrior. He swung his short sword at the helmeted head, but Scand parried the blow with his own blade. It was notched and pitted from many battles, but it chose that moment to break. Shards flew out, flashing red and gold in the afternoon sunlight. For a moment, neither Scand nor his enemy could understand what had happened. Scand lost his balance, falling forward to one knee, as if in obeisance to the young man. The Waelisc regained his wits quickly and made a desperate lunge at the old warrior’s chest. Scand’s byrnie turned the blade and before the man could strike again, one of Scand’s retainers leapt forward with his shield to protect his lord. Scand’s closest companions rushed to their lord’s aid and the man was quickly killed.

  They pulled Scand to his feet and handed him another blade. They prepared for the next attack. They looked left and right. The shieldwall was ragged. Gaps had appeared. They would be overrun soon.

  But wyrd had played its part and they would not die that day. The Waelisc were retreating. Their king had been wounded and they huddled close to him, backing away through the corpse-clogged stream. For when Scand’s sword was broken, one of the iron shards had flown as true as if thrown by dexterous hand and embedded itself into Cadwallon’s cheek. It was close to his eye and caused him great pain.

  The Bernicians could scarcely believe what they were witnessing. Each had made his peace, sure that soon he would breathe no more on this earth. Now, with the last rays of the sun dappling the blood-pink water in front of them, they began to hope again.