Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  “They are no friends of mine,” Beobrand said in a hushed voice. “If they come seeking a fight, we will have to give it to them. But let’s try not to slay them. Killing Folca’s people will not help us here.”

  Cynan did not reply.

  Beobrand took a couple of steps towards the men, away from the surf rolling up the beach. No need to get his feet wet should it come to a fight. Cynan followed him, once more Beobrand’s silent shadow.

  Planting his feet in the gravel, Beobrand waited for the group to reach them. His arms hung loosely at his sides. His face was shadowed.

  Beobrand could scarcely remember the fight with the three men outside Scrydan’s house. It had been years before and there had been countless battles betwixt then and now. But he did recall that it ended with all three of them bloody and with more than one of them nursing broken bones. Was it a trick of the moonlight or did the shortest of the men walk with a limp? Beobrand had a fleeting memory of twisting the man’s ankle until the tendons and bones ground and snapped.

  A wave crashed behind him, a growl followed by a hissing sigh. Beobrand felt the anger building within him. Did these fools believe they could stand before Cynan and him? It would be easy enough to rush forward, to unleash the animal fury that always rattled at its fetters within him. It would be a welcome release, a few moments in which to forget about Ardith and Udela, Eanflæd and Oswiu. A brief respite from his grief over Acennan and Reaghan. The savage peace that he knew he would find in conflict and bloodletting. Beobrand breathed deeply of the cold night air, calming himself. The air tasted of salt.

  Still several paces distant, the four men halted, standing in a line facing Cynan and Beobrand. The unspoken threat was clear in their stance, shoulders bunched and fists clenched. The youngest of them made to take a step forward. One of the others, a massive hulk of a man with a broad, twisted nose that had been broken many times, placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder, pulling him back.

  “Easy, son,” he said.

  His son. That explained who the keen fourth member of the band was.

  Beobrand did not move. For a long while the men stood in silence. The young one, Broken-Nose’s son, was almost dancing on the spot, such was his excitement. At long last, the man with the limp spoke.

  “You are not welcome here, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi,” he said, his tone gruff.

  “I do not need your welcome, Morcaer,” Beobrand said. He knew Morcaer from his childhood. The man had always been a brute and a bully. “These are Lord Folca’s lands, not yours.”

  Morcaer blinked. Undeterred, he continued.

  “We heard you went to Scrydan. Threatened him.”

  “It was no threat. I am a thegn of Bernicia. Lord of Ubbanford. I do not make empty threats. If he has harmed Udela or Ardith, I will seek him out, and I will kill him.”

  Morcaer swallowed.

  “Scrydan may not be the reeve any longer, but we are still his friends.”

  Beobrand spat.

  “I am sure he praises the Christ and all the gods for his good fortune.”

  “Leave here and leave Scrydan alone,” Broken-Nose’s son said, his voice strident and jagged in the night.

  “I will do what I please,” Beobrand said, his voice calm and as cool as an unsheathed blade. “Now go back to the middens you crawled out of and if Scrydan is there, tell him I will see him again soon.” They did not move. Beobrand turned his head, looking at each man in turn. The moonlight glimmered in his blue eyes, like chips of ice long before the spring thaw. “Do you fools truly think you can best me and my friend here? This is the last chance I will give you. Leave now, or I promise you I will not be as soft with you as when last we met.”

  “Why, you whoreson,” shouted Broken-Nose’s son. “You do not frighten me.”

  Without thinking, Beobrand recognised the tensing of the muscles in the youngest of the group and was moving to meet his attack almost before it had begun. The young man surged forward, swinging his huge fists and roaring with rage. He was as tall as Beobrand and strong from years working in the fields and brawling with the men of Hithe, but the young man was no warrior. He was slow. And clumsy.

  Beobrand was neither. And he had killed countless men as easily as this boy scythed wheat at harvest. Beobrand sprang forward, shrugging off the boy’s punches, catching one effortlessly on his forearm and weaving underneath the other. Snapping his right fist forward, he jabbed the young man in the throat. He hit him hard, but through the sudden fire of his fury, he recalled his words to Cynan. He did not wish to kill this farm boy. At the last instant, he pulled back from hitting him with his full force and bodyweight behind the blow. Nevertheless, the boy fell to the shingle, clutching at his throat, gurgling and gasping for air. Beobrand stepped back, hoping absently that he had not in fact slain the fool.

  Beside him Cynan had crouched, ready to fight.

  The boy’s father dropped to his knees beside his son. The other two men did not move.

  Beobrand met their staring eyes with cold fire in his glare. He held their gaze for a long while, judging their resolve.

  On the ground, the boy was dragging in breaths and coughing, his father tugging at his arms, pulling him to his feet. Good, the fool would live.

  Beobrand looked again at the men.

  “Help him up, and do not ever stand before me again,” he said. “I am done with you. Next time you cross me, I will gut you all like mackerel.”

  And then, having taken their measure, he turned his back on the men, looking out to sea once more at the starlight flickering on the black swell far away.

  Over the washing sounds of the surf, Beobrand listened to the boy’s coughing. The men muttered to him, telling him to get up. Beobrand knew that Cynan would not turn his back on the threat, but Beobrand had looked into their eyes and he knew the fight had gone from them. These men were cowards, brave when drunk and bold against farmers and women. They would never dare stand before him again.

  Beobrand did not turn to see them go, but he heard their footsteps crunch away up the beach. He hoped he would never see them again.

  A wave broke, the foam glimmering white and ghostly. In the sky, wisps of clouds were forming around the moon like cobwebs.

  Beobrand pulled his cloak about him, willing his hands not to tremble, but knowing they would, as they always did after a fight, no matter how brief.

  A gravel-grinding footfall behind him made him turn back with an angry sigh. He had been sure they would not return. Now he would have to slay them. He had given them his word on it and his word was iron. He drew his seax from its leather sheath and spun around in one fluid motion. The veiled moon licked the metal of the blade.

  “Gods, you must be more stupid than I’d thought. Do you truly wish to die?”

  But the four men were nowhere to be seen, and someone else entirely stood before him.

  Chapter 16

  Beobrand took in at a glance the stocky man in front of him. The man’s hand rested on the shoulder of an equally solid-looking boy. They both wore simple clothes and the man’s cloak was open, hanging loose. He carried no weapons that Beobrand could discern. Beobrand flicked a glance at Cynan. He was still close by, but apparently thought a single unarmed man with a child posed no threat.

  Beobrand looked back to the newcomer. As quickly as it had been rekindled, Beobrand’s anger was doused. He knew this man and Cynan had been right to let him approach. He was no danger to them.

  “Alwin,” Beobrand said, “what brings you down here in the dark? I came for some peace away from Folca’s hall, but this place is busier than an ale-wife’s hut on brewing day.”

  Alwin let out a laugh.

  “It is good to see you too, Beo,” he said.

  Abashed, Beobrand stepped close to his childhood friend, offering his hand. Alwin hesitated for an instant, then clasped Beobrand’s forearm in the warrior grip, as they had done as boys when they had both dreamed of bearing shield and spear in service of their lord. Beo
brand squeezed Alwin’s muscled arm and slapped his shoulder with his left hand.

  “It is good to see you, old friend,” Beobrand said, and he meant it. “It’s been too long.”

  “Aye, the years go by like the waters of a stream in spate.”

  Beobrand nodded, thinking of all that had passed since last he had seen Alwin. All the battles. The clamour and blood. The treasures bestowed upon him for victories.

  And the deaths of loved ones.

  “No man can dam the flow of time. I fear that all too often we are like twigs tossed into the water and our wyrd takes us where it will.”

  “And how different the wyrd of two men can be,” Alwin said, his voice wistful.

  Beobrand placed his hand on Alwin’s shoulder.

  “It seems to me your wyrd’s path has led you true. You still have your farm, do you not? Andswaru is well?”

  “Yes, she is well. But father died.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Do not be sorry. He was old. His last years were difficult.” He trailed off into silence.

  “I am sorry,” Beobrand said again, awkward at his friend’s sadness. He wished to comfort him, but they were no longer the boys they had been. Too much water had flowed along the stream over the years.

  “The farm does well?” Beobrand asked, hoping to turn the conversation onto happier things.

  “It does well enough.”

  “And your family?” he said, looking pointedly at the boy standing beside Alwin.

  “Andswaru has borne me two more children. Another boy, and a girl.”

  “And this is your oldest?” Beobrand could not remember the boy’s name. He had been but a babe when Beobrand had last been in Hithe.

  “Yes,” Alwin’s grin reflected the moonlight, his melancholy of moments before seemingly forgotten, or at least banished. Alwin had never been one to dwell on sadness. “Swithun is the reason we are here in the deep of night and we did not wait to call on you till the morn as would have been proper.”

  Alwin ruffled his son’s hair and the boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, embarrassed and yet content with his father’s affectionate attention. Beobrand felt a dull pang of jealousy at Alwin’s easy companionship with his son. He was never fully at his ease with Octa.

  “Indeed? And how is it that Swithun made you come here now?”

  “Word of your arrival in Hithe has travelled quickly. When Swithun heard that the great Beobrand of Ubbanford was here, he would not be still until I sought you out.”

  “Oh?”

  “He knows that once we were friends.”

  “I trust we still are.”

  Alwin paused for a heartbeat, taken aback perhaps at Beobrand’s words. But a moment later, he smiled broadly again.

  “Of course we are. Even if we barely see each other, I will always count you as a friend.”

  Beobrand returned his smile.

  “I am ever in need of good friends,” he said. “Enemies are too easy to come by.”

  “You make enemies easily?” said Alwin, laughter in his voice. “I can scarce believe it. But you are always so easy to be around.”

  Cynan snorted. Beobrand sighed. Alwin was always quick to jest, usually at someone else’s expense. From his memories of their childhood, that someone was often him.

  “Well,” Alwin went on, “Swithun knows that we are friends and he has long taken joy from the scop songs of your battles.” Alwin shook his head, and sighed. Beobrand remembered when, as boys, they had listened to tales of warriors and shieldwalls. It seemed like a different life. Memories from someone else’s childhood. To think that Alwin’s son looked up to him made Beobrand uneasy.

  “You cannot believe all the tales told by the bards, Swithun,” he said.

  The boy’s eyes were wide and bright, glimmering in the darkness.

  “Is it true that you killed Cadwallon, the king of Gwynedd?” Swithun asked, his voice high-pitched and breathless.

  “No, Swithun,” Beobrand replied with a sigh. How the tales of his exploits grew in the telling! The boy looked crestfallen. “It was not I who took Cadwallon’s life. But I saw how Oswald, King of Northumbria took the head from his shoulders.” Swithun’s face caught the moonlight. His eyes were wide and shining.

  “What my lord is not telling you,” Cynan said, breaking his silence, “is that he chased Cadwallon from the battle of Hefenfelth. They fought at a burn and Lord Beobrand vanquished the Waelisc king, bringing him back to Oswald for the king to mete out his justice.”

  Swithun’s eyes grew wider still and his mouth gaped open.

  “Were you there?” he asked.

  “No, I was not. But I have heard the tale from the mouths of men who were. It is the truth of it. King Oswald gave my lord land and the great black stallion he rode that day as gifts for his service.”

  “Truly?” Swithun’s voice could hardly be heard over the surf.

  “Perhaps your man could tell Swithun more of your adventures, Beobrand,” said Alwin, raising an eyebrow. Beobrand frowned, he did not wish Cynan to fill the boy’s head with tales of battle and killing. “I would speak with you,” Alwin whispered, leaning in close.

  So, there was more to this visit than his son’s excitement at meeting a hero from song.

  Beobrand nodded to Cynan who put his arm around the boy and led him away from the men.

  “I can tell you more tales of my lord Beobrand,” he said, “but you would be better hearing my own stories, for there is no greater gesith in my lord’s warband than Cynan. I stood in the shieldwall at the battle of Cair Chaladain and it was I who saved Beobrand’s life when he stood before the great giant of a man, Halga, son of Grimbold of Mercia.”

  Cynan’s boasting was lost beneath the sound of the tide.

  “Well, Alwin,” Beobrand said. “What is it you would say to me away from your son’s ears?”

  Alwin hesitated staring out to sea. Foam-topped waves tumbled over and rushed up the shingle towards them.

  “It was here where they took her,” he said at last.

  “Ardith?”

  “Aye.”

  “I know. Scrydan told me so.”

  Alwin spat.

  “She’s yours, isn’t she?”

  Beobrand sighed. He had not wished to speak of this to anyone in Hithe.

  “How did you know?”

  Alwin let out a harsh laugh.

  “It was Andswaru who first spoke the thought to me. I told her it could not be so. But as Ardith grew, it has become ever clearer. She looks so like you and even more like your sisters. Anyone who knew them can see the truth.”

  “Scrydan knows then?”

  “Unless he is more of a fool than he appears, he must. But you and Udela? I never knew you had been together.”

  “It was only the once. Shortly before the pestilence.” Beobrand’s mind was suddenly filled with images he had long sought to forget. His sisters and mother, sweating and trembling. Lowering their bodies into the earth. The flames of his father’s house, smoke billowing, dark and greasy, smearing the sky. “I did not know Udela carried my child. I knew nothing of this until two days ago.”

  “But now you know.”

  “Yes, now I know. My daughter has been taken, and I must find her.”

  “But she was not taken, Beobrand.”

  “What do you mean? Scrydan told me she was taken by traders. Seamen. A captain called Grimr.”

  “Grimr took her, but it was not as Scrydan told you, I am sure. I was on the beach that morning. I watched what happened here. I came to tell you the truth of it.”

  Beobrand turned to look at his old friend. His face was shadowed, hard-edged and dark like stone, but his eyes glittered with a deadly, cold light.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  Chapter 17

  “I need a ship!” Beobrand bellowed in his loud battle-voice and the chatter in the smoke-fogged hall was silenced in an instant.

  The old man at the far end of the room
was the first to recover his composure. He stood and peered towards the doors of his home, where Beobrand, Alwin and Cynan had entered abruptly from the darkness. The flickering flames from the hearth lit the man’s face from below in a ruddy glow, casting shadows into his eyes, twisting his features like a nihtgenga. Even in the dim light Beobrand could see that the man had aged. His hair was white and his beard a wintry hoary thatch.

  “Is that the mighty Beobrand, son of Grimgundi?” the man said. “We had heard you were back. I did not expect a visit, but now that you are here, come, seat yourself. There is herring, and more importantly, there is ale and mead. It has been many years since last we spoke. You must tell us all about your travels. The scops sing often of your battles. It seems King Edwin was right all those years ago.”

  Beobrand clenched his fists at his side. Gods, he had no time for this. He was done telling tales. He glanced at Alwin, who shrugged, a twisted smile on his lips. Beobrand’s fury threatened to bubble to the surface. The knowledge of what Alwin had told him burnt within his mind. He had known Scrydan had been lying, but to have sold his own daughter! No, not his daughter. Beobrand’s daughter. Had Scrydan done this terrible thing because he had known the truth of who her father was? By Woden, Scrydan had best pray to whatever god he held dear that Beobrand never saw him again.

  Beobrand strode into the warmth of the hall. After the cool air of the beach, the stench of wet wool, sweat, spilt ale and stewing fish was overpowering. All the men in the room stared at him as he threaded his way towards Hrothgar. He recognised many of them. He noticed Immin, the sailor who had given him his bone-handled knife all those years ago. Immin’s hair was grey now, his face lined and sagging. The passing of the years was never kind. Beobrand nodded at him, but did not pause as he approached the old man at the head of the table.