Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  Ferenbald offered him a smile and a nod.

  Beobrand leaned in close and said in a hushed tone, “The men need to know whose voice to listen to. The ship and the sea are your domain. But when the bloodletting comes, and come it will, I will lead them. Understood?”

  Ferenbald grinned.

  “You’ll hear no argument from me there, Beobrand. I am sure there is enough truth in the songs and tales to know that you are the killer here. Each man to his own strengths. I would not set a weaver the tasks of a butcher.” Without awaiting a reply, Ferenbald turned his attention to Brimblæd. He strode back to the helm, barking out orders. The crew reacted instantly, the excitement of finding Brinin forgotten, or set aside while the more pressing matter of seeing them safely ashore was dealt with.

  “Brinin,” said Ferenbald, his voice carrying easily over the sounds of the ship, “you will do as Cargást says for now. He speaks with my voice. And let me not catch you shirking your duty, or you will regret your decision to choose now to become a man.”

  Brinin paled and made to follow Cargást once more towards the prow. Beobrand grasped his arm, holding him back.

  “And Brinin,” the youth swung round to look at him, “see that you stay alive.”

  The storm clouds roiled on the horizon and the swell grew. Another flicker of lightning was followed by the grumble of thunder and Beobrand watched as Brinin joined the busy sailors.

  Beobrand clenched his fists at his side. He prayed he had made the right decision. But watching as Brinin joined the sailors, seemingly happy to have been accepted into their throng, Beobrand could not help but wonder whether he had as good as slain the boy himself. For one thing was certain, there would surely be weapon-play before this journey was ended and no man, and no boy, was safe in the steel-storm of a shieldwall.

  Chapter 20

  There was a storm brewing in the west. Sparks of lightning flickered in dark clouds and the grumbling of thunder rolled over the waves to Saeslaga.

  Ardith pulled her new cloak about her shoulders. It was well made, thick wool trimmed with beaver fur. She had never owned anything so fine before and enjoyed running her fingers through the soft, smooth fur. She was glad of the cloak’s warmth and the pelt trimming was comforting to stroke. It reminded her of the sleek coat of the cat that would sometimes sneak into the house at night when it was supposed to be catching rats from the granary. It was a savage tom, with shredded ears and a scarred face. The other children had learnt to keep their distance from the beast, as it made it clear to them that it did not like to be handled. If its snarling hisses were not enough, its needle-sharp claws quickly brought home the point and many of the children bore the thin scars to remind them.

  But the cat had become Ardith’s secret friend one cold winter night when driving rain had lashed the house and great gusts of wind had made the timbers groan and creak in the darkness. Ardith had not been able to sleep, lying awake terrified of the dreadful storm that raged in the night. Somehow, over the noises of the storm, she had heard the pitiful mewling of the cat followed by scratches at the door. How she had heard it she did not know, nor why the animal had come to her, but she had tiptoed through the house, frightened she would awaken her mother and father, and let the bedraggled creature in. It had followed her silently to the cot where she slept and it had curled up at her feet. She had been too frightened to touch it that night, instead content to feel the warm weight of its body nestling against her.

  It did not come to her every night. Sometimes weeks went by when she would scarcely see the cat, but whenever they crossed paths, if she were alone, the animal would not flee as it did from the other children. It would approach her, looking up at her with its strange green eyes, even deigning to allow her to caress it. If she closed her eyes now, she could imagine that the fur trim of the cloak was the cat and that the timber behind her was the wall of her house in Hithe.

  The air was colder than it had been of late and she huddled into the protection of the cloak. She no longer went to stand at the prow of the ship. Not since Draca and the dolphin. She had been foolish, imagining that by not looking at the men in the ship behind her she was somehow free. Safe.

  She was not free. And she was not safe.

  However much Grimr told her he would protect her, she knew that to leave her small haven at the stern of the ship was to invite danger.

  And death.

  Lightning lit the darkening sky. The sudden light picked out the dark stain on the woollen material of the cloak. She pulled back her hand, recoiling from the memory of how the stain came to be made. Grimr stood at the steerboard and when she looked his way he feigned disinterest. But she knew that his eyes were often upon her. Looking beyond him, the ship’s wake disappeared into the distance. Gone were the other two ships that had accompanied them for the first few days. The men on those other ships had meant her no good she knew, but seeing the emptiness of the sea behind them made her loneliness more acute.

  They had parted ways after Grimr had given her the cloak. She shuddered despite the garment’s warmth.

  They had put to shore where a few thatched buildings overlooked the sea. A small, unfinished church, surrounded by timber and piles of stone, stood atop a hill. Heaving the ships up onto the beach, they had waited for the townsfolk to visit, to trade, to offer them their produce and to see what Grimr and his band had brought from faraway lands. Grimr had seemed happy and the men were in high spirits. The local lord himself had come to them. He was a wealthy man, garnets and gold adorning his belt and cloak clasp. A quiet, sombre man, his retinue of servants and guards had stood by while he perused the goods that Grimr’s people had lain out on the sand. To Grimr’s apparent surprise and obvious delight, the lord had picked up a finely decorated and bejewelled golden crucifix that nestled in a carved wooden casket, and had asked Grimr how much he would like for it. Ardith had watched the events from the confines of the ship but she had heard later that the man had barely haggled, paying much more than Grimr had expected. And he had paid silver no less, leaving his steward to weigh out chunks of metal on a small scale he carried for that purpose. When asked why the lord wanted the relic, the steward told Grimr that the man’s wife had died quite suddenly from a fever and that he would have the Christ priests pray for her soul. The lord meant to give the holy relic to the local priests that they may better be heard by the one true God.

  That night the men had purchased a pig, strong mead and ale from the village and had built up a great fire on the beach. One of the men had butchered the swine and soon it was on a spit beside the blaze. It was a cloudless, cold night and Grimr had beckoned to her to come down from the ship to warm herself by the flames. She did not wish to sit with the men, but the warmth of the fire and the smell of the roasting meat had called to her.

  She’d made her way tentatively to sit at the furthest reaches of the fire’s light. The men had watched her approach and she had regretted leaving the apparent safety of the ship. The leering eyes, grins and lewd shouts unnerved her, but when Grimr handed her a chunk of coarse bread and a dripping slice of pork, her worries had momentarily been forgotten. She had ignored the men as much as she could, instead focusing on the warm food and the unusual sensation of the ground moving beneath her feet, the remembered motion of the sea tricking her mind. The ebony-skinned sailor, teeth and eyes flashing bright in the darkness, thrust a cup of ale into her hand and said something she did not understand. He answered to the name Ælmyrca, but where he came from was a mystery to her as were most of the words that he uttered. He terrified her, but she had timidly nodded her thanks, sipping the liquid. It was stronger than the ale she was used to at home. But it was good.

  As the night had worn on, so the men had become drunker and louder. Grimr seemed to have forgotten she was there. He laughed and told riddles with Draca, who she had learnt was Grimr’s brother. Now, thinking back to the incident with the dolphin, when Draca had struck her, Ardith thought Grimr had only spared his life because t
hey were kin. She knew now how Grimr treated those not of his blood when they crossed him.

  She huddled more tightly into the cloak, burying her hands into the plush fur of the edging. Lightning flashed again and the wind grew stronger and colder. Beneath the thick cloak Ardith was not cold, and yet her thin body trembled as the memories of that night tumbled through her thoughts.

  It had happened so quickly. She had finished her food and drained the cup of ale and her eyes had begun to feel heavy. The heat from the fire, the food in her belly and the strong ale all worked to make her drowsy. Her head had nodded a few times when she had decided she could not sleep here with the men on the beach under the stars. Her blanket was on Saeslaga and she missed the comfort of having the ship’s solid wood at her back. So she had climbed to her feet, silently leaving the light cast by the fire and headed back to the ship.

  “I had wondered how long it would be until we could be alone,” a rasping voice had whispered from the darkness.

  Terrified, Ardith had drawn in a breath to scream. But before she could utter a sound, a callused hand had clamped over her mouth. An arm as strong as iron had wrapped about her and she’d been lifted from her feet. She’d struggled then, kicking and scratching and squirming. She had tried to bite the man’s hand but was unable to open her mouth beneath the tight, iron-like grip. All the while, as she fought, she had felt herself being carried further from the fire into the total blackness of the night. After some time she had come to understand that she was too weak to free herself.

  Think, she had told herself. Do not give in to fear. If you do, all will be lost. Think!

  And so she had relaxed, hoping that if her assailant believed her to be cooperative she might be able to flee. The sounds of the sailors had faded when eventually the man had set her down onto her feet. She had tensed, ready to flee, or to renew her struggles, but he had gripped her tightly and whispered again in her ear.

  “If you scream or try to run I will cut you open like that pig I gutted on the beach. Understand?”

  Ardith had seen how easily the animal had been slain, how its innards had slithered, glistening and steaming, onto the sand. Her terror threatening to overcome her, she’d nodded and grunted something from behind his hand. Slowly, he had released his hold of her face, but his hand was instantly replaced by the cold, unyielding iron of a knife’s blade at her throat. She had been too frightened to scream then. He had pushed her down onto the ground. The sand had been cold and damp beneath her. By the distant light of the fire and the silver glimmer of the half-moon she recognised her attacker. His name was Abrecand and in the days since she had been with the ships he had never before spoken to her. But she knew him by his fine cloak with the beaver fur trim and the hungry gaze that had followed her whenever she had moved.

  Later she thought of what she should have done. Perhaps she could have bitten him. Maybe she should have clawed at his eyes or kicked out at his manhood. Should she have wrested the knife from his hand and turned it upon him? Would not a brave girl have fought harder or screamed out?

  And yet she had done none of these things.

  She had lain, trembling in her terror as the man pushed up her peplos, his jagged nails digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. She had done nothing as he pushed down his breeches, and lowered himself onto her. He had been panting in his excitement, his sour breath washing over her face as his hands roved over her body, pinching, squeezing, probing. She had barely been able to breathe such was her fear and yet later, whenever she thought back on that night she believed she had been craven, that somehow this had been her fault, of her doing. That perhaps, in some strange way that she did not fully comprehend, she had led the man to believe that she was willing to lie with him.

  She had cast about for anything, or anyone, that could help her, but they’d been alone in the darkness, the cold stars gazing down implacably on her anguish.

  When Abrecand had thrust his hands between her thighs, forcing them apart, she had squeezed her eyes shut, blotting out the terror, hiding her shame from the stars and the moon. She had prayed silently, feverishly to the Blessed Virgin that she would take this horror away from her. And in that instant, the weight atop her lessened and warm liquid splashed her face.

  “I told you, Abrecand,” bellowed a new voice, strangely accented.

  Grimr.

  “I told all you whoresons that the girl was not to be touched.”

  She had opened her eyes then.

  Her attacker was dying, his lifeblood pouring from a huge gash in his throat that Grimr had opened with Abrecand’s own knife. The hot blood gushed over Ardith’s face and chest and as Grimr had pulled the man from her she had scrabbled away, sobs finally racking her body.

  The rest of that night was a blur in her memories. Abrecand had been dragged back to the fire. She did not know if he was dead by then, but he was certainly dead after Grimr had cut off his manhood and shoved it into his mouth. Grimr had raved at the men, slurring his words in his anger and drunkenness, his thick accent making them barely intelligible. But the meaning was clear to all. Ardith was not to be touched.

  Later, Grimr had placed Abrecand’s cloak over Ardith and carried her gently back to her resting place on the ship.

  “You are safe now,” he had whispered to her in the darkness, his words thick with emotion.

  Safe.

  Ardith smiled grimly to herself. She would never be safe while she was aboard this ship, with these men. She wondered whether she would ever be safe again. Staring out at the wake that trailed behind Saeslaga she watched a gannet spear into the water. She had offered up thanks to the Blessed Virgin, for surely it was the mother of Christ who had saved her that night. Still, as her home and the life she had known grew ever distant, she could not rely on the Virgin’s protection. Grimr might keep her safe until they reached their destination. And then, who knew? Or perhaps the lust she saw in his eyes would grow until he could no longer control it and he would snatch from her that which Abrecand had failed to take.

  No, she would never be safe. But next time one of these bastards came to her with thoughts of lust in their mind they would not find a coward, or a placid girl. She would be no plaything for these men or any others. For, like the cat back in Hithe, she had claws now. Beneath the warmth of Abrecand’s cloak Ardith’s fingers wrapped around the cold blade of the knife which she had snatched from the sand even as Abrecand’s blood had pumped onto the beach, steaming just like the slaughtered pig’s.

  She clutched the weapon to her, tracing the sharp edge with her thumb. The metal was gelid; as final as death. It was comforting in a way that the soft beaver fur could never be. She gripped her secret claw tightly beneath the cloak and waited for the storm to come.

  Part Two

  Warm Welcomes on the Whale Road

  þær ic ne gehyrde

  butan hlimman sæ,

  iscaldne wæg.

  There I heard nothing

  but the roaring sea,

  the ice-cold wave.

  “The Seafarer”, author unknown – The Exeter Book

  Chapter 21

  The wind shifted and the storm blew in just as Ferenbald had predicted. Brimblæd raced before the squall on surging waves that shoved against her beams, attempting to twist her from her course. Beobrand feared they would be swamped by the angry sea, but Ferenbald grinned as the force of the wind grew. These were waters he had sailed countless times before and he had clearly been waiting for this moment for a long while; when he had command of his father’s ship, with a crew of able sailors who answered to his words and did his bidding without question or complaint.

  The swell had risen dangerously by the time they were swept into Hastingas. The rain lashed at them like icy pebbles cast from the heavens by rancorous gods. The sky was the colour of soot.

  Beobrand clung to a shroud and offered a silent prayer to Woden. The storm brought back the terror of that long night aboard Háligsteorra on the journey south. He was glad th
e tossing of the ship no longer made him sick, but the fear of plunging beneath the chill waves settled on him like a shroud. He shivered. The bitter rain flayed his face. Lightning crashed overhead. The night was filled with white light and the terrible roar of Thunor’s fury.

  Ferenbald stood at the helm, feet seemingly rooted to the planks of the deck. His beard and mane swirled in the wind, wreathed his head in a halo of hair and lightning flicker. The young skipper’s mouth was open and Beobrand caught something over the screaming tempest. Ferenbald was laughing.

  Bearn was in a wretched state, retching and reeling. Cynan, Dreogan, Fraomar, Garr and Attor had all struggled against the pitching of the ship and made their way back to stand close to their lord, as if their swords and stout hearts could protect him from the ire of the storm. It was folly, Beobrand knew. But was glad to be surrounded by his gesithas, taking some comfort from their proximity.

  Attor stared aghast at Ferenbald, who was still laughing uproariously. The slender warrior pulled out the rood he wore at his neck and made the sign of the cross over his body in the way of the Christ followers.

  “The man’s mad,” he yelled over the rushing wind, rain and surf.

  Beobrand reached his free hand up to grip the Thunor’s hammer amulet he wore at his throat. His hair plastered against his face and he shook his head to clear his vision.

  “Perhaps not so mad,” he said. “Look.” He pointed into the encroaching gloom. For a moment it seemed that before them lay only foam-topped waves, an endless world of water and danger. But then they could all see what Beobrand had pointed out. It was faint, hard to see through the rain-riven darkness. The men blinked, trying to free their eyes of the after-images from the bright fire of the lightning.