Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand did not reply.

  He took several steps backwards, wary of a sudden change of heart from the sailors. But none had the courage, or was foolish enough, to attack. All the while the pirates glared at them, but they made no move.

  When they were a safe distance, Beobrand spun around and began running back towards Brimblæd. His gesithas fell in beside him, matching him stride for stride.

  “Dreogan, Fraomar and Bearn,” he barked, “see to it that Coenred and Attor make it back to the ship. Hurry now!”

  Without a pause, the three men sped up the beach towards the fleeing men. Coenred and Attor had seen what was happening on the beach and they had changed their course to take them directly to Brimblæd.

  Moments later, Beobrand and Cynan were lending their weight to the crewmen shoving the ship into the surf. Beobrand’s head hurt with each wave that broke and rolled up the strand. He cursed as the water splashed cold over his ankles and then his knees. Soon it was over his thighs, and the waves splashed chill and bitter up to his chest. He gasped with the sudden cold of it, thinking absently that his byrnie would be a ruin of iron-rot before long if he was not careful. He reached up and touched his forehead, wincing at the bruise there, but surprised that his fingers came away clean. He had half expected to see blood, sure that his head had been split on that whoreson Stanmear’s thick skull.

  The ship was afloat now, and the sailors, as nimble as squirrels, scampered up and over Brimblæd’s low wales. A hand appeared before him and Beobrand looked up to see Ferenbald, teeth flashing from within his thick thatch of beard. Beobrand grasped the proffered hand and allowed Ferenbald to pull him up. When he was able to get a grip on the side of the ship, he clambered over the side and collapsed onto the deck, panting.

  “Welcome aboard,” Ferenbald said, laughing, before running to the stern, shouting orders.

  From somewhere, Cynan appeared at Beobrand’s side. His hair was wet and plastered to his scalp, as if he had taken a dunking. Around them the crew went about their activities calmly and efficiently. With an effort, Beobrand pulled himself up so that he could peer over the side. With a sigh of relief he saw that the men who had been chasing Coenred and Attor had changed their minds when confronted with Dreogan and the others. The craftsmen watched forlornly from some distance as the monk and the warriors waded into the waves and were pulled aboard. Beobrand was only mildly surprised to see that Coenred held above his head and safely clear of the water, the carved box that Grimr had taken from Dalston.

  At Beobrand’s side, Cynan was staring down the beach at where Brimwulf and Waegmearh still rested, their crews evidently content to let Beobrand and his retinue leave unhindered.

  “By the gods, lord,” said Cynan, “and there is you always saying you aren’t lucky. By my oath, if those brigands had rushed us together, we would have been food for the gulls by now.”

  Beobrand snorted and looked at him askance.

  “You think that was luck?”

  Chapter 30

  Ardith stared out over the slate-grey sea. She was huddled under the thick, fur-trimmed cloak that had been Abrecand’s. It was warm beneath the woollen cloak, but the chill in the wind cut at her face and brought tears to her eyes. Angrily, she wiped at her cheeks, cursing the breeze. She would not weep. In her hand, like a talisman, she clutched Abrecand’s knife. She was terrified that Grimr or one of the crew would find it and take it away from her. All the time she had the secret – her claw – she knew she could defend herself. Nobody could hurt her while she had the hidden blade.

  A quiet voice whispered to her in the creaking, yawing darkness of the night that she was just a girl, that any of these men could do whatever they wished with her. But she ignored the voice. What did it know? She had seen Abrecand’s throat ripped open with the knife that was now hers, had felt his lifeblood splatter her. The small weapon had saved her once, and now that she possessed it, she would be safe.

  There were dark clouds on the horizon again, presaging another storm. Grimr had taken them into a secluded cove before the last storm had struck and they had camped on the beach, beneath a jutting cliff, in the wind-shadow of Saeslaga’s hull. They had fashioned a shelter from the sail and had managed to keep a fire burning despite the wind and rain. It had been a miserable couple of days, but none of the men had approached her, save for Ælmyrca, who brought her food and drink. He still frightened her, with his eyes and teeth that shone so brightly in the soot-dark skin of his face. But she accepted his fare. She needed to keep her strength up if she had any hope of freeing herself.

  You? Free yourself? The small voice inside mocked her. How do you plan to do that? She pushed the voice away, refusing to listen.

  Even if she could escape though, where would she go? They would be in Frankia soon, the Blessed Virgin alone knew where that was. All she knew was that it was far away from Cantware and that without a ship to carry her back home, she would never see her mother, brother or Hithe again. Fleetingly she thought of her father. Would she cut him with her knife if she saw him again? She shuddered, unsure of her own feelings. For what he had done, he surely deserved to be cut and stabbed, killed perhaps. She looked into herself. Would she be capable of hurting him? She could not say, and her uncertainty filled her with impotent fury.

  And what of Brinin? Perhaps he would find out what her father had done and confront him. She shivered at the thought. Her father was always surrounded by his brutish friends and whilst she was sure Brinin was brave and sure to seek out Scrydan if he were to learn the truth of how she had come to be enslaved, she was also sure that the smith’s son would be no match for her father’s bullies. But perhaps Brinin would never know the truth. What lies must her father have told? She imagined Brinin, with his strong hands and soft eyes, grieving for her for a few weeks. Months perhaps. But he would move on. He would probably end up married to that bitch, Gytha.

  A fresh tear tracked a cold line down her cheek and she swiped it away. The wind pulled at her hair and Ardith gazed longingly towards the prow. She no longer risked standing there. She was too keenly aware of the men watching her, so she remained in her safe place beneath the cloak. She missed the sensation of the wind and spray on her face and the open sea rolling away before her. The sense of freedom, that there was nothing behind her, that she was alone and flying on an endless ocean. Her memories and thoughts had not clamoured so loudly for attention then. She had been able to believe the fantasy. Until Draca had shattered her fragile peace with the death of the dolphin. Then, after Abrecand’s attack, she was too terrified to move from the stern.

  When she slept, her dreams were filled with rough hands and hot, splashing blood and she would often awaken with a scream on her lips. Grimr would come to her then, if he was at the helm, and whisper that she was safe, that there was nothing to fear. She did not believe him, but she allowed the words to smooth away her jagged night-time terrors. Just as she had chosen to trust her father’s words when she knew he was lying. Not to do so, was to confront the true horror of the reality of who her father was. And now, it would mean giving in and listening to the voice of despair within her that grew louder with each passing day.

  She gripped Abrecand’s knife in her tiny hand and prayed silently to the Blessed Virgin. She was safe. She was safe. She would survive. She would escape.

  Close to her, Grimr stood at the steerboard, guiding Saeslaga with a deft touch. Grimr liked to be in control of his ship whenever possible, and he slept little. Gone was his savage-looking beast helmet, replaced by a woollen cap. He looked less terrifying without the tusks and iron of his great helm, his jowly face was soft even. But she recalled Abrecand’s gurgling screams and the ease with which Grimr had slain him and knew the softness was an illusion. He sensed her looking at him and glanced in her direction. He offered her a small smile, but she turned away, to the iron sea and the gathering dark clouds on the horizon. Ardith had wondered whether he would have spent so long at the helm if she had not been aboard, as
even when her eyes were closed, she felt his gaze crawling over her. The hunger in his look was unsettling, so, as with so much else, she chose to ignore it. He had said he would keep her safe.

  From the edge of her vision she saw Draca approaching his brother. She sensed rather than saw the brooding glower Draca aimed at her.

  “I don’t like the look of those clouds,” he said.

  “We’ll be safe in the mouth of the river before the storm hits,” replied Grimr.

  Draca stared at the darkening sky for a long time, then squinted up at the sail with his single glaring eye.

  “I hope you are right,” he said. “There is snow in those clouds and that wind is going to change soon. If we are not in lee of the shore, we will have the devil’s own time tacking against a south-wester.”

  Grimr leaned into the steerboard as Saeslaga slid up a huge roller of a wave. There was no doubt that the sea was rising.

  “I am right,” Grimr said with finality.

  Draca nodded, apparently trusting his brother’s word. “It will be good to get some of that freshly grilled mackerel they cook there. Remember there is that one man who cooks them down on the beach. I wonder if he yet lives. He was as old as the sky years ago. But his fish were the tastiest thing I have ever eaten. The men of Albion don’t know how to prepare fish. Their women are tasty, I’ll give them that, but their fish… Gods, how hard can it be to make fish have flavour?”

  “Perhaps it is the fish here that have more taste,” offered Grimr, before shouting out at the men in the belly of the ship to adjust the sail and to prepare to tack.

  After the flurry of activity, as the ship was swung onto a fresh course that took them ever nearer their destination, a sailor at the ship’s bow pointed and hollered, “Sail ahoy!”

  Ardith peered forward, along the length of Saeslaga, following Grimr’s gaze. There, still far ahead of them, bobbed the shape of a small vessel. It had a sail up, but seemed to be struggling against the strengthening wind. Grimr grinned, his mouth open like a wolf scenting a stag.

  “They don’t look to be making much headway,” he shouted. “Let us show them how well Saeslaga can beat into the jaws of the wind.”

  The men rushed about the business of sailing the ship towards the small boat. They scurried about the deck, pulling ropes and adjusting rigging and sail. They needed to tack a few times, but it soon became clear that they would overhaul the smaller boat. Eventually, Grimr brought Saeslaga in close. From where she crouched at the port side stern, Ardith had a clear view of the vessel and the upturned faces of its crew. There were four of them, the oldest had hair as white as the foam of a cresting wave, the youngest could not be much older than Ardith herself. All of them had the same flat-nosed, thick-browed features to mark them out as kin. The belly of the ship was full of glistening silver. A modest catch of saithe and ollack were heaped there.

  “Hail,” called the old man. And then he streamed off many words in a tongue she could not comprehend. She thought she heard the word “Rodomo”, but could not be sure.

  Draca responded in the same tongue. The white-haired man glanced at the younger members of his family, hesitating. They exchanged a few hushed words, the eldest of the others, his son perhaps, becoming agitated. Draca called out something and the old man silenced his son with a sharp retort. With a solemn nod to Draca, he beckoned to him. One of Saeslaga’s crew was ready and threw the man a coil of rope. It snaked out over the water, the middle part splashing into the cold sea. The youngest of the boys on the boat caught the end and quickly secured it to their craft. Saeslaga’s crew pulled them alongside. The two vessels rubbed and creaked together as if their hulls were conversing in a secret language of timber and resin and brine.

  Draca threw down a bucket attached to a rope and one of the Frankish fishermen half-filled it with sleek, sparkling fish. Draca said something, his voice harsh. The fisherman added some more saithe to the bucket. Draca spoke again, but this time the man replied and shook his head. Though she could not understand the words, the meaning was clear. They would give Saeslaga no more fish than what they had already offered.

  Draca spoke again to the fishermen at length, his tone now becoming softer, conciliatory. Behind him, Ardith could see several of Saeslaga’s crew arming themselves. The iron and steel of seax blades and hatchets glimmered dully in the brooding light that filtered through the low, snow-filled clouds. She shuddered and wished to call out to the fishermen, to warn them of the attack she was sure would come.

  But she remained silent. To speak out would be to draw attention to herself. She must survive. She clutched the small knife in both her hands and watched, wide-eyed and still.

  The conversation with the fisherman did not last long. Draca nodded as the old man explained his position with open hands. His white hair fluttered about his head as he gestured to his boys and then pointed to the shore that they could make out, a dark shadow beneath the dark clouds.

  Draca pulled up the bucket that was now almost full of fish and then, placing it carefully on the deck, he barked out an order.

  Ardith was shocked at how quickly the chill afternoon was filled with death and blood. The armed seamen surged over the side of Saeslaga and into the cramped boat. The fishermen had clearly anticipated such an attack, and they lashed out with their knives and a large hook. The hook bit deeply into the forearm of one of the pirates. But there was no reversal of fortune for the fishermen. The wounded pirate screamed out, yanking the hook from the hand of the wide-eyed youth before burying a sharp axe into the boy’s skull. None of the fishermen’s other blows landed. With a frenzy of stabbing and hacking, all four Frankish men were dead in as many heartbeats, their warm blood mingling with that of the ollack and saithe that slithered in the broad belly of the boat.

  Ardith clamped a cold hand over her face, holding in the scream that threatened to billow up from deep within her. Through the laughter of the pirates as they quickly searched the corpses and then tumbled them into the grey waters, she could hear the voice in her mind cackling. It sounded hysterical to her.

  Safe, are you? Safe?

  Draca ordered the rest of the fish to be brought on board. There was a brief discussion amongst the men whether they should strip the vessel of its rigging and sail, but Grimr cut them off with a curt word. The storm was too close, the risk not worth it. So the small craft was holed with an axe and cut loose. It was already lying low in the water, its sail flapping forlornly as they sailed away. It would sink beneath the waves soon enough, no trace of it, or the family of fishermen, would ever be found.

  Ardith could not stop shivering now, in spite of the warm cloak that encircled her form.

  Draca said something to Grimr, who laughed. The sound, so sharp and wrong after the screams and grunts of dying men, made her start. The atmosphere on the ship had lifted, the men chattered and boasted as they went back to their tasks.

  Ardith looked back just in time to see the last sad flap of the sail as the stricken boat slid beneath the surf.

  “Fresh fish for supper, lads,” shouted Grimr, his voice full of joy and amusement.

  Ardith’s gorge rose. Shaking and filled with shame, she emptied her stomach over Saeslaga’s side.

  Chapter 31

  The pain in Beobrand’s head lessened as they headed westward. Soon after the oarsmen had pulled them out to deep water, the need to puke had dissipated and now, as they ploughed through placid waters, the searing agony had dulled to a muted throb.

  Beobrand stood with Coenred at Brimblæd’s prow, watching the distant land slide by to the left and right. They sailed the Soluente between the mainland of Albion and the isle of the Wihtwara. Ferenbald had said it would be more sheltered than the open sea. Once they were past the island, they would turn southward, towards Frankia. Beobrand had never travelled beyond the island of Albion and knew not what to expect in the strange southern land. All he knew of the distant place was that its inhabitants spoke in a different tongue and they drank wine.
The few times he had tried it, he had liked the sweet, rich drink, so that was something. Of the Frankish people he knew next to nothing. The few stonemasons he had met in Eoferwic had come from Frankia and had seemed decent enough. Normal men, who drank, ate, laughed and fought as any other. They were not a bad people from what little he had seen, even if one of their lords liked to bed young girls.

  And hurt them.

  Beobrand gripped the oak of the sheer strake tightly. The brief skirmish on the beach had done nothing to dispel the fury that boiled within him. If anything, his throbbing head served to further anger him, like a hazel switch painfully goading a beast into action.

  Absently, he reached up and touched the lump on his forehead. He caught himself doing this frequently. Each time he winced, as if surprised it was still there and that it yet hurt. He flinched from the touch of his own fingers, cursing silently at his own foolishness. It would hurt for days, he was sure.

  “Does it pain you?” asked Coenred, his long hair curling about his face in the brisk, cold wind. One of the sailors had given the monk a dry cloak, which he had wrapped about his thin frame. Despite the thick wool, he still shivered, his face pale and pinched.

  “What do you think?” answered Beobrand, his voice harsh.

  They were silent for a while. The sail cracked noisily as a gust filled it. A gull shrieked in the sky. Beobrand sighed.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “It hurts, but that pain is nothing. It will pass. But I worry. I cannot help that, and that will not pass until we find her.” He did not say his daughter’s name, somehow hoping that not saying it would make her and her plight less real. It didn’t work. His mind returned to the image he had in his mind of the small girl running along the path from her house in Hithe.

  “I keep praying we will find her,” said Coenred. He pushed his hair out of his face with thin, pale fingers. “And that she will be unharmed.”