Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  “Beware!” he shouted as loudly as he could. Surely his hardened battle-voice would carry down to the men on the beach. Indeed, a couple of them looked up now, their faces questioning. But before he could warn them further, he saw with a stomach-twisting wrench that it was too late. The first of the strangers was upon the crewmen.

  But they did not attack.

  Instead they grabbed onto the ropes and aided Brimblæd’s crew to haul the ship out of the raging sea.

  A slap on his shoulder made him start. It was Ferenbald, his grin showing wide within his frosted thatch of beard. Beside him stood Coenred, draggled and miserable in his borrowed cloak.

  “I tell you, Beobrand,” said Ferenbald, “I think I will have Coenred join my crew so that he is with me on every voyage.” The abject terror on Coenred’s face at the prospect almost made Beobrand laugh.

  “How so?” replied Beobrand.

  “See? His prayers are so strong that he not only finds us a safe haven from the storm, but God summons up men to help us bring Brimblæd to safety.”

  *

  The men who had come from the cliffs and helped them secure Brimblæd against the wind and the sea came from the hall of one Lord Mantican. They were led by a gaunt man named Tidgar. He had sharp cheeks and eyes that never ceased moving as he spoke. It was as if he was trying to count the snowflakes in the sky, Beobrand thought, but later, inside the warmth of his lord’s hall, his eyes still flicked and roved, never still, always searching for something.

  Mantican’s men were a surly lot. They had been quick enough to lend their strength to the task of bringing the ship up out of the tide, but they spoke little and said less. By the time they reached the hall – a long, squat, sod-roofed building, already blanketed in a thick layer of snow – Beobrand knew next to nothing of where they were, save for the name of the group’s leader and that of their lord.

  “We must thank you for the beacons you had lit,” Beobrand said to Tidgar, as they trudged up the winding narrow path that took them to the top of the cliff.

  Tidgar merely grunted.

  Beobrand turned to Ferenbald, raising an eyebrow, but Brimblæd’s master seemed subdued, as if the exertion and excitement of surviving almost certain death had taken its toll on his spirits. That was no surprise to Beobrand. He always felt somehow deflated and empty after an action. Battle exhilarated him as nothing else, but afterwards, when the bodies were growing cold and the ravens were gorging themselves on the feast left on the field, any feeling of battle-joy fled and was replaced by a hollow sensation of futility and doom. Perhaps it was the same for Ferenbald.

  Arriving at the hall, Tidgar ushered them into the smoky interior and introduced them to Lord Mantican. The lord of the hall was tall and bony, with arms that seemed too long for his body and hands that looked too large. He jerked upright when they entered the building, disturbing the stillness inside with a great stamping of feet and coughing. Men shook out their cloaks and sighed to be away from the blustery chill. Mantican rose from his gift-stool and scuttled forward, in a way that reminded Beobrand of a crab. But after a moment’s surprise at suddenly having so many strangers in his hall, and so many new mouths to feed, Mantican was gracious enough.

  “You are well come to my humble home,” he said. “Come sit by my side and tell me of the tidings of the land. We hear little of the world beyond the borders of the Dornsaete.”

  Mantican led Beobrand and Ferenbald to the high table and snapped at a thrall to bring food for his guests. The slave scampered off into the shadows, no doubt wondering how she was to find food for so many at such short notice.

  Beobrand seated himself on Mantican’s left. On the lord’s right was a spindly woman whose face looked as though it could have been carved from the rocks of the cliffs. She did not meet Beobrand’s gaze, but stared fixedly at the table before her.

  “Mead for our guests,” growled Mantican and the woman flinched. Without a word, she rose and followed the thrall into the shadows.

  Relishing the tingle of warmth returning to his fingers and toes, Beobrand glanced around the hall. As Mantican had said, it did appear humble. There were few lights, rush wicks that gave off but a dim glow, guttering and smoking with the thick scent of mutton fat. The beams of the hall were bare wood, solid enough, but with no carving, and no painting to give them life. The hearth fire was small, with a meagre supply of logs stacked beside it. Beobrand had seen larger fires in a ceorl’s hut.

  Some of Tidgar’s men pulled out benches and boards from where they had been pushed up beside the long walls. There was ample space for Beobrand’s gesithas and Brimblæd’s crew, but everything about the hall was plain. If Beobrand had only observed the building, it would have been easy to imagine that Mantican was a poor man.

  But while Mantican clearly did not put stock in the construction of his hall, when Beobrand looked upward it became clear this was no poverty-stricken minor lord. For the walls and beams of Mantican’s hall were bedecked with a veritable hoard of ornaments and objects, as rich and valuable as they were diverse. Animal pelts and finely woven hangings adorned the walls. Between them, at intervals along the length of the hall, were dotted shields of all colours and designs. Ornate iron and bronze bosses glimmered dully from hide-covered linden boards painted with all manner of sigils. From the pillars of the hall were suspended weapons fit for a king’s retinue. Swords as fine as Hrunting, with gold and garnet pommels and the pattern of the sea in their blades, glittered beside langseaxes and axes of the best quality. One pillar was surrounded by great boar spears, each blade of the deadly patterned steel only a master smith could forge. Other columns were home to intricate carvings, of wood, bone and antler. All around the hall, such chiselled likenesses of animals and monsters hung from the soot-stained beams. In the flickering glow of the hearth and the meagre rush lights, the faces seemed to scowl, their features writhing. Beside him, Beobrand sensed Ferenbald tensing. The skipper’s face was pale beneath his shock of dark hair.

  “Once you get some mead in you, you’ll warm up,” said Beobrand.

  Ferenbald turned to him, and there was something in his eyes that unnerved Beobrand, but before the skipper could reply, Mantican’s thrall bustled back to the high table and placed green-tinged glass beakers before the newcomers. Beobrand had seen their like before, on the table of King Oswald. These were not the drinking vessels of a poor lord.

  “Forgive us our lack of hospitality,” said a meek voice from behind him, “we had not been expecting visitors.” Beobrand started. It was Mantican’s wife. She had returned with an ornate bowl, which she now proffered to Beobrand with two hands. It was filled to the brim with a liquid as dark and rich as blood. “I bid you Waes Hael,” she said.

  Beobrand took the bowl. It was heavy and cold. To his amazement he realised it was solid silver, with cunningly worked images of men, women and animals running along its rim. He raised it to his lips, hesitating at the tangy scent that filled his nose. This was not mead, it was wine. He drank deeply, savouring the complex flavours and aromas. There was flint and sun, ripe fruit and long summer days in that bowl. It was the most wonderful drink he had ever tasted.

  “My thanks, lady,” he said, passing the bowl reluctantly to Ferenbald. “That wine is fit for a king.” Mantican’s woman dipped her gaze and said nothing.

  Mantican smiled broadly, an oddly predatory expression.

  “It is fine, is it not? From the lowlands of the valley of the Liger. You will never taste finer.”

  Beobrand could believe that.

  The old lord chuckled and clapped his hands, clearly pleased with himself and Beobrand’s response to the wine.

  “I fear the food I can offer you will not be as rich and fine. Had we had time to prepare, we could have slaughtered a sheep for a feast. Alas, there is only pottage tonight. Still, at least you are warm and dry, safe from the sea and the storm.”

  “And we thank you for the shelter and whatever food you give us.”

  Mant
ican waved the thanks away as if it were a cobweb that had draped his face.

  “I see you like my trinkets,” he said. “My wife tells me I do not need more things to add to my trove, but I cannot bear the thought. I do so love to have new treasures.”

  Beobrand looked at the lord’s wife. She sat timidly, unspeaking and with head bowed. He wondered that she would ever berate her husband about anything. He did not seem the kind to listen to advice, especially not a woman’s.

  The thrall stepped forward and filled the glass goblets. Beobrand was pleased to see it was more of the wine. He took a deep draught and was immediately disappointed. It was not of the quality of the drink the lady of the hall had offered him. Still, it was smooth and spicy and better than many drinks he had endured before.

  Bowls of thin pottage, vaguely fishy in flavour, were placed on the board. He would have preferred meat, but it was warm and it was sustenance. He took a mouthful with a wooden spoon, chewing absently as he once more gazed at the richly adorned walls and roof beams of the hall.

  “It is something, isn’t it?” chuckled Mantican. “Hard to keep your eyes from wandering over it. Like seeing another man’s wife who’s prettier than your own.” He giggled to himself. Beobrand glanced at Mantican’s wife, but she seemed unaffected by her husband’s words. “Don’t look at her,” said Mantican, “there are prettier baubles hanging from my roof than that silly old mare.”

  Beobrand looked away. He felt sorry for the woman. But he was a guest here and no good would come of speaking out and angering their host.

  “Which one catches your eye?” Mantican asked.

  Beobrand frowned, unsure how to respond.

  Mantican said, “Which of my treasures do you like the most? It is not easy to choose, I know. So much to see, so many memories hanging up there. But I always like to ask my guests for their favourite. It tells me a lot about a man.”

  Beobrand scanned the weapons, his eye roving over the burnished patterned blades of the spears and then on to a particularly grand sword. Its blade was broader and longer than Hrunting’s, its ringed pommel glittered with intricately shaped garnets inlaid in a mesh of gold. The sword’s grip was made of the darkest wood, interspersed with the whitest bone. It was the most fabulous sword he had ever seen. He wondered where the Dornsaete lord in this far south-western reach of Albion had come by it. And more importantly, whether he would consider selling it.

  But before Beobrand could speak, Ferenbald broke his silence.

  “What of that carving?” he said, gesturing to a great wooden creature. It was a fantastical animal, fanged and with protruding tongue painted blood red. It reminded Beobrand of the prow beasts on some ships, serpents and dragons set at the front of vessels to watch for spirits and to scare them away from the rivers and lands where the ships might travel. There were several other prow figures dotted about the rafters and pillars of the hall, and this one was by no means the finest workmanship. In fact, the carving was somewhat crude, chisel marks still noticeable through the paint. The craftsman showed some skill and had captured the beast’s ferocity and motion cleverly, but there were many finer pieces on display.

  “What of it?” replied Mantican. “Of all my collection is that the object that most pulls at your heart?”

  For a moment Ferenbald seemed disinclined to answer. He peered at the dragon head, studying it intently.

  Outside, a sudden gust of wind shook the hall. Some of Mantican’s trinkets rattled in the rafters, and a shower of dust and soot fell like black snow from the sod roof.

  “Where did you come by it?” asked Ferenbald at last.

  “That prow carving?” Mantican squinted at it. “Why, I have had that piece for years. Since I was your age. I bought it from a Frankish merchant, if I recall. Swapped it for a good salt ham. Isn’t that right, Tidgar?” he called out to the other boards where his gesithas sat mingled with Beobrand’s warriors, Coenred and Brimblæd’s crew.

  Tidgar looked up from his drinking horn.

  “What, lord?” he said.

  “That dragon,” said Mantican, pointing, “do you remember how I bought it from that Frankish trader? That was nigh on twenty years ago, wasn’t it? We were yet young then, and this old cow’s tits,” he gestured to his wife, “were still worth a squeeze.” He looked wistful. Beobrand shifted in his seat uncomfortably, but Mantican’s wife was evidently used to his insults, for she did not so much as twitch.

  “As you say, lord,” said Tidgar, a sour expression on his face.

  “You want it?” said Mantican, taking a swig of wine and wiping his moustaches with the back of his fingers. His eyes glittered in the dark. “I would sell it to you for a good price. Wouldn’t it make a nice addition to that ship of yours?”

  Ferenbald met the old man’s gaze. He was very still, eyes unblinking, beard bristling from his jutting chin.

  “I have no need of a prow beast,” he said. He looked away and drank a sip of wine.

  Mantican stared at him for a heartbeat, before shrugging.

  “What about you, Beobrand of Ubbanford? You have your eye on that sword yonder, do you not?”

  “It is a blade like none other I have seen.”

  “A fine weapon indeed,” said Mantican, with a twisted smile. “It would serve well a mighty warrior such as you.”

  Beobrand’s mouth grew dry. The thought of owning the weapon sang to him. But he did not wish to appear too eager. He spooned more pottage into his mouth. It was mealy and chewy. He drank some wine to help him swallow.

  “You would sell it?” he asked, after what he hoped was a suitable pause.

  Mantican laughed, as if he could see Beobrand’s very thoughts.

  “Let us not spoil this night with talk of prices and silver. Tomorrow, we can speak of trade, but tonight, let us drink and eat.”

  From the lower board, Dreogan shouted out, “You call this eating? I’ve seen more meat on a grasshopper than in this stew.” The men laughed. Mantican’s face darkened, his brow furrowing. Beobrand pushed himself to his feet, glaring at his men. He agreed with Dreogan that the fare was not good, but they were warm and dry and Mantican had not expected them. Besides, it would not do to anger the man. Beobrand could sense his chance of buying the wondrous sword ebbing, flowing away on Mantican’s annoyance at the slight.

  “Enough,” he snapped, his voice cutting off the chuckles and jests. “We are guests in this hall. We have drunk of the Waes Hael bowl and we are dry and warm. Do not forget yourselves. Would you rather be out there, in the snow and ice? Perhaps you would rather be sleeping with the fish in the dark depths of the Narrow Sea.” The men murmured and would not meet his glowering stare. “Dreogan,” Beobrand said in a tone that would broach no argument, “you will apologise to Lord Mantican at once.”

  Dreogan stood, awkward with all the eyes in the hall on him. He approached the high table and dropped to his knee.

  “Lord Mantican, I am sorry for my words,” his voice quiet, but clear enough that all could hear, “I meant nothing by it. I thank you for your welcome, your wine and your food.”

  Mantican grinned and flapped his hands, waving Dreogan away, as if shooing away a bothersome moth. Dreogan rose.

  “Fine words, but it is nothing. We all say things we do not mean when we are young. And we do some stupid things too, eh, Tidgar?”

  Tidgar grunted.

  “It has been known, lord,” he said.

  Beobrand said, “Once again I thank you for your welcome, Lord Mantican. Without your hospitality, we would be spending a very cold night, or worse. And thank you for your understanding. Dreogan is a doughty warrior, skilled with spear and sword, but his mind is less sharp than his blades.” He scowled at Dreogan, who looked ashamed, the tattooed lines on his cheek somehow accentuating his hangdog expression. The warrior mumbled another apology.

  Mantican smiled expansively.

  “Nonsense,” he said, “there is nothing to apologise for. Sit yourself back down, brave Dreogan. Drink! At
least my wine is fine, eh?”

  Dreogan returned to the bench and soon the men were once again talking and laughing.

  “You have my thanks,” said Beobrand. Mantican seemed embarrassed and once again flapped his hands, waving away Beobrand’s words. “Your modesty does you credit, lord,” Beobrand continued, “but truly, without your men’s beacons leading us to shore, I fear we might all be dead now. Coenred, the Christ monk there, was praying for deliverance, and I am tempted to believe that his god listened and answered his pleas, for we would have surely been lost without Tidgar and his fires to guide us to safety.”

  Mantican was drinking from his goblet, and now choked on the liquid, coughing and spluttering uncontrollably. After a few heartbeats, as the man’s face was growing dark, Beobrand leaned over and slapped him hard on the back. Mantican’s coughing subsided at last.

  “Gods, never mind the storm,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his large hands, “I thought I was to end my days just then. That would have been a poor way to go, choking on Frankish wine.” He took a tentative sip from his glass and grinned.

  “I am glad to see you survived to drink again,” said Beobrand smiling.

  Mantican roared with laughter, which set him coughing once more.

  Beobrand patted him on the back, but this time, the coughing passed quickly and was replaced with mirthful chuckling.

  Beobrand raised his own goblet and offered a smile at Ferenbald, who had been quiet for some time. Beobrand was truly glad they had seen the fires and found this hall and this strange magpie lord. But the smile faded on his lips as he looked at Brimblæd’s captain. For Ferenbald did not return his grin. His features were brooding and dark and he looked as though he would rather be anywhere on middle earth than in this hall. He was gazing into the shadowed rafters and without looking, Beobrand knew what his stare was fixed upon.

  What was it about that dragon carving that had so unnerved him?