Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  She closed her eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths to steady herself against the sudden dizziness that had come over her. Images flashed before her mind’s eye, fragments of memories she barely recognised as her own. It was as though she was watching the dreams of another girl.

  There she was, trembling and shivering in the belly of Saeslaga, her stomach heaving until she was empty and spent. Strong arms carrying her between tall buildings. Gulls squealing in the thin sliver of sky beyond the dusky form that carried her. Voices speaking in a tongue that made no sense. The shades of faces leering and looming over her. A grin pressing close to her face, the long teeth white and sharp between red lips. And all the while she had been cold. So cold.

  *

  Ardith awoke to the sound of a woman’s voice. This time her mind was less clogged with the cobwebs of dreams and sleep. The woman was singing quietly to herself words that meant nothing to Ardith. But her voice was pure and musical and the sound of it soothed Ardith, as if she had awoken to find her mother sitting at her side. Gone was the fear of before. Ardith opened her eyes and saw the slender back of the woman. The room was in shadow, what scant light there was came from a brazier in which glimmered red embers. The room was warmer now.

  The woman was slim and tall. She moved around with a purposeful, lithe grace. Ardith watched her silently. Questions about where she was still filled her head, but she was content for the moment to bask in the warmth under the bearskin and to watch the beautiful woman. Though she had not seen her face, Ardith was certain that the woman was comely. Her voice was as sweet as the summer flowers of woodbind and there was something in the way her hips swayed, how her hair, long and dark, fell like a midnight brook down the curve of her back. It had been so long since she had been in the presence of a woman. Ardith thought of her mother. She would be terrified for her. Tears stung Ardith’s eyes. She swiped them away with her hand.

  At once, the woman turned to her. Her eyes were shadowed pools that held the glitter from the embers. She moved closer to Ardith and she saw she had been right: she was beautiful. Nothing like her mother at all. She felt a pang of guilt at the mean thought. But it was true. This lady was younger, slimmer, with delicate angular cheekbones and a straight, thin nose.

  To Ardith she looked like a princess; a peace-weaver daughter of a mighty king.

  “So, you awaken at last, little one,” she said, and her voice carried an accent, lilting and fluid.

  “How…” Ardith croaked. Her throat was so dry.

  “Hush,” the woman said and helped her to rise into a sitting position. Ardith’s body ached and was weak, but she was suddenly overcome with thirst and hunger. She pulled the fur up with one hand to cover her breasts and accepted the cup the woman offered her. She sipped. It was cool, fresh water.

  Sensing her unease, the woman said, “Do not fear, child, it was I who undressed you. None of those brutes touched you.” She took the empty cup from Ardith. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes,” replied Ardith, her tone firmer now. “I feel like I have not eaten in weeks. How did I come to be here and how long have I been asleep?”

  “All in good time, little one,” said the woman. “I will fetch you some food and I will tell you all you would like to hear.”

  “Thank you,” Ardith said, in a small voice.

  The woman rose. She opened the door, hesitating in the doorway. Raucous laughter echoed into the chamber from deep within the stone building. Ardith tensed at the sound. She thought she recognised the voices that were laughing and shouting somewhere nearby. The woman seemed about to speak, but instead, she slipped through the door, closing it behind her, leaving Ardith in the quiet warm darkness. In the moment before she left the room, Ardith thought the woman’s expression had changed. It was for the merest instant, the flutter of an eyelid, no more, and perhaps it was a trick of the shadows. But for that moment Ardith thought she had looked unutterably sad.

  Ardith lay back against the soft pillow and awaited the beautiful woman’s return. The muted sounds of revelry invaded the stillness of the room. Despite the warmth from the brazier and the furs, Ardith shivered.

  She did not think she would like to hear all that the woman would tell her.

  Chapter 38

  Coenred’s mouth hung open as Brimblæd slid into Rodomo.

  All around him, the men were seated at the oars. They pulled in perfect time. Coenred did his best to match them, leaning forward while raising the oar from the water, then lowering the wooden blade into the river and heaving backward. He was not weak; the brethren of Lindisfarena worked hard in the fields and toiled to help those of their flock who needed their aid. But his body was not used to this activity. With each pull his back screamed. His hands were raw too, making every oar stroke a misery of pain.

  On one of the nearest benches Brinin also toiled at an oar. Ferenbald had told them both to take the place of Ermenred and Brorda. Brinin seemed to be much more suited to the work and did not complain. The youth saw Coenred looking at him and he offered the monk a wide smile. Coenred smiled back, yet he couldn’t help but feel envious of the young smith’s easy strength. He was barely sweating, whilst Coenred’s face was slick and his robe was dark with sweat, in spite of the cool wind that blew down the river. Coenred turned his attention back to rowing and grunted. He’d almost fallen out of time with the others. Groaning, he rapidly dipped his oar into the water and pulled.

  Despite the agony of the rowing, Coenred twisted and turned his head, trying to take in all that surrounded the ship as it made its way up the Secoana river. He had never left the shores of Albion before and didn’t want to miss a thing.

  The monk glanced at Ferenbald, who stood at the steerboard. The skipper grinned over the heads of the crew.

  “I’d wager you’ve never seen so many ships in one place before, eh, Coenred?” he shouted.

  “I will not take that wager,” Coenred panted in reply. “And not just because the good Lord frowns on gambling.” He stopped talking for a moment so that he could match the other rowers’ timing. He heaved back on his oar, and then, when leaning forward once more with the oar out of the water, he said, “I would lose such a bet. I do not believe I have seen this many ships in all my life.”

  On either side of the broad Secoana were moored ships and boats of varying forms and sizes. Wallowing merchant ceapscips, broad of beam and cumbersome in the water, rubbed strakes with sleek serpents of the sea. Flexible hydscips, favoured by the men of Hibernia, seemed almost to be living creatures, as their stretched leather hides shifted with the tide and currents, making them appear to breathe. Light, agile wherries ferried passengers across the wide river, their oarsmen expertly navigating between the myriad docked and anchored craft.

  The largest and richest vessels were moored along a wooden quay on the north bank. Behind the forest of jostling masts and rigging, lay the city of Rodomo. It was a vast, sprawling array of buildings and a great pall of smoke hung over the place like a low-lying cloud. The stench hit Coenred’s nose then and he all but gagged. After the cold, fresh wind of the open sea and the broad estuary of the Secoana, the smell of thousands of cooking fires, muddled with the waste of the thousands of men, women and children of Rodomo was like an assault.

  Ferenbald was peering around, clearly looking for a place to moor. They edged past sandbanks, quagmire islets where many ships were anchored in the middle of the river. Small boats ferried men and goods across from the islands to the city of Rodomo. Sailors shouted to one another, but Coenred could not understand their words.

  One slim boat approached Brimblæd with purpose. Its oars dipped and rose quickly as it was rowed across the water from the north shore towards them. The dull winter sun gleamed on the helms of the boat’s passengers. Ferenbald shouted an order for the crew to slow their rowing and to back up, changing the direction of their rowing so that now they should push when before they had pulled. He wished for them to hold their position against the flow of the river and await
the oncoming boat.

  As one, on Ferenbald’s command, the crewmen shifted their rowing. All except Coenred, who had not understood the order. His oar snagged with those of the men ahead and behind him. He almost lost his grip on the wooden shaft of his oar as its blade clattered against the others. Men shouted at him and Coenred felt his cheeks grow hot. He struggled to correct his mistake, but it was difficult now, as others tried to mend the situation too, each hesitating and then pushing and pulling their oars out of time with one another.

  Brimblæd began to flounder, to spin slowly to larboard.

  “What in the name of all that is holy do you think you are doing?” Ferenbald bellowed, his face pale with sudden rage. “We come here in the finest ship, laden with treasures to rival the king of Frankia and you disgrace me thus.” Spittle flew from his lips, such was his fury. Coenred’s face flushed yet further and he felt tears prickling his eyes. He had never seen Brimblæd’s captain so angry before.

  Coenred concentrated on matching the rhythm of the other rowers, but still he failed to do so, rattling his oar once more into the one in front. The sailor spat a curse at him. Coenred did not know what to do. He blinked back his tears. He could feel the weight of Ferenbald’s ire on him; sense the gaze of Beobrand and the other warriors resting on him from where they watched from the prow. He could imagine their sneering at his incompetence.

  A soft voice spoke in his ear.

  “The skipper is nervous. There is nothing a seaman likes less than to be seen to be lacking in skill before other sailors. And there are a lot of ships here. Just raise your oar out of the way and let the others fix it.”

  It was Cargást, who sat at the bench behind him. Coenred felt a wave of relief at the sad-eyed sailor’s words. He pushed his oar down, lifting the dripping blade high into the air, freeing the other oars to move unhampered.

  “Right, lads,” said Cargást in a loud voice, “with me.” And as he called out, the oars were once more rising and falling in harmony.

  “I thank you,” Coenred whispered, but he was not sure if Cargást heard him. Coenred took a deep breath. Not for the first time, he wished he had not so readily accepted the role of sailor when Ferenbald had asked him on the morning they left Mantican’s hall. But Brorda and Ermenred were dead, and the rest of the crew had been brooding and sullen. When they had trudged down to the beach through the melting snow, their bitterness and anger had rolled off them like the waves crashing onto the rocks. They had loaded the ship in a surly silence. It had been unsettling and so, when Ferenbald had said that Coenred should take Brorda’s place on the crew, he had not complained. He was not scared of a bit of work and he hoped that the men’s mood would lift once they had set sail for Frankia again.

  He watched the oars lift and fall in perfect unison now, making quiet splashes into the dark waters of the Secoana, and smiled at his own naivety. The crew had lost two of their number and they felt it was a price too high to pay for what was beginning to look like a doomed quest.

  They had taken a long time to carry Mantican’s riches down to the ship and to secure it all on board. There were piles of weapons, shields and armour, silver and gold ornaments and plates, finely wrought goblets of glass and all manner of jewels and brooches. It was a mighty hoard and the sun was high in the sky and the ship low in the water by the time they were ready to once more set off across the Narrow Sea towards Rodomo.

  But before they left the cove, surrounded by jagged rocks and sheltered by the snow-clad cliffs, Sigulf, one of the younger crewmen, a burly man, with thick neck and short legs, had stepped forward. His hands were on his hips and he’d faced Beobrand directly. Sigulf was no coward. He had fought hard in the hall and yet Coenred still marvelled at his boldness to stand before Beobrand so. Beobrand had looked down at him, his ice pale eyes reflecting the steel-grey of the sky and sea.

  He said nothing.

  Sigulf swallowed.

  The men all watched on. Coenred noted how Beobrand’s gesithas moved silently to stand beside their lord.

  “My lord,” Sigulf began, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and started again. “My lord. The men and I have been talking.”

  Still Beobrand said nothing.

  “We think we should turn back to Hithe.” He paused, perhaps expecting a response. He got none. “Two men have died…” His voice trailed off.

  Beobrand stared at him for a long time.

  At last he said, “We stood together last night against Tidgar and the rest of Mantican’s murderers, did we not?” Sigulf swallowed and nodded. “We mourn the loss of Ermenred and Brorda, but they, like you, Sigulf, and every one of you,” Beobrand cast his gaze over all of the gathered sailors, “knew what this voyage was for.” He paused, looking at each of them in turn. “I did not demand that you come. No, you chose to board Brimblæd because one of your own had been taken. Ardith is but a child. In need of the strength of men. Brave men, like you all. I hope that we will find her and bring her safely back to her mother…” Beobrand’s voice broke for a moment, and he halted, drawing in a deep breath before continuing. “But know this. Whatever happens, after last night, we no longer stand together as men. We stand together as brothers.” Cynan, Dreogan and the other gesithas nodded at this, and some of the sailors hoomed in their throats. “And make no mistake, the plunder we have taken from Mantican’s hall is worthy of many battles. And the spoils will be shared evenly between each of you. And I give my word, here, before you all and all the gods, that for any man that falls helping me to bring back my daughter, his kith and kin will receive twice the amount of a man’s share of the treasure.” He stepped forward and clasped Sigulf’s forearm in the warrior grip. “I know you are all brave men,” he said. “Now you are all rich men too.”

  Still gripping Sigulf’s arm, Beobrand looked over the squat man’s head at the other sailors.

  “So, what say you?” he said, holding the gaze of each in turn. “We know now where Grimr has taken Ardith. Shall we finish what we started? As rich men? As brothers?”

  Cargást was the first to answer.

  “Aye,” he said, his voice carrying over the crash of the waves that tumbled up the shingle beach. The other men quickly added their voices to Cargást’s. Beobrand had slapped Sigulf on the shoulder and released his grip on him.

  They had soon been on their way, and this time, no storm pushed them back or threatened them with mountainous waves. The sky remained leaden and overcast and squalls of bitter rain spattered them as Brimblæd crossed the Narrow Sea, but when night drew in around them, the shore of Frankia was in sight. They had sheltered in the estuary of the Secoana that night, before rowing up the river on the dawn tide towards Rodomo.

  The gentle bumping of the boat against Brimblæd’s port side brought Coenred back to the present. Without the hindrance of his oar, the crew had straightened Brimblæd in the current and then held it in place as the slender vessel rowed close. It nudged alongside the larboard bow and Fraomar reached down and took hold of a line. There were seven men in the boat. Six wore simple polished helms. The seventh was a portly man of middling years. He had a hat of thick beaver fur and a blue cloak held in place with a large silver clasp. The hat looked too small for his fat head, thought Coenred, making it seem as though a small animal had curled up and fallen asleep on his pate.

  “Welcome to Rodomo,” he said in Anglisc, his voice a whiny wheeze. Just as his hat did not fit his head, so the man’s voice did not suit his chubby body. He stood, and with surprising nimbleness, he jumped up into Brimblæd. Two of the guards followed him as quickly as they could. None of Beobrand’s gesithas made a move to help them. The temperature aboard seemed to drop, Brimblæd’s crew bristling at the sudden intrusion. The fat man appeared not to notice, or not to care.

  “My name is Gozolon and I am the port reeve of Rodomo,” he said, with an obsequious smile that did not reach his eyes. “You come from Albion, do you not?”

  Ferenbald strode down the length of the ship, easi
ly making his way over the benches and past the rowers. All sign of his recent anger was gone now, and he returned Gozolon’s smile.

  “That is right,” he said, reaching out his hand. “We sail out of Hithe, in the kingdom of Cantware.”

  Gozolon looked down at the proffered hand for a long moment. His mouth twisted, as if he had been offered a rotting trout, but he clasped Ferenbald’s hand briefly and his smile grew broader.

  “Good, good,” he said. “I thought I recognised the ship. It is late in the year for Brimblæd to be trading. But where is Hrothgar? I pray to God and all the saints he is well.” Coenred thought he could not have sounded less sincere.

  But Ferenbald smiled and said, “My father is well, master Gozolon. My thanks. He has honoured me with command of Brimblæd for a special voyage.”

  Gozolon’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Indeed?” he said, his voice growing even more high-pitched. “You bring something special to trade with us?”

  Coenred looked over his shoulder and saw Beobrand’s face darken. He clearly did not like the way this conversation was going.

  The ship drifted now, spinning languidly as the current pulled at it. A wherryman bellowed his ire at the larger vessel, as he was forced to row quickly to avoid a collision against Brimblæd’s oak hull. Some of the sailors dipped their oars into the river and gently corrected Brimblæd’s position, holding the ship steady in the water. Coenred thought it best not to try and aid them.