Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  He placed a hand on Brinin’s shoulder.

  “Remain silent and drink no more,” he said. The boy gazed up at him, brow furrowed and eyes brimming. “This ends now,” said Beobrand.

  He pushed himself to his feet. A slave girl stepped close, offering him a tray of oysters. He stepped past her without a glance.

  “Lord?” asked Cynan. Beobrand ignored him. He had made up his mind now and there would be no hesitation.

  He strode purposefully down the long hall, past the guests sitting at the long tables. The columns slid by, their shadows marking time to his determined walk. He fixed his cold blue eyes on Vulmar.

  As the huge, fair-haired warrior with the dusty cloak and the scarred face made his way down the hall, the conversations stuttered and sputtered out. Beobrand smiled grimly to himself as his men hurried to catch up with him and, unbidden, formed an escort behind him. He did not need to look back to know that their faces were dour, hard and sombre. Done was the time of jests and laughter. His gesithas were at his back and they were prepared to follow their lord come what may. They were unarmed and surrounded by enemies, but they commanded the room with their presence. Silence followed in their wake and by the time they reached the foot of the raised dais where Vulmar and his closest retinue sat, the hall was as still as a barrow.

  Vulmar opened his mouth to speak, but Beobrand was adamant now that he would give the man no such honour.

  “I am Beobrand, son of Grimgundi,” he said, his voice steely edged and loud enough that none other would be heard until he allowed them, “thegn of Bernicia, lord of Ubbanford and servant of Oswiu, son of Æthelfrith, King of Bernicia. I would speak with you, Lord Vulmar of Rodomo.”

  Silence in the hall. Far behind Beobrand, back near the doors, someone coughed.

  Vulmar looked vaguely amused by Beobrand’s display. But he did not reply. After a moment, he clicked his fingers and the messenger scuttled forward. He said a few words and Beobrand heard his name. Vulmar nodded and spoke, all the while holding Beobrand’s gaze. Vulmar was not a tall man, not powerful of build or handsome. He was of middling years, his hair greying at the temples, his cheeks jowled and heavy. Of all the men at the high table, he was perhaps the least sumptuously dressed and by no means the grandest in physical appearance.

  And yet he exuded power. His eyes were dark and somehow empty; deep, cold caverns filled with nothing but darkness and the promise of death. Vulmar’s eyes were devoid of feeling, like those of a snake.

  Beobrand’s mouth went dry in that viper-like stare.

  Just as heat rolls off a forge, so Vulmar radiated malevolence. The force of the man’s gaze threatened to make Beobrand doubt himself. He clenched his fists at his side and vowed that he would leave Rodomo with Ardith, or he would not leave at all.

  The messenger translated his lord’s words:

  “I am Vulmar, son of Vulmaris, Lord of Rodomo. Welcome to my hall.”

  Impatiently, Beobrand waited for the man to finish speaking. He nodded to acknowledge the man’s words.

  “I know not why you summoned me here, Lord Vulmar, but I have a matter I would discuss with you. A matter of urgency.”

  The messenger translated, listened to Vulmar’s response, and spoke again to Beobrand. All around the hall, the faces of the men and women were pale and staring, avidly listening to the exchange between the two lords.

  “My lord says,” replied the messenger, “that he had learnt of your arrival in Rodomo and he wished to meet the great Beobrand with half a hand.” He paused, and offered Beobrand a small smile. “He says he did not believe all that he had heard of your exploits, so wished to see you for himself.”

  Beobrand bridled.

  “And what does he think now that he has seen me?”

  A pause while the messenger translated. On hearing Vulmar’s reply, a titter of laughter ran through the guests in the hall. Beobrand gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bulging, as he awaited the messenger’s translation.

  “My lord says that if the tales are true of the men you have killed, then the warriors of Albion must be a poor lot indeed for you to slay so many.”

  Dreogan made a step forward, growling deep in his throat. Beobrand held out his mutilated left hand and stopped him. His eyes never left Vulmar’s. The lord was grinning, but no humour reached those soulless, empty eyes.

  Beobrand forced himself to smile.

  “Well, in Albion we fight with spear, sword and shield. It is with steel and iron that I have won my battle-fame, not with words and jibes delivered in a hall surrounded by men who dress like maidens.”

  The messenger frowned and began to speak Beobrand’s words to Vulmar. Murmurs of anger and outrage along the benches. Vulmar’s expression did not alter. His grin never wavered. He began to voice a reply, when Beobrand continued, cutting him off.

  “And when I wage war, it is against men. Warriors. Proud spear-men, shield-men, who are brave enough to fight for their lord and king. I do not fight against women.” He paused, squaring his shoulders and raising himself up to his full height. His eyes pierced the gloom of the hall with an icy glare. “And I do not suffer those who harm girls.”

  Silence. No mutterings now as the messenger translated Beobrand’s words.

  Vulmar, still unblinking and smiling, listened. Did his expression harden slightly? Had Beobrand’s words struck home? Beobrand noticed that a couple of the men at the high table looked away from their lord, as if they wished nothing to do with what was to be talked of now.

  Vulmar spoke. The messenger interpreted.

  “Now my lord says he sees the iron in you that makes you a formidable foe. Perhaps the poems are true. But what is this matter you mentioned? What would you like to discuss with my lord?”

  All along the length of the hall, there came the scrape and shift of benches and stools as men and women changed their positions to get a better view of the confrontation between Vulmar and this tall, angry Anglisc foreigner.

  Beobrand took a deep breath and swallowed against the dryness of his throat. He wished he could take a drink of water or wine, but dismissed the idea instantly. It would make him look weak. And this was no time or place for timidity.

  “I would speak with Vulmar of a girl,” he said, pleased that his voice remained strong and clear. “A girl I believe is here. In this household.”

  Vulmar’s smile broadened. The messenger spoke his reply.

  “There are many girls in my lord’s household,” he said. Someone laughed. Beobrand did not see who.

  “This is a young girl. Fair hair, like mine. And she would have been brought here very recently. A man named Grimr took her from her home in Cantware. I would take her back. To her family.”

  Vulmar listened to the words relayed by the messenger in Frankish, but from the slight pinching around his eyes as Beobrand had spoken, he began to suspect that he understood more of the Anglisc tongue than he was letting on, that perhaps the interpreter was all for show, to ensure that all those gathered could follow what was being spoken of.

  Vulmar twisted in his seat, finally breaking eye contact with Beobrand.

  “Well, Grimr,” Vulmar said in accented, but understandable Anglisc, confirming Beobrand’s suspicions, “what say you? Did you take this girl?”

  A thickset man heaved himself up out of a chair someway down the table. Beobrand’s eyes narrowed as he took in the man’s strong limbs, muscled shoulders and gnarled, shovel-like hands. He tried to picture him without the fine red kirtle he wore, imagined him instead wrapped in a heavy leathern cloak and a helm fashioned from the skull of some great tusked sea creature. Yes, this could be the man who had led the ships against them all those days ago. For the merest instant the man’s gaze met Beobrand’s and he was certain of it, this was the pirate who had attacked Háligsteorra. Beobrand recalled Dalston’s pallid terror. The blood fountaining as he dropped into the deep for all eternity. Renewed rage flashed within him so suddenly that he was almost overcome by it. He took
a step forward, only halting at Cynan’s touch on his arm. Beobrand’s hands were trembling at his sides and he cursed his weakness as he clenched them into fists so tight that his knuckles cracked.

  “The girl is a gift for you, my lord,” said Grimr. His words were guttural, not the soft tune of the Franks. “I paid good silver for her.”

  “So, there it is, Beobrand of Bernicia,” said Vulmar. “It would seem your visit here has been for nothing. Still, I am glad to have seen the mighty Half-hand in the flesh.” He grinned.

  “The girl was not the man’s to sell,” said Beobrand, his expression cold, flat.

  “I bought her from her father,” said Grimr. “She was his to do with as he pleased.”

  “No,” said Beobrand, his tone harsh and final, “he was not her father.” He fixed Grimr with his gaze. The man frowned. “I am her father,” Beobrand said and his words fell like rocks into a pool.

  Whispers and mutters rippled around the hall as the words were translated.

  Grimr pursed his lips, but said nothing. Vulmar sat up, as if genuinely interested in this conversation for the first time.

  “Oh, that is good,” he said, staring at Beobrand with increased intensity. “Yes, I can see it now. The hair. The eyes.” He smiled, pleased with this discovery. “I do hope she has inherited her father’s spirit.” He licked his lips.

  Bile rose in Beobrand’s throat. Could he leap forward and slay this toad before he himself was struck down? He measured the distance, took in the eating knives strewn carelessly on the table. It would be a simple matter to snatch one up and drive its iron point into the man’s throat, or his heart, or even his eye. Yes, he believed he would succeed in taking Vulmar’s life should he try. He tensed, moving his weight onto the balls of his feet. At his side, he flexed the fingers of his right hand.

  As if sensing his thoughts, perhaps reading them on his face and his change of demeanour, Vulmar shifted back a way in his chair. Beobrand forced his muscles to relax. If he did this thing, what then of Ardith? And what of his gesithas? They would all be slain and his daughter would fare no better at the hands of Grimr or one of the other lords in the hall.

  And what of Octa? The boy would never see his father again. He would grow to adulthood in the thrall of Oswiu.

  “I am a rich man,” said Beobrand, tasting acid in his mouth as he spoke the words of a merchant rather than leaping into the fray as befitted a warrior. But he could see no other way. He took in a deep breath and continued. “I have treasure and wealth. I will pay you for her. Name your price.”

  Vulmar chuckled.

  “Oh, my barbarian friend,” he said, “look around you. Do you truly believe I have need for more gold or silver? I could drown in the stuff. There is nothing you could offer me that would make me return the girl to you. Unless you happen to have two young maidens to hand. Unspoilt virgins are so hard to come by.”

  Beobrand’s ire at Vulmar’s words was such that he was almost panting. His breath came in short, sharp gasps and it was all he could do not to spring onto the dais, smashing through the boards and squeezing the life from the lord.

  Along the high table, the red-bearded man sitting beside Grimr raised his cup in mock salute to Beobrand. The man had the look of a warrior and might have been handsome once, had it not been for the ruin of his left eye. Where the eye had once been, now just a burnt and scarred pit of puckered skin remained.

  “Do you have some virgin girls to trade for your daughter, Beobrand?” asked Vulmar, clearly enjoying seeing his guest’s anguish. “No? Well, I trust you understand. I have been waiting for one such as her for a long time. As I said, it is not about riches. I have more than I could ever want. But some pleasures are still elusive. The, how do you say it?” He paused, waving his hand as if hoping the smoky air might bring the inspiration for the words he sought. “The flower can only be picked once, no? You comprehend? I live for these small pleasures. And do not fear, Beobrand. I will treat the girl well.” Vulmar showed his teeth as he grinned broadly.

  For an instant then, Beobrand thought he would lose control. His vision dimmed and his hearing became muffled. All he could see was Vulmar and his smirking face. The man was an animal. A monster. A snake that should be killed. Cynan and Bearn both reached for Beobrand, held either arm, steadying him. Slowly, he willed himself to breathe. His sight brightened and once more he could hear the whispers of those gathered in this den of vipers. He fixed Grimr with his steely gaze. Then he glowered at the one-eyed man. Finally, he met the empty eyes of Vulmar. The Frankish lord did not blink.

  “Very well,” said Beobrand, his voice quiet, almost timid. He swallowed down the bile that stung the back of his throat. “I understand.”

  Beobrand spun on his heel and prepared for the long walk down the hall. His gesithas parted before him, but Brinin stood in his way.

  “Step aside, boy,” Beobrand whispered.

  Brinin did not move. Beobrand could feel the eyes of all those in the hall upon them.

  “We cannot leave her with that man,” Brinin said, his voice was high and wavering, he was close to weeping, his cheeks flushed and eyes liquid with tears.

  Beobrand gripped the boy’s shoulders roughly and leaned in close. In a harsh whisper that only the boy could hear, he said, “We can and we will. You think I want this?”

  The boy looked lost, unable to speak. Beobrand shook him. The boy’s head rocked back and forth.

  “Do you?” Beobrand hissed.

  “No,” muttered Brinin. A tear trickled down his cheek and he rubbed it angrily away.

  “No,” replied Beobrand, his voice softer now. He let the boy go. “Now follow me,” he whispered, “I do not want to stay another moment in this place. The reek of it is making me sick.”

  Beobrand stepped past the boy and walked straight-backed and stiff-legged down the length of the great hall towards the huge doors. His gesithas followed behind their lord, as faithful in defeat as in victory. Brinin sniffed, scrubbing at his tear-streaked cheeks and stumbled after the men.

  Chapter 46

  All about them loomed the shadows of collapsed giants. The mouldering bones of decayed edifices, once magnificent, statements of the grandeur of their creators, now just the tumbled ruins of forgotten memories in the dark. The sun had long set and clouds covered the sliver of moon that hung in the sky. There was no light here in these rubbled remnants of rock and Beobrand had ordered the men to dismount and lead their horses. The rough cobbles were cracked and broken, and a hoof slipping into an unseen hole in the darkness would lead to a lame beast and a bad fall. The clatter of their animals’ hooves echoed from the stone that surrounded them. It sounded as though they were being followed by shades, invisible wraith horsemen who rode just out of sight, in the black of the night.

  Beobrand’s neck prickled at the thought.

  “We will be followed,” said a voice from the gloom.

  Cynan.

  In the darkness Beobrand nodded, then, realising the movement would not be seen, he said, “I do not doubt it.”

  They walked on in silence for a time, trying to hear any sound beyond the crunch and crack of their mounts’ hooves and their own booted feet on the cobbles. There was a faint glow in the distance, perhaps from some open shutters down in the sprawl of Rodomo. Beobrand wished they had thought to bring torches to light their way. But they had been in haste to leave Vulmar’s hall. And, the truth was Beobrand had expected trouble long before they left the Frankish lord’s palace enclosure. It had been with surprise that he had found the doors unbarred, and nobody blocking their way to the stables. All the while as they had readied the horses that they had borrowed from Feologild, Beobrand had expected the rasp of steel in the shadows of the courtyard. He could not imagine that Vulmar had invited them to his hall only to let them leave again. Perhaps Vulmar had been uncertain as to his intentions, but surely after Beobrand had confronted him, let him know that he was Ardith’s father, the lord of Rodomo would not simply allow the me
n from Albion to ride away.

  The hostlers had quickly brought out their steeds and they had led them to the great gates, closed tight now against the night. But doors that shut out the darkness, just as well stopped those inside from leaving and Beobrand had been tense and nervous as they had made their way across the courtyard, torches illuminating the bushes and statues that lined the enclosure.

  He had said nothing, for there was nothing to say. He had been certain that Vulmar’s yellow-cloaked guards would descend upon them and hack them down, there, inside the palace walls, while Beobrand and his gesithas were unarmed. It would be slaughter and Beobrand’s shoulders and neck had ached from the tension of knowing death awaited and he would be unable to prevent it. He would fail, his men would die and Ardith would be left to face her fate, alone and abandoned. And he would never see Octa again. He knew that his men believed the same. This was where their wyrd threads would end, cut in the cruellest way, in a welter of blood in the night. None of them had said anything as they approached the gates, but Beobrand could sense them all tensing muscles, could hear their breathing quicken.

  They would not shy away from death when it came, but they would put up such a fight as they could. Even without weapons they would fight with their fists and eating knives and they would sell their lives dearly.

  And yet the guards had merely handed them their swords and seaxes and then swung the great gates open. The gates squeaked slightly on the iron hinges, loud in the dark silence. Beobrand had clasped Hrunting’s cold pommel disbelievingly as they had ridden out of Vulmar’s domain, past the watching, shadowed faces of the guards, and into the cold darkness.