Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  And yet, Walaric had told him, Vulmar was just as well known for his dark tastes and the twisted ways in which he would repay men, or women, who crossed him. And as Halinard’s tale continued, it became clear that Lord Vulmar had taken an unnatural liking to the guardsman’s daughter. Over the weeks that followed, Halinard had been dismayed by the attention his daughter was receiving from his master. At first he had been flattered, half-imagining his girl marrying into nobility, but these were the dreams of a fool. A drunk. His daughter was yet a child and everyone knew of Vulmar’s dark desires. The lord did not seek out girls for marriage, he was already wed to the cousin of King Clovis himself. No, Vulmar had a terrible urge to prey on tender flesh, and there had been more than one occasion when Halinard had been on duty warding the hall, when cries of anguish had echoed through the night from the lord’s bed chamber.

  On one such night Halinard had recognised something in the screams. He had rushed through the corridors, all the while more convinced that the cries he heard were those of his own kin, his daughter. By the time he had arrived at Lord Vulmar’s chamber, the crying had ceased and the guards there, men he had thought his friends, had pushed him away. He had raved at them, threatening to fight them. But in the end Vulmar had come out of his room, to ask what was happening. Suddenly unsure, Halinard had muttered about his concerns. Vulmar had laughed, saying that the cries were of pleasure and he could not mention the name of the lady he was with for fear her husband would find out.

  When Halinard had arrived home the next morning, he had found his wife and daughter weeping by the hearth. There was no bread baking, no ale brewing in the pot, and he knew then that he had been right in his fears. He’d asked them what had happened, but they would not speak of it. For days he tried to get his wife to tell him what had occurred that night, but she would grow surly and silent. He knew what had happened, and he knew she blamed him for it. He blamed himself too, for the love of God. He continued to do his duty, but his drinking grew heavier and more frequent, and even though he confessed his sins and spoke to Walaric often at the church of Our Lady, his self-loathing grew and no penance or absolution seemed to touch the raw wound in his soul.

  Walaric had said to Coenred, “I believe you were sent here by the Almighty. This is the Lord’s way to give Halinard an opportunity to redeem himself, and for your friend, Beobrand, to rescue his daughter from Vulmar’s clutches. Halinard can help your friend gain access to his hall and perhaps in this way, Halinard will find some peace.”

  When Coenred had asked him if he did not fear Lord Vulmar, Walaric had replied, “Vulmar is a monster who will surely burn in the pits of hell. He is powerful and it is possible he might cause me some harm, but the bishop has his own ways to control him, and I think I will be safe. Halinard though, if he helps you and is discovered, will surely face the wrath of the beast.”

  Now, gazing across the board at the haggard features of this tortured man, Coenred wondered what would befall them all. Had God led him to Our Lady of the Assumption? To Walaric and Halinard? Was it possible Beobrand could rescue Ardith from such a powerful foe? If anyone could, Coenred knew it would be Beobrand. His friend seemed to know no fear, to face every adversity head on and to prevail. One day, he supposed, he would meet an adversary he could not vanquish. He hoped that day had not arrived.

  “So,” Coenred spoke at last, “will you help my friend?”

  Halinard frowned.

  “Where is your friend’s daughter?”

  Coenred looked him straight in the eye and said, “Lord Vulmar has her.” He felt sorry for the man, as Halinard flinched at the name. “Will you help us?” Coenred asked.

  Halinard shook his head.

  “I care nothing for you or your lord friend,” he said, his tone hollow, bereft of feeling.

  On hearing the words translated by Gadd, Coenred sighed. All this for nothing then. God alone knew what would happen now.

  “You will not help us?”

  Halinard shook his head again. Then, reaching for Coenred’s cup, he emptied it of ale.

  Pushing himself to his feet, Halinard said, “Come, we must hurry if we have a chance to open the gates for your friend tonight.”

  “But you said you would not help.”

  Gadd called Coenred’s words after Halinard, as the man strode from the ale house, suddenly filled with vigour and purpose.

  The sailors and whores parted for the yellow-cloaked guard and he shouted something back over his shoulder.

  “What did he say?” asked Coenred, scrambling to his feet.

  The servant slipped one last snail into his mouth and stood also.

  “He said he will not help you.”

  “Then where is he going?” Coenred was confused, but had begun to hurry after Halinard.

  “He said he will not help you or your lord,” the servant said, trotting alongside, “but he will help the girl.”

  Chapter 48

  The night was filled with noise and dancing shadows. The flickering flames from the uncovered fire pots provided but a dim light, yet it was almost blinding after the barrow mound blackness of the ruins.

  Beobrand released his horse’s reins and slapped the animal hard on the rump. In a heartbeat, the beast had bounded away from the sudden light and the threat of the men looming from the rocks. As they closed on them, Beobrand saw that their attackers had made two dreadful mistakes. They had provided light, which benefited those being ambushed as much as the ambushers.

  And there were only a dozen of them. Fewer than double the number of Beobrand’s band.

  In an instant, the worries and concerns of moments before disappeared, dispelled into the darkness by the prospect of battle. Dragging Hrunting from its fur-lined scabbard, Beobrand bellowed.

  “To me, my brave gesithas!”

  Looking to his right, he saw Cynan, a savage grin upon his face, send his own mount galloping back towards the men who were closing in from behind. Bearn, Garr and the others followed their lord’s lead, and the terrified horses caused the men behind them to curse and jump aside, giving Beobrand and his companions a moment to form a defensive line of sorts, even though none of them bore shields. The men fell into position quickly on either side of him and Beobrand was pleased to see Brinin take up his own position between Dreogan and Bearn. The boy brandished a seax as though he knew how to use it. His face was pale and grim in the gloom.

  Trusting to the animals to disrupt the attack from the rear a moment longer, Beobrand rushed forward to meet their assailants. There could be no hesitation. To think would be to falter. To falter would mean death. The men who stood before them were armed with shields, spears and a couple of swords. He could not give them time to form a shieldwall.

  “Death!” screamed Beobrand, filled with a sudden terrible glee at the wide-eyed fright on the faces of these fools who had dared stand against him.

  One man tripped in his haste to place his linden board beside his companion’s. He fell to one knee, and Beobrand’s laughter echoed into the night, deadly and cold as the steel that flashed in the darkness. Before the man could stand Beobrand was upon him. Hrunting sliced down. The blade cut deeply into the man’s neck and blood bubbled black in the dark. The Frankish warrior beside him tried to bring his spear to bear on Beobrand, but with almost languid ease Beobrand caught the haft in his left half-hand, pushing it up and away from his face. His forward motion carried him onward and, twisting Hrunting from the first man’s flesh, Beobrand spun to the left as he passed, delivering a vicious swiping cut into the spear-man’s outstretched and unprotected arm. Beobrand was not able to bring his full power to the blow, but Hrunting bit deeply, rasping against the man’s bone. His grip on the spear loosened and Beobrand wrenched it free from his grasp.

  And then he was through the attackers. He had left two men dying in his wake in as many heartbeats and he saw that his gesithas had cut a swathe through the Franks. He turned quickly, kicking the spear-man in the side of the knee. Still confused and
dazed from the suddenness of Beobrand’s attack and the gash to his forearm, the man grunted and collapsed as his left leg gave way. Beobrand scythed Hrunting into the man’s face, feeling bone and cartilage shatter beneath the blade.

  Dreogan, though limping from the wound he had received in Mantican’s hall, was still fast. He ducked beneath one Frankish man’s spear and crashed bodily into his shield. The tattooed warrior roared with battle-fury and both men tumbled to the cracked cobbles. Bearn, having slain his own enemy, made to help Dreogan, but before he could close with the two wrestling men, Dreogan heaved himself to his feet, his seax dripping gore.

  Beobrand swelled with pride. Even unarmoured, his comitatus were formidable. A quick glance told him that all of his men yet stood and appeared unharmed. Six Frankish warriors were dead or dying on the ground; ruined man-flesh to adorn the rocky ruins of the old Roman remains. From where they had come, the horses had all fled into the darkness and the rest of Vulmar’s ambushers had now formed a shieldwall. They advanced slowly, wary now of the blood-drenched killers before them.

  “Arm yourselves,” shouted Beobrand.

  The first man he had struck yet lived, gurgling and mewling in pain. Beobrand plunged Hrunting into the man’s throat, silencing his whimpering.

  He looked to the men approaching. They were almost upon them. Frowning, Beobrand sheathed his sword. There was no time to wipe the blade free of blood; it would make an appalling mess of his scabbard.

  He plucked the dead man’s shield from the ground where it had fallen. The iron boss handle was still warm from the man’s grasp. In his right hand Beobrand hefted the spear he had taken. Its tip was long, sharp and deadly. He adjusted his grip so that he could stab down over the shieldwall.

  The enemy advanced, faster now, perhaps hoping to seize advantage of the moment that Beobrand and his retinue were taking up shields and spears. But they were not fast enough. With the speed come from years of drills and countless skirmishes and battles along the frontiers of northern Albion, Beobrand’s men jostled into well-practised positions, ready to meet these men who would creep in the dark like some wretched kindred of Cain.

  “See, men,” shouted Beobrand, his voice carrying easily over the stamping feet of the approaching warriors, “even when attacked from the darkness by cravens, we prevail against our foe-men. For we are men of Bernicia and the gods smile upon us. Let the gods hear you now!”

  And they roared, inchoate screams of such rage and fury that the yellow-cloaked men who were only paces away checked their step, questioning the wisdom of attacking these savage men of Albion.

  And in that moment, Beobrand thrust his stolen spear forward and charged.

  It was over in moments, and soon the night was quiet once more.

  For a time the only sound was the panting of the Bernician warriors, their breath steaming in the cold night air. A couple of the Frankish men moaned, groaning in their tongue, though what they said, Beobrand could not tell. He had heard similar cries oftentimes before, in many languages. They were always the same, those last calls before death claimed the wounded. They cried for their loved ones, for their wives, children or mothers. They called out against the cruelty of their end. Some railed against the gods for allowing them to die.

  But none of their entreaties could ever save them from the cutting of their wyrd’s thread.

  Bearn and Garr stepped into the gloom and moments later, the moaning cries were silenced.

  Brinin staggered a few paces into the ruins and vomited noisily. Fraomar and Cynan met each other’s gaze. Nobody spoke, each lost for a moment in their own thoughts. The elation of battle slowly ebbed from their bodies and the truth of what lay at the end of each of their life’s journey filled their thought-cages.

  When Brinin returned, wiping his mouth sheepishly with the back of his hand, Beobrand clapped him on the back. The boy flinched.

  “You did well,” Beobrand said. The boy stared at him, eyes wide and shining.

  “I did nothing,” he said.

  “You stood with your brothers and you survived,” said Beobrand. “That is no little thing, Brinin. Now, help Cynan and Fraomar to round up the horses.”

  The men trotted off into the darkness, calling quietly for the mounts that had run into the night.

  Beobrand took a deep, cool breath, clenching his hands into fists at his side against the familiar trembling. He sighed, his breath smoking in the dark.

  Dreogan joined him. He hobbled on his bandaged leg and gripped his left forearm. Blood oozed from between his fingers. At Beobrand’s questioning look, he said, “It is but a scratch.”

  It looked worse than a scratch, but Beobrand knew better than to argue with the man.

  “Get Garr to bind it. We’ll be needing you hale before we are done this night.”

  Dreogan grunted.

  “The boy did well,” he said.

  Beobrand looked at the shapes of the corpses scattered on the cracked cobbles.

  “Gods, you all did well.”

  “We did our duty, lord.”

  “Aye, and I thank you for it.”

  In the night, they heard the clatter of hooves as Cynan led one of the horses back towards the pool of light that yet glowed from the ambushers’ fire pots.

  “Vulmar will know soon enough that his men have failed,” said Cynan, stepping close to them and handing the reins of the beast to Beobrand. “We must hurry to the docks and Brimblæd if we are to escape Rodomo this night.”

  “I do not mean to flee,” said Beobrand. “Surely you know me better than that after all these years.”

  Cynan sighed, clearly not overly surprised by his lord’s answer.

  “But how can we do otherwise?” he asked. “The palace is walled and guarded, and we are few where Vulmar has many dozens of gesithas at his command.”

  Beobrand glowered at the Waelisc warrior. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. His mood was as dark as the endless sky above them. He could see no way forward and yet he was certain that he could not run away, leaving Ardith behind.

  Biting his lip, he gazed up at the black heavens. A thin drizzle began to fall, light and chill like the breath of death.

  Woden, Father of all the gods, he prayed silently, show me the way. I have ever brought you glory and I offer you the blood of these fallen in sacrifice, slain by the blades of my warband. We have soaked the earth with hot lifeblood for you.

  A voice, loud and close and just beyond the light from the pots, made them all start. Without thought, Beobrand tugged Hrunting from its scabbard. Its befouled blade came out with difficulty, the blood that coated its length congealed and sticky.

  “In the name of all the saints,” said the voice, “it seems we have missed the fun.”

  Beobrand let out his breath with relief. He knew that voice.

  “Come into the light, friend,” he said.

  The slender form of Attor stepped from the darkness. He was followed by the robed figure of Coenred and two others. One, a pinched, sallow man, Beobrand thought he recognised as Feologild’s servant. The final figure made him raise Hrunting and take a step forward. For the last man was broad and strong, with the bearing of a fighter.

  And he wore the long yellow cloak of one of Vulmar’s men.

  “This is Halinard,” said Coenred.

  The man was looking about him, his face pallid, mouth wide. The bodies of the slain must be known to him. Dismay and horror played over his features.

  “What is the meaning of this?” asked Beobrand. “He is Vulmar’s man, and in case you were unclear,” he indicated the bodies, pointing with Hrunting’s gory blade, “Vulmar is our enemy.”

  Coenred looked wan and frightened in the gloom, but Beobrand saw something else. Something he recognised in his old friend. A determination and resolve. And a gleam of hope.

  “Yes, Vulmar is our enemy, but our enemy’s enemy is our friend.”

  “But this Halinard is but one man, even if he turns against his lord for some re
ason to help us, I do not see how we can hope to wrest Ardith from Vulmar. You have not seen his hall. The walls and gates are tall and stout and he has many men in his warband.”

  Coenred placed a hand upon Beobrand’s shoulder.

  “You really should have more faith,” he said. “I too was unsure, but now the Lord God has shown me the way.”

  Beobrand frowned. Was it the Christ or Woden who spoke to the monk that night? Did it matter?

  “Tell me,” he said.

  Chapter 49

  Ardith gazed about the room and trembled. The exposed skin on her arms and legs prickled like a plucked goose’s flesh. The clothes Erynn had dressed her in were thin, made from a fabric so soft and sheer, it seemed no heavier than if it had been woven from a spider’s gossamer. The silks were beautiful, but she shuddered at their touch on her skin, as if they were an unwanted lustful caress.

  That would come to pass all too soon, she thought, shivering again, though the room was not cold.

  Two braziers smouldered, and sickly smelling smoke wafted from the bronze bowls, where some sort of herb had been crumbled onto the coals. The scent was cloying and sweet. She tried to breathe lightly, through her mouth, wondering what magics might lie in the burning wyrts. But she could not hold her breath for long and the room was hazy with the smoke. Soon her head was woozy, her thoughts slow and blurred.

  She walked around the room, looking at everything. She was certain there would be no way for her to escape, but she would not resign herself to accepting her fate. Perhaps she could find a means to thwart her captors. Casting about the room, she searched for something. Anything.