Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

She took in the large bed, its ornately carved timber frame surrounding what was surely a soft mattress. Softer than any she had ever slept on before, she was certain, but she did not approach the bed, did not reach out to touch the linen sheets, or the numerous cushions and pillows that were strewn about it. She did not wish to feel comfort. Not in this room.

  The walls were draped with fine arrases. The wall hangings depicted animals and people, cunningly embroidered in vivid colours that glimmered in the ruddy glow of the braziers. She pulled back the drapes. Behind each one there was solid, whitewashed stone. No windows to climb out of. No hidden doors from which she could escape the room.

  Room? No, she corrected herself, not just a room, a luxurious cell.

  On a small, polished table rested a silver platter, a jug and a pair of dainty cups. The platter’s gleaming surface held a loaf, a small cheese and some fruit. She had seen some of those fruits that morning. Spherical and the colour of a setting sun. Their skin was dimpled and shiny and as tough as leather. Ardith had been surprised when Erynn had shown her how to eat one. She had sliced into the hard skin, peeling it away, leaving a soft, juicy interior that she then pulled apart. The succulent flesh ripped into mouth-sized segments and despite her misery, Ardith had marvelled at the sour sweetness of the fruit. Erynn had said they came from lands far to the south, where the sun shone warmly even in the winter.

  At seeing the round fruit on the plate, Ardith’s mouth filled with saliva. The smoke from the braziers stung her eyes. She blinked and took a step towards the food, before pulling herself back. She would not eat in this place. Nor feel the comfort of the soft bed.

  While Erynn had dressed her in the diaphanous silks, the beautiful slave had exhorted Ardith to relax.

  “Take deep breaths. Drink some of the wine. And when he comes to you, smile and offer yourself to him.” As she had spoken, Erynn, eyes dark with sadness, had brushed Ardith’s hair in long strokes until it shone like gold. The soft touch had reminded Ardith of her mother and her eyes had brimmed with tears. How she longed to be home, in Hithe. Far from this place. And yet, as the comb slid through her shimmering tresses, with each tangle that snagged and then gave way, Ardith felt her past life being pulled ever further from her.

  Her stomach had churned at Erynn’s touch and her words. She had refused to reply to the woman, instead sitting sullenly as the thrall had bathed her, dressed her and prepared her hair. Eventually, Erynn had given up and fallen silent, only offering her one last piece of advice as she had left her at this windowless room, deep within the great stone palace.

  A frowning, yellow-robed guard had opened the door. He had not met Ardith’s gaze as she entered the room.

  “Do not fight him,” Erynn had whispered. “You do not have the claws for such a battle, little one,” she’d murmured, with a final squeeze of Ardith’s shoulder. Then the door had closed behind her. And she had been left alone in this sumptuously appointed dungeon.

  She thought of the ageing Frankish lord coming to her here. Pressing her down into the cushions, his weight upon her. His breath sour with wine. His hands roving and clawing at her flesh.

  Her body trembled with the strength of emotions she felt.

  Disgust.

  Fear.

  And anger.

  She had fleetingly believed that Erynn was a friend. An ally. But she was just another of her captors. And Erynn clearly knew nothing of her if she truly believed Ardith could simply surrender herself without a struggle. Ardith took a deep breath, trying to calm her hammering heart. The smoky air caught in her throat and she coughed.

  She glanced around the room again, wondering whether in fact it would be better to sit on the edge of the bed rather than stand here, shaking in the middle of the floor. Erynn had told her she would probably be waiting for a long while. Vulmar was feasting, she had said, and he would not come to Ardith until much later.

  But before she could decide on whether to sit or to succumb to her hunger and try one of the strange southern fruits, a scraping sound snapped her attention to the room’s single door.

  For several heartbeats, she did not breathe, listening intently for any hint of what might be occurring outside.

  Was that muffled talking? She could not be certain.

  She was beginning to believe she had imagined it, when her flesh crawled anew, as if a cold wind had blown through the cell. For, with the barest hint of creaking hinges, the entrance swung inward and a man strode in, pushing the door shut behind him.

  Chapter 50

  The helmet was too large for Coenred. With each step it slipped forward over his eyes, and, despite knowing that it obscured a large portion of his face, and that the dark further masked his identity, he felt terribly conspicuous. The yellow cloak he wore dragged in the mud and was growing ever more burdensome as it soaked up the thin rain. The low cloud was dark and thick above them. The cobbles of the road they followed were slick and reflected the flame-flicker from the fire pots that Halinard and some of Beobrand’s gesithas carried.

  Ahead of them, Coenred could make out a looming blackness. The wall that surrounded Vulmar’s palace, he assumed. The shifting light from the small fires they bore cast flickering shadows on the solid wall, as they made their way along it towards the gatehouse. Terror filled him as he stared up at the brick wall. It was an imposing sight, much too high to climb.

  “We’ll never get in,” Coenred whispered to Cynan. “The plan will not work.” The Waelisc warrior walked close to the monk, leading one of the horses.

  “Hush, Coenred,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We are Frankish guards now, remember. And it was your plan, after all. Too late to worry now.”

  Coenred nodded, worrying nonetheless and regretting proposing to don the fallen guards’ clothing in order to gain entrance to the palace grounds. They were sure to be found out as soon as they approached the gates. And even if they got in, those walls would trap them inside just as well as they held enemies out.

  The shield in his left hand was heavier than he would ever have imagined. He paused for a moment to shift its bulk and to push back the slipping helmet with his right hand. It was awkward, as he could not release his grip on the spear he carried. The weapon’s iron tip swung close to Cynan’s horse’s face and the beast shied away with a snort. Cynan shoved the spear away with the flat of his hand and cursed quietly.

  “By all that is holy, be careful,” he hissed.

  Coenred felt his face grow hot beneath the overlarge helmet. Please, Lord, do not let us all be walking to our deaths. Protect us from our enemies as you protected Daniel when he was cast into the den of lions. But the guards at the gate were not dumb animals. Surely they would see through the thin disguise of the bedraggled band that now made its way up to the great metal-studded timber doors.

  Coenred and most of the others halted out of reach of the light from the fire pots and the braziers that burnt and steamed in the guardhouse. Halinard stepped forward.

  The man had shaken off his drunkenness and seemed to have grown in stature now that he had made up his mind to act. Before they had left the ruins, Halinard had addressed Beobrand while Gadd interpreted. He had asked if he could join Beobrand, if they managed to rescue Ardith. Rodomo would not be safe for him. Beobrand had stared him in the eye and grasped his arm in the warrior grip. He had given his word that Halinard could accompany them and his family was also welcome, as long as he could get them to Brimblæd in time.

  Halinard spoke in a clear voice to the guards at the gate. His wyrd was now twisted with that of Beobrand and this band from Albion. They would succeed in rescuing Ardith together, or they would die together.

  Close behind Halinard, Coenred saw the pale face of Gadd. After the fight in the ruins, the servant had wished to return to his master’s hall, but Attor had pulled him back. They could not risk him giving them away, he’d said, and besides, they needed an interpreter. Feologild’s servant had been terrified, his eyes wide and face pallid in the gloom. But A
ttor had drawn him aside, speaking to him in harsh whispers. Soon after, Gadd had returned, saying he would come with them to Vulmar’s palace. At a knowing glance from Attor, he had shuddered. He was still frightened, that much was clear, but it seemed he was more frightened of Attor than anything else. Coenred could not say he blamed him. Though as they stood now, the drizzle pattering on the cold iron of the helmet and his fingers aching from hefting the bulk of the linden board, Coenred wondered if even Attor, Beobrand and the rest of them, could really see them safely away from this place.

  Closing his eyes against the fear of discovery, Coenred recited the paternoster silently. The familiar words echoed in his mind, calming him. Who was he to doubt God? It was a priest who had directed him to Halinard. As he had said to Beobrand, he must have more faith.

  He had a sudden urge to piss. Was this too something sent from the Almighty, he wondered. He bit his lip to hold back the giggles that threatened to bubble up from within him. He ran through another paternoster, before taking a calming breath and opening his eyes.

  He could scarcely believe what he saw. Before them, the gates were being dragged open and Halinard and Beobrand had already entered the enclosure beyond. The others followed, walking slowly past the watchful door wards. Coenred half expected it to be a trap, for the guards to fall upon them as soon as they were safely inside the palace. But the monk instantly offered up a prayer for forgiveness. Why did he doubt the power of Christ? He should have come to trust in the Lord after all these years, but he was yet weak and fearful, despite having witnessed God’s majesty at work so many times.

  Besides, he thought with a twisted smile, it was too late now to turn back. To do so would see him left alone standing in the rain outside the palace gates. Coenred lifted the spear and shield, and, pushing the helmet back on his head so that he could see where he was walking, he hurried after his friends.

  As the gates swung closed behind them with a clang of metal and rasp of wood, Coenred could not shake from his mind the image of a great dragon, its deadly jaws snapping shut on its unsuspecting prey.

  Chapter 51

  After all of her thoughts of escape, imagining somehow slaying the lord of this palace, or even taking her own life, in the end, Ardith merely stood, trembling in the flimsy silks and watched as the man entered the smoke-filled room. He stood with his back to the door for a long moment, leering at her in the dim light from the braziers.

  Her breath snatched and she coughed. All of her thoughts of fighting or fleeing had left her as quickly as mice scurrying from burning thatch. She could hear her heart, pounding hard and fast in her ears. The man stepped towards her with a lecherous grin. The light from the coals glowing in one of the bronze braziers illuminated his twisted features, his red, plaited beard. His single eye that burnt with animal intensity.

  Ardith’s eyes widened as she recognised him.

  Draca.

  The sailor grinned, his teeth large and savage-looking; stained slabs that would have appeared at home in the maw of a wolf, or some beast from the depths of the sea.

  “What’s wrong?” he slurred. “Not expecting me?”

  He took another step closer and the stink of ale wafted before him. He smelt like her father. Horror and revulsion washed through her like a poisoned draught. At last, she found she was able to move, the spell of terror broken. She staggered further from Draca, twisting away from the bed. If she turned her back to the mattress and cushions, she knew he would overpower her in an instant, throwing her down and using his weight against her.

  Blessed Virgin mother, she prayed silently, help me now in my moment of need.

  He reached for her, slow and clumsy in his drunkenness, but still it was only a matter of heartbeats before he would catch her. She could not evade him for long in this small space. His muscled arms were long, his hands huge and hard. He would grasp her and then she would be powerless to stop him doing what he might with her. His gaze slid over her scantily covered body. She shuddered, all too aware of how much of her nakedness he could discern beneath the gossamer-light cloth.

  “Come here, little one,” he said, spittle showering from his lips. “You deserve better than that bastard Vulmar. You deserve a real man. Did she tell you all about me?”

  Ardith danced away from a fresh lunge, banging her hip painfully against the table. The platter rattled and the pitcher toppled over, spilling its contents of wine. The red liquid soaked into the linen that covered the board. Some of the wine dripped onto the tiled floor, crimson as freshly shed blood. She placed a hand on the table to steady herself.

  “Who?” she asked, her voice small and terrified. She could see no way out of this, but perhaps if she could keep him talking… She dared not think of what would happen then, but at least if he was talking, he was not sating his lust with her.

  He paused, seemingly confused by her question. His eyes were unfocused for a moment before comprehension dawned.

  “Erynn, of course,” he said, his words falling from his slack lips.

  “She told me nothing of you,” Ardith said. “Why would she?”

  Draca hesitated then, took a step back. Was that disappointment on his face? Or sadness? But after a moment, his face stiffened. The gaping socket where his left eye should have been yawned dark and senseless. He grinned, but without humour.

  “You never forget your first time with a man,” he said. “Erynn will never forget me.” He lashed out with his right hand. He was a big man, but his speed belied his size. His huge hand gripped her wrist and he pulled her towards him. With her other hand, she tried to cling to the table, reaching for anything that might stop her, but she was powerless to resist his strength and he yanked her forward. “And you will never forget me either,” he said.

  His left hand groped for her breast, squeezing, pinching. She gasped, fear threatening to engulf her. “I don’t mind if you struggle,” he said, his foetid breath making her gag. “I like a filly with spirit.”

  Ardith pulled away from him, her free hand once more grasping at the table for purchase. He snarled, yanking her towards him. But her scrabbling fingers had caught on something cold and hard. Hope suddenly washed through her like a spring tide. She glanced down and saw what her hand had fallen onto. It was a knife. No, not just any knife. It was her knife, the one she had taken from Abrecand. Her claw. It must have been on the platter with the fruit. Had Erynn placed it there? Ardith’s mind whirled. Was the slave woman her friend after all?

  There was no time to think of these things now. She grasped the familiar knife handle and then, with all her anger and fear behind the blow, she twisted her body and sliced into the hand that held her.

  Draca screamed in pain, releasing her. She made to dart past him, but he caught her hair, tugging viciously. As she staggered backwards, he slammed his bloody fist into her cheek. His hot blood splattered her face, mixing with hers as a cut opened up on her eyebrow. She sprawled onto the bed, breathless and dazed. Her head rang and her vision was blurred.

  Draca looked down at his bleeding hand. The knife had flensed his skin to the bone.

  “You whore,” he said. “Now I am going to make you scream.” He stepped toward her, bunching both his hands into fists. Blood ran freely down his right arm, dripping onto the tiles beside the pool of spilt wine.

  Without warning, the door crashed open. Draca spun around to see who this new intruder was. The threshold was filled with the bulk of his brother, Grimr.

  “Are you mad?” Grimr said, his voice as cold the sea. He glanced about the room, taking in the scene in an instant. “Would you lose your other eye? Gods,” he fumed, stepping into the room, “after all these years, you would ruin everything. And for what? So that you can swive this virgin? Returning to Vulmar’s comitatus is worth more than that. You can have all the girls you want, but not this one, you fool.”

  Ardith shook her head, trying to be rid of the ringing in her ears. Her cheek and eye throbbed, and her scalp ached from where Draca had pulled h
er hair, but her vision was clearing and she still had the knife.

  “I care nothing for Vulmar!” Draca spat.

  “Then you are truly a fool,” replied Grimr. “Leave the girl and come away. We can yet make this right. But if Vulmar finds you here again, you know what will happen.”

  “I will fuck her and any other girl that Vulmar wants just for himself,” said Draca.

  “He will blind you!” Grimr said. He shook, struggling with an effort to control his rage. “Come, leave here and I will get you some more drink. We can find some other girls.”

  “I will not leave!” shouted Draca, spit flecking the air before him. He shook his fist at his brother and fresh blood splattered one of the embroidered drapes. “I will not run from Vulmar, and I will lose nothing! When he comes looking for this one,” he flicked his bleeding hand at Ardith for emphasis, “I will take from him both his eyes and his balls too!” He laughed then, and there was madness in the sound.

  “You are moonstruck,” said Grimr. He moved away from the door, towards his brother, hands outstretched. “Come, brother,” he said. “Do not do this thing. You will see us both killed, or worse.”

  Behind Grimr the door swung slowly open. Ardith could see the corridor beyond. There did not seem to be a guard outside any longer.

  “Think of all we had to give up these last years,” said Grimr, his voice softening, as one who talks to an angry animal. “Now, when we have come so far, to throw it all away again is madness. And for what?”

  “You have lost nothing!” screamed Draca. “Vulmar took my eye, not yours!”

  “I stopped him taking your life, Draca,” Grimr said.

  “If you had been a true brother, you would have slain him for what he did.”

  “No, brother, we were oath-sworn,” said Grimr, moving closer, “it was all I could do to keep you alive. You broke your oath.”

  “And you allowed him to do this to me,” Draca bellowed, tears tumbling from his one good eye. He flailed at Grimr and the two brothers crashed into the table, overturning it. The silver plate and cups clattered to the floor. The linen cloth, once white, fell into the blood and wine, a sodden, stained rag now. The fruit tumbled and rolled across the tiles.