Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  Draca was raving, striking at his brother, blood from his cut hand spattering the wall hangings and floor. Grimr wrestled with him. Neither was paying any heed to Ardith.

  For a moment she watched the fighting brothers, wondering at their words, at their story of broken oaths, rape and mutilation. Had Draca violated Erynn when she was but a girl? Could it be so? And Vulmar had put his eye out for the offence?

  But there was no time to think of these things now. And as suddenly as if she had been slapped again, her eyes settled on the open door.

  Both men seemed to have forgotten about her.

  Clutching her blood-stained knife tightly, Ardith clambered over the mounds of cushions, hoping that neither of the brothers would notice. The pillows and mattress were just as soft as she had imagined they would be. She hoped she would never feel their luxurious softness again. Stepping silently onto the cold tiles of the floor, she fled from the room.

  Behind her, the sickly scented smoke wafted into the corridor, followed by the grunts and curses of the fighting men.

  Chapter 52

  As the gates clanged shut behind them, the rain suddenly fell with a fresh vehemence. Two of the door wards hurried inside the gate house, away from the cold wet night. Beobrand nodded at Attor and Bearn, and the two of them slipped into the guard hut behind the men.

  The other two guards turned from the gate at the same instant that Beobrand and Cynan closed with them. Without hesitation, Beobrand sprang forward and smashed his head into the left man’s face. Beobrand wore a simple helm that he had taken from one of the fallen at the ruins, and the iron hammered into the door ward’s nose. The man staggered for a heartbeat, flailing with his arms, as if to find his balance, before crumpling onto the wet cobbles of the courtyard.

  Beobrand did not see how Cynan had dealt with the other guard, but when he looked, the Waelisc warrior was lowering the Frank’s insensate form to the ground.

  Halinard stepped forward, his words sibilant and fast in the darkness.

  Gadd, his face paler than the moon that was hidden behind the clouds, began to translate, but Beobrand silenced him with a wave of his hand. Beobrand waited nervously for a moment, watching the open door to the guard room. Still no sign of Bearn and Attor. He dropped his hand to his seax and stepped quickly towards the warm light that tumbled from the room. Cynan, Garr and Dreogan fell into step with him without comment.

  His body thrummed with the fear and thrill of what they had done. It was surely madness to enter their enemy’s lair so unprepared, but there would never be a better time. Vulmar had sent men for them in the darkness and he would believe them slain. Once the Frankish lord learnt that Beobrand had prevailed against his thugs, there would be no way to approach the palace. He was sure it was the best time to strike, and yet he was almost as certain that it was folly. He worried that he should have turned away from this path. But it was too late for regrets now.

  Beobrand was not concerned for himself, if he was to die this night in search of a daughter he had never known, so be it. But his men had followed him blindly into the wolf’s maw, and Beobrand did not wish to see their lives thrown away cheaply.

  He reached the door in a few paces and pulled his seax free of its scabbard. Hrunting would be a hindrance in the cramped space of the gate house. The shorter blade of the seax was better suited for the butcher’s work that would be needed to help his men. Or to avenge them, he thought bitterly. He cursed the promise he had made to Halinard. If it had got his men killed…

  As he readied himself to burst through the door, half-expecting Attor and Bearn to have been overpowered in the hut, the two gesithas stepped out into the rain.

  Beobrand let out a long breath. He nodded to them, displaying none of the anxiety he felt.

  “Just the two?”

  “Aye,” replied Attor. “It would have been easier to kill them.”

  “We may well need to kill before this night is over,” said Beobrand, “but I gave my word.”

  Turning to Gadd, he said, “Tell Halinard my word is iron. We will do our best not to slay the men who guard the palace. But if it comes to a fight, we will feed their guts to the gulls.”

  Gadd’s eyes bulged and he breathed through his mouth, as if he might vomit or pass out. He did neither. In a small, tremulous voice, he spoke Beobrand’s words in Frankish.

  Beobrand glanced about the courtyard. He felt very exposed out here in the shadow of the gate. But it seemed Halinard had told them the truth when he had said there would only be a handful of door wards on duty this late at night. Nobody moved out there in the gloom of the courtyard and for a moment, Beobrand listened intently. One of the horses whinnied, perhaps pleased to be close to its stable. His gesithas whispered and grunted as they lifted the two unconscious guards and carried them to the gate house. Inside, he knew they would bind them and gag their mouths as they had agreed while walking here through the drizzled night.

  So far the plan was working better than he could have hoped, but from now they were moving into the unknown. Halinard had told them there would be only one hostler in the stables. Beobrand hoped he was right.

  “Coenred, Attor,” he whispered, “see that the gates are ready to open for us. I would not wish to be trapped in here with Vulmar’s men at our heels. And then see to the horses, as we agreed.”

  Coenred looked ridiculous in the stolen helm that had slipped down over his slim face. But he turned to the gates without a word and, with Attor’s help, set about lifting the bar that held the timber doors closed.

  Trusting Attor and Coenred to ensure they would be able to escape, Beobrand strode across the courtyard as if he belonged there. There was no point in hiding now. They must trust to the night and their yellow cloaks to give them cover. The others followed in his wake. Reaching the lee of the hall, Beobrand paused. When Halinard and Gadd had caught up, Beobrand asked, “Where is the entrance Halinard spoke of?”

  Gadd whispered to Halinard, who replied.

  “He asks for your word that he and his family can come with you to Albion.”

  “There is no time for this now,” hissed Beobrand. For a fleeting moment, he imagined reaching out and cracking the two men’s heads together. Instead he took a deep breath and said, “I have already given my word. If we get out of here with our lives and he can get to our ship before we sail, he has a place in my hall. But if he does not help me find my daughter now, we will all die here. And I swear this also,” Beobrand lowered his voice to a rasp and fixed Halinard in his icy stare, “if he hinders us, no matter how many foe are upon us, I will take his life before I leave middle earth. Now,” his words hissed like the now seething rain, “where is the door?”

  After a quick series of whispered words from Gadd, Halinard looked Beobrand in the eye for a moment, before indicating that they should follow him. Behind them, in the puddled courtyard, came the clatter of hooves. Beobrand took a deep breath. The horses were walking, being led. There was no urgency in the sound.

  Woden, let this plan work.

  Without looking back, Beobrand followed Halinard along the length of the stone palace, away from the large doors that opened into the main hall.

  They came to a smaller door in the side of the building. Halinard nodded. He did not speak, but Beobrand clapped the man on the back. He had spoken true and for the first time, Beobrand began to believe they might actually succeed. He waited for a moment for the others to reach the door, and then indicated to Halinard to open it.

  But before the Frankish guard placed his hand upon the door, it burst open.

  Chapter 53

  Ardith tumbled into the rain-soaked night. The corridors had seemed cool with nothing to cover her but the silks. But the air of the courtyard was cold enough to make her breath catch in her throat. The rain drenched her instantly, plastering her thin clothes to her skin. She shivered, but still she felt a surge of relief and hope.

  She was out of the palace.

  Grimr and Draca had continue
d to fight behind her and she had padded quietly and quickly through the stone corridors of the building and the Blessed Virgin must surely have been guiding her feet, for she had seen nobody and had found this door to the outside. To fresh air. To freedom. For a moment she did not worry about how she would survive the cold night, all she could think was she had escaped, and her heart leapt in her chest with unexpected elation.

  The feeling was short-lived.

  A heartbeat after rushing out into the night, Ardith realised she was not free after all. Not only was she still within the walled enclosure of the palace, but she was surrounded by a group of Vulmar’s yellow-cloaked guards. They must have been waiting for her, for they were crowded around the doorway. In a panic, she spun about, seeking a way past the men, but there was none. There were too many of them. They loomed tall and frightening about her.

  By all the saints, was it to come to this? She would be dragged back to Vulmar’s soft bed. There would be no escape from her wyrd. She would be a bed-thrall, just as Erynn was.

  Despair replaced hope then. She would never be free. Clutching the knife in her hand, she brandished it at the men around her. They backed away from the blood-streaked blade, but she knew it was only a matter of time before they would take the small weapon from her and carry her back to her fate.

  No! She would not suffer further at the hands of these strangers, these men intent on hurting her. She would allow these men to take no more from her. With a scream of rebellious rage, she turned the knife in her hands. She would plunge it into her own chest and be done with it all. This horror would be over in a moment.

  “Ardith, no!” screamed one of the guards.

  Words meant nothing to her now. They could not stop her taking her own life. She pulled the deadly knife towards her breast.

  “Ardith!” came the cry again, and one of the guards launched himself at her. Strong, callused hands grasped the knife, pulling it away from her body as the two of them fell to the freezing, wet ground. The breath was driven from her lungs and she gasped for air, all the while struggling against the man who sought to take her freedom from her once more. He was pulling the knife away from her, and she felt the warmth of blood splattering her skin. His or hers, she knew not. She squirmed and tried to raise her knee into his groin. Unable to hold onto the knife any longer, she relinquished it with a sob. But still she would not surrender. Biting and scratching like the tomcat she had known in Hithe, she fought with all her strength, desperate to be rid of the man whose weight pressed down on her.

  “Ardith, cease your fighting,” the man gasped. His words were in Anglisc and something about the voice cut through the fog of her fear and despair. “It is me,” the man went on. She tried to make out his features, but it was too dark.

  She still felt light-headed from the smoke in the room, perhaps her mind played tricks on her. She recognised the voice. But it belonged to one she knew to be many days’ travel away, far to the north, back in Cantware.

  It could not be.

  She ceased fighting for a moment.

  “Brinin?”

  “Yes,” the guard nodded, his smile clearly visible in the gloom, “it is me, Ardith. We’ve come for you.”

  Ardith’s mind reeled and she felt as though she might swoon.

  “How?” she ventured, finally giving up her struggle and allowing Brinin to heave her to her feet. She noted with a pang of guilt and worry that his right hand was warm and slick with blood, where the knife blade had cut deeply into his fingers and palm. There was little light here, save for a thin glow of a candle from the corridor that spilled out of the still-open door. And yet she could see that beneath the iron helm and the yellow woollen cloak, this really was Brinin.

  He seemed to have aged in the weeks since they had last been together, his face was thinner, harder, but his eyes were the same. Her Brinin.

  She gulped in the cold air. Her face was wet, as much from her tears as from the rain.

  “How?” she repeated.

  But before he could answer her, a huge man shoved them both away from the door.

  “Get her to the horses,” he growled.

  She looked up at the massive warrior. She had so many questions. Who were all these people? How had they known where she was? How had Brinin come to be here? But there was no time. As the huge warrior’s bulk almost filled the doorway and Brinin tugged at her arm, she understood their urgency. From within the stone corridors of the palace echoed the crashing footfalls of running men, and she was just able to make out the shape of Grimr thundering towards the open door, with other men at his back.

  She allowed Brinin to pull her away, leaving the area outside of the door free. Her rescuers drew swords and seaxes from their scabbards and turned to face the oncoming threat.

  “Come,” hissed Brinin, “follow me.”

  Still confused, she turned her back on the great warrior and the armed men around the door. Brinin pulled her, shivering and dazed, across the courtyard. Behind them, the night was suddenly loud with the clash of blades and the grunts and cries of fighting and dying men.

  Chapter 54

  Beobrand’s first instinct was to make himself a barrier in the doorway, an immovable object armed with linden shield and his deadly seax. But the instant after he had sent Ardith and Brinin splashing across the courtyard through the driving rain he looked into the candle-lit corridor and saw that her pursuers were but few. Better to allow them outside and dispatch them quickly than to permit more to reinforce them from the bowels of the stone hall. If any of his fabled luck was with him, perhaps they could kill them quietly without alerting more of Vulmar’s guards. And kill them they would. The time for subduing and binding their enemies had passed. Now was the time of blade and blood. And even if he had been able to merely incapacitate, Beobrand would have sought to slay. For he recognised the leader.

  Stepping back from the doorway, he said to his men, “Let them out here. Bearn, when you can, secure the door behind them.”

  There was no time for more preparations. No sooner had Beobrand spoken the words than Grimr burst from the building, followed by five men. They wore knives at their belts, but were otherwise unarmed. Moments before they had been chasing a girl, not expecting to fight grim-faced warriors. There was a moment of hesitation as the men blinked, peering at the faces of the yellow-cloaked men about them. For a heartbeat nobody moved, and then, three things occurred simultaneously.

  Beobrand saw recognition dawn in Grimr’s eyes. The pirate leader opened his mouth to yell out a warning, but it was too late.

  At the same moment, one of Grimr’s men, a tall man, with long, grey-streaked hair and plaited beard, stepped forward and began to say something in Frankish. His voice was gruff, his demeanour angry. Surely he was wondering why they had let the girl run past them.

  He never received an answer or even finished his question.

  For Cynan put into motion the third action in this dance of death. The Waelisc man was already moving as Plaited-Beard spoke. The pirate’s words were cut short in a gurgling moan as Cynan plunged his seax into the man’s throat.

  As if awoken from a dream, everybody moved at once. Dreogan, still limping, but seemingly unhindered by the wound to his arm, despite the bandage Garr had wrapped about it already being soaked through with blood, stabbed one of the men whose skin was as dark as pine pitch. Dreogan’s blade punctured the swarthy-skinned pirate’s chest and blood fountained in the night, as black as the sailor’s skin in the darkness. His eyes were wide and white-rimmed as he sank silently to his knees.

  Another man, with hair and beard the colour of weapon-rot and skin as pale as the other’s had been dark, tried to retreat away from Garr, but he collided with one of his companions and was brought up short, still trying to tug his knife from its sheath. Garr stepped in close. He clamped his hand around the red-haired man’s fumbling fist, preventing him from bringing his blade to bear. Garr was tall and slender, but was stronger than his willowy height would sug
gest. With the power of an arm trained from a lifetime of spear throws, Garr slammed his seax into the man’s belly with such force that he lifted him from his feet.

  Fraomar, seax already in his hand, leapt into the confused fray. His blade whirred and flashed in the gloom and a fourth man was choking on his own lifeblood as the strength left his limbs.

  The rain still fell, but colder now. There was ice and snow not far behind. The hot blood pumping onto the cobbles steamed.

  All of this Beobrand took in as he stepped forward to confront Grimr. But the thickset pirate had not survived by being slow, or unduly bold in the face of bad odds. He grabbed the rain-sodden kirtle of the last man that stood between him and certain death and shoved him forward, towards Beobrand. The man staggered, off balance, while Grimr spun around to flee.

  The last warrior regained his balance quickly. He drew a wicked-looking langseaxe and flung himself at Beobrand. Beobrand cursed and parried the blow easily. Sparks flew in the night. Beobrand punched forward with his shield, pushing his opponent back. Beobrand feinted again, punching high with the shield boss and the man flinched. Taking advantage of the hesitation, Beobrand cut Hrunting into the man’s unprotected thigh and he collapsed, crying out. A savage, hacking blow silenced him before he hit the cold, slick ground.

  It grew darker suddenly and for a moment, Beobrand was confused. He cast about at the shadows. Where was Grimr? Had the whoreson escaped? The battle fury was upon him now and all he wished for was to rip the man’s life from him. The metallic tang of iron and blood filled his nostrils and he thought of Dalston, blood gushing from his slit throat; his body disappearing into the deep.

  Faint light from the distant braziers by the gate finally showed him what had happened.