Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  Bearn had slammed the door shut, as Beobrand had ordered.

  And Grimr had been trapped outside. Alone now with Beobrand and his death-dealers. Their breath plumed in the cold as the rain continued to beat down upon them. Beobrand noted that Gadd and Halinard stood off to one side. Both were pale. Gadd looked about to puke, but Halinard was stern, his jaw set, mouth a thin line.

  “You!” Grimr said, placing his back against the palace wall. He held a seax the length of a man’s forearm in his meaty right hand.

  “Yes,” Beobrand said, stepping forward. Hrunting was gore-smeared, the blade long, notched and deadly. “Me.” They stared at each other in the darkness and each knew that one of them would die that night.

  “Go to the stables,” Beobrand said to his men, not shifting his gaze from Grimr. “All of you. Help Coenred and Attor with the horses and get ready to leave. You know what to do.” He could scarcely believe that the plan had worked. Woden was smiling on him it seemed, happy to see slaughter and mayhem. Or perhaps merely waiting to bring about a terrible end. Who could say? Woden was called frenzy, and he revelled in chaos and blood.

  “But lord—” said Cynan.

  “Do not argue with me, Cynan,” Beobrand snapped. “Get the horses.”

  “Send the others. I will stay with you.”

  Beobrand sighed. He had known Cynan would never do what he was bidden. He chose not to pitch his will against the Waelisc man. There was no time.

  “Fraomar,” he said, “see to it.”

  Fraomar paused for a heartbeat, before nodding. Without a word, he turned and led the rest of them across the courtyard towards the stables. The thrum of the rain covered the sound of their footfalls and they were soon lost to view behind the sheets of spite-filled rain.

  Beobrand had not taken his eyes from Grimr.

  “I will kill you now, sea-rat,” Beobrand said.

  Grimr held up his seax. It was deadly, but no match for Hrunting in combat.

  “I have no sword,” he said. “Will you not give me a fair fight?”

  Beobrand hesitated.

  “Very well,” he said, then to Cynan, “Throw him your sword.”

  “My lord,” said Cynan, incredulous. “This is madness.”

  “Do exactly as I say, Cynan,” Beobrand said. His tone was as chill as the rain and as hard as steel. It brooked no argument. “Throw the man your sword.”

  Cynan stared at his hlaford for several heartbeats, before eventually nodding. Slowly, he drew his sword from its scabbard. Once it was clear of the leather-bound wood, he adjusted his grip and tossed the sword high in the air towards Grimr. It was a good throw, high and true. The blade glimmered dully for a moment and Grimr reached for the sword’s hilt. He was a burly man, but agile and dexterous. He plucked the sword from the air, catching its grip in his grasp as if it had been handed to him, rather than thrown.

  He grinned.

  But the smile vanished almost before it had truly formed, to be replaced by confusion and then shocked horror, as the truth struck him. For in the same instant that Cynan had thrown his sword, so Beobrand had bounded forward with the uncanny speed that had made him one of the deadliest swordsmen of Albion. At the very moment that Grimr’s hand gripped the sword’s hilt, so Hrunting sliced into his rotund belly. The blade was sharp and Beobrand had swung it with all his rage-fuelled strength. It cut through Grimr’s unarmoured flesh as easily as if he had been made of soft curds.

  The smile died and slipped from Grimr’s face like snow falling from a roof in spring. The stocky pirate stared down in dismay. Aghast, he watched his gut-rope begin to slip from him like so many writhing, steaming eels. He fell to his knees. More of his guts poured from the gaping wound in his stomach.

  “Not fair,” he said, looking up at Beobrand, eyes wide with the fear of his imminent death.

  Dalston’s eyes had held the same terror as he had fallen into the waves of the North Sea.

  “No,” Beobrand said. “Not fair.”

  He turned his back on the dying man and strode towards the stables.

  Cynan retrieved his sword from the dying man’s hand. Grimr, unable to speak now, gasped, his eyes pleading. His hands flailed weakly, reaching for something, anything that might hold him to this life.

  Cynan ignored him and hurried after his lord.

  Chapter 55

  They rode into the freezing rain and darkness, leaving fire and chaos behind them.

  Coenred clung to his horse’s reins and prayed the beast would not step into a rut and break a leg. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle as they galloped into the night through the tumbled ruins. Soon they were clattering along the winding streets of Rodomo. The rain had churned up the muck on the paths and the stench of ordure and rotting refuse hung over the place like an invisible mist. Coenred gagged. His stomach churned, as much from the fear they would be caught by Vulmar as from the smells that wafted up from the detritus in the darkened streets.

  He had discarded the ill-fitting helm, and when he had seen the slight, shivering girl, who now rode on the same horse as Brinin, Coenred had given her the yellow cloak he had worn. She was a beautiful, fragile-looking child, and he had felt a strange mixture of emotions when Brinin had run into the stables holding her hand. Coenred was elated they had found her alive and, apart from a cut to her face, seemingly well. But his thoughts towards the men who had taken her and would have used her to satisfy their depraved desires, were far from the ideals of a monk. He hoped Beobrand made them suffer. He would seek penance later for his vicious thoughts, but for now, he was content to allow his hatred and disgust of Vulmar, Grimr and their ilk to wash over him as freely as the rain.

  His horse stumbled, slipping on some unseen scrap of rubbish, and Coenred let out a small cry that was lost in the thundering of the rain and the hooves. The mount righted itself and galloped on. With an effort Coenred pulled himself back straight in the saddle. He was no rider, and to fall in this dash for the river would be disastrous. Not only would he surely be hurt badly, crashing into the pavings of Rodomo’s streets at such speed, but even worse than that, the group would need to halt to see to him. They could not afford to waste any time. To tarry would surely doom them all. For it would not take Vulmar long to rally the men in his service to pursue them.

  A furtive glance over his shoulder showed him that the glare in the sky from the distant fire had dimmed. The rain would help them get the blaze under control, and then, as soon as they could round up the horses, they would be after them.

  Not for the first time, Coenred offered up his thanks to God. Without Halinard, they would never have been able to enter the palace. And without the Lord’s protection, Coenred did not believe they would have succeeded in rescuing Ardith and escaping the enclosure with their lives. Beobrand was often said to be lucky, but Coenred did not believe in luck. For a long time he had believed Beobrand to be the instrument of God. A sharp and deadly instrument, that dealt death to God’s enemies; even if Beobrand did not understand it, Coenred was sure that his friend was guided by the Lord and Christ protected him. He knew Oswald King had believed it too. Whenever Beobrand had heard anyone saying such things, be it his king or his friend the monk, he would grow sullen and angry. Coenred had long since ceased to speak of his thoughts on Beobrand’s prowess and so-called luck to him, as he knew it would only lead to angry resentment.

  And yet, how else was it possible to explain events like those of this rain-streaked night? Their plan had been simple, and it certainly had more chances of failure than success. But, against all the odds, it had worked. Beobrand and his gesithas had plucked Ardith from the palace, while Attor and Coenred had gone to the stables. As Halinard had said, there was but one young hostler sleeping in a stall. Attor had quickly bound him and dragged him out of the building, into the rain where the boy had squirmed and wriggled against his bonds. Attor had shown him the gleam of a seax blade then, holding the weapon’s sharp tip close to the boy’s eye. There was an eloquenc
e to Attor’s violence and he did not need to speak for the boy to understand. The hostler had grown still quickly enough.

  Attor and Coenred had saddled and harnessed horses to add to those they already had so that they would all be able to ride. The remaining mounts that had been slumbering in the stables, they had driven from the palace grounds, through the gates they had already unbarred and swung open. Some of the animals had fought against them, snorting and stamping. The beasts did not recognise these two strangers who had disturbed their sleep and they did not wish to be sent into the cold and dark. Attor had pricked those horses with his knife, and soon they were speeding into the night, whinnying and frightened.

  The line of riders skittered now around a corner and Coenred ducked low as they galloped close to a building’s jutting gable. Ice-cold water streamed from the roof, dousing him and trickling down his back. They would soon be at the docks. At the head of the column, Beobrand slowed his steed and the others tugged on their reins, bringing their horses to a canter and then slowing to a trot as the wide river came into view. Coenred was still amazed that they had managed to ride away from Vulmar’s palace. Beobrand’s gesithas and Brinin and Ardith all trotted now through the rain, along the wharf, towards Brimblæd’s mooring. Halinard had veered off some time before into Rodomo’s warren of streets, leading two riderless horses behind his own mount. He had gone in search of his family, but Beobrand had made it clear they would not wait for them. Halinard, understanding the urgency, had spurred his horse ever faster, careening away into the gloom. Coenred prayed he would return in time to join them. The man deserved a place in Beobrand’s hall for what he had done. He may have had his own reasons for helping, but he had risked everything for a stranger’s daughter. Such an act would be rewarded in heaven, Coenred was sure, but he also thought it should be rewarded on middle earth.

  Nearest to Coenred rode Gadd, his anxiety clear on his pale features. Coenred thought he understood the man better than the others. Like Coenred, Gadd was no warrior. He did not wish to be here, in this night of fighting and headlong flight. He was terrified, but he was brave, facing the adversities that had been thrown at him without flinching. And the events of this night would change his life forever. Coenred thought back to the courtyard. Everything had happened so quickly. Fraomar and the other gesithas had followed soon after Brinin and Ardith. They had helped to chase the unwanted horses out of the palace enclosure and then, only moments later, Cynan and Beobrand had walked out of the curtains of driving rain.

  “It is done,” Beobrand said, grim faced and curt. “Now we ride for Brimblæd. But first, give Vulmar and his men something to keep them busy. Torch the stable.”

  The gesithas had rushed to collect coals from the braziers by the gate and set about putting the stable to the flame.

  Gadd had stepped forward then and addressed the dour-faced lord of Bernicia. Coenred had seen the man swallow before he found his voice. Beobrand was not a man to approach easily, especially when he was still splattered with the blood of men he had slain moments before.

  “Lord,” Gadd had said, swallowing again.

  Beobrand said nothing, but turned his frosty glare on him.

  “Lord,” Gadd repeated. “I cannot stay in Rodomo after this night. Will you take me with you?”

  Beobrand had frowned.

  “What of your family?”

  “I have none.”

  “And Feologild? He is your master, I cannot steal you away from him.”

  Gadd squared his shoulders in what would have been a humorous gesture of defiance before the tall and hugely muscled warlord, had it not been for the indignant anger than came off him.

  “I am no thrall,” he snapped, for the first time showing outwardly some of his mettle. “I am a free man.”

  Beobrand had stared at him for a moment, as his gesithas had come out of the stable. Light flickered through the open doors of the building as the first fires caught and Beobrand had swung himself up into the saddle of one of the horses.

  “Very well, Gadd. You have served me well this night. You can come with us to Bernicia. I will hear your oath and you will be my man.”

  Gadd had not seemed able to speak for a moment, perhaps not revelling at having to swear his allegiance to this brutal lord who had swept through Rodomo leaving death and destruction in his wake like a thunderstorm. But after a moment he mumbled his thanks and took the reins of a horse from Coenred.

  Coenred had handed the reins of other steeds to the gesithas, and soon they were all mounted.

  The rain had eased and the wind stilled for a moment and from across the courtyard they had heard a shout. Men were streaming out of the main doors of the hall. They bore torches and the light flickered red on blades and helms.

  “Time to leave,” said Cynan, and they had spurred their mounts out of the yard, through the gates and into the darkness beyond. Flames had reached the thatch of the stable by then, and despite the rain, thick smoke billowed and roiled from the building. A gust of wind blew life into the fire and the thatch caught with a flash of flames, throwing light across the puddle-strewn yard.

  The last thing Coenred had witnessed as he rode out of the palace was a large man kneeling beside the corpses of the men Beobrand and his gesithas had killed by the side door. The man had one of the bodies in his grasp. He cradled it in his lap, hugging the limp form to his chest in grief. As Coenred had looked, the man had tilted his head up to the sky, bellowing in his sorrow and rage. Coenred shuddered at the memory of the man’s grief-stricken face as the light from the burning stable had illuminated him. The man’s face had been blotchy and smeared with blood. But it was the gaping dark hole where his left eye should have been that had seared into Coenred’s memory. That face had been terrifying, scarcely that of a man, more fitting for a creature in a scop’s tale.

  Coenred tried to push away the fear he had felt at seeing that man’s twisted, one-eyed face. Vulmar’s men had the burning stable to contend with and they had no horses. Whereas Beobrand’s band of riders was now at the river. Soon, they would be away and Coenred hoped he would never see the one-eyed man, or Rodomo, ever again.

  The rain stopped falling, leaving the cobbled roads of Rodomo slick and glimmering in the dull light from the cloud-clad moon. The wooden walkways that lined the wharf were slippery and treacherous following the rain and Coenred still clutched his horse’s reins desperately, white-knuckled and scared of falling. Off to their left the Secoana ran black and still.

  There were torches burning on the docks before them. Figures were moving there. This was where Brimblæd was moored. Beobrand had mentioned that Ferenbald had returned to the ship that afternoon and was going to transfer the riches they had taken from Mantican’s hall to Feologild’s warehouse for safekeeping. It seemed the sailors were yet unloading the vessel. Coenred looked up at the glow of the moon. It would be dawn soon. Ferenbald and his men must have been toiling all night. They would be exhausted. Coenred smiled bitterly to himself. No different to the rest of them then. None of them had slept or rested. But they could not pause now. To remain in Rodomo would spell their deaths. It would be a long day ahead of them.

  They neared Brimblæd now, and could make out the faces of the sailors and Ferenbald’s shaggy mane of hair and beard as he shouted commands from the deck.

  Before they could hail the ship, a group of men stepped from the darkness. Spears bristled and the torchlight gleamed on their simple iron helmets. These were Gozolon’s men. In front of them, still wearing the too-small beaver pelt hat, wet and glistening now from the rain, stood the port reeve himself. The fat little man puffed out his chest and stepped forward.

  “Lord Octa,” he said, speaking in his reedy voice, “you should be,” the briefest of hesitations, “abed. Now is no time to be abroad. We should all be asleep, and I would be too, if I did not have to supervise Ferenbald and those men of Feologild’s. Could it not wait till morning?” He was yet full of the slimy self-confidence he had exuded when
they had first seen him the previous morning, and yet there was something in his small, darting eyes. A nervousness that he almost managed to hide. Beobrand’s arrival had clearly rattled him.

  Beobrand and the others reined in their horses. The mounts snorted and blew hard, their breath filling the dock with clouds of steam. They had ridden them hard, recklessly, knowing they would not be taking the beasts with them. The horses trembled in the cold now, lathered in sweat and shaking.

  Without a word, Beobrand slid down from his saddle. He walked, silent and menacing in the shadows, towards Gozolon. The port reeve took a step backward.

  “Lord,” he said, his squeaky voice cracking, “you must leave the port. Return in daylight.”

  Beobrand still said nothing. Without slowing his step he reached Gozolon in a heartbeat and grabbed the little man by the cloak. Gozolon whimpered. If he expected his guards to protect him, he was disappointed, for none of them moved. Beobrand ignored them as he dragged the chubby port ward to the edge of the wharf. When he reached the river’s edge, Beobrand halted abruptly and shoved Gozolon over the side. The man’s shriek was cut off as he splashed into the cold water and sank from view. There was a moment of absolute silence and then Gozolon’s head broke the surface. He spluttered and coughed.

  He screamed in Frankish, and Coenred could not understand the words.

  Beobrand turned away from the water and faced the guards, all of whom looked unsure of what to do. There were ten of them, and they were armed. If it came to a fight, it would be a bloody affair. And it would cost them valuable time. Coenred shuddered. Would it end thus, cut down with the ship of their salvation in view?

  “Gadd,” Beobrand said, his voice strangely serene, not carrying its usual edge of violence, rather the softness Coenred had heard him employ when calming a frightened horse, “tell these men to let us pass. They can retrieve their master from the river or leave him to drown, I care not. But they are to leave him in the water until we are aboard and rowing away from here.”