Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  Gadd translated and one of the guards replied.

  “He asks,” said Gadd, his voice quavering, “what is to stop them from killing you and your men.”

  Beobrand placed his hand on Hrunting’s fine hilt.

  “Tell him that if he wishes to try, he is welcome, but he will feed the fish before sunrise.”

  Gadd again translated his words. The guard did not reply. From the water, Gozolon’s splashing and cries for help were growing weaker. The guard stared at Beobrand for a long while. Beobrand seemed relaxed, as if he could stand there until dawn. Coenred looked at him. His face was hard and scarred. Blood was splattered dark and stark against his cheeks. The light from the torches caught in his eyes and they seemed to burn. This was a man who had stared death in the face and known no fear. A warrior, for whom death was as an old friend; a fellow killer he understood intimately.

  This was not a man anyone would stand against unless compelled to do so. Evidently the guards came to the same conclusion, for, without a further word, they parted, allowing Beobrand and the others to pass. Beobrand nodded at the grey-bearded leader and walked through their ranks, leaving his stolen horse where it stood.

  The gesithas followed their lord’s lead, dropping from their mounts and walking towards Brimblæd and the waiting sailors, who were now all staring in their direction.

  With a sigh of relief, both at the lack of further bloodshed and finally being able to dismount, Coenred almost fell to the timber dock. His legs were weak and he felt light-headed, but he forced himself to stand tall as he walked behind Beobrand and the others.

  Brinin dismounted and lifted Ardith’s tiny form from the horse they had shared. The guards did not move or comment as they watched them pass.

  The last to come were Attor and Bearn, who had waited to ensure the others were safely through the guards before they abandoned their mounts and walked slowly, almost casually, after Beobrand.

  Gozolon was not splashing any longer. Coenred assumed he had clutched on to one of the quay’s timber pilings. He knew the port reeve had not drowned or died of exposure, for he still gasped and moaned pathetically. His speech had an unusual, almost bird-like quality, as his teeth chattered so much that each word was drawn out and broken up in a staccato clatter.

  “What tidings?” shouted Ferenbald from Brimblæd’s prow.

  “We have her,” Beobrand shouted back. “And we must sail now.”

  “These are good tidings indeed,” said Ferenbald, “but we cannot sail now. It is too dark, the tide is wrong, and the men have been unloading the ship most of the night. We must rest.”

  As Beobrand and the others reached Brimblæd there came the distant echo of horses’ hooves drumming through the streets of Rodomo.

  “We are all tired, Ferenbald,” said Beobrand, pulling himself up and onto the ship, “but if we tarry, we will all find the everlasting rest of death. We cannot remain here a moment longer.”

  The pounding of hooves grew louder. Down the quay, some of the guards had obviously found Gozolon’s cries too pitiful to ignore. They were leaning over the edge, offering him a spear haft to drag him out of the numbing river water.

  “We will lose all of the treasure, Beobrand,” Ferenbald said, his voice hollow from tiredness and resignation of what he knew must pass.

  “Would you rather we lost our lives?” Beobrand replied.

  Ferenbald met his cool gaze and sighed.

  “By all the gods!” he hissed bitterly. He spat over the side and then raised his voice for his crew to hear him. “Make ready for sail. We leave now!”

  Part Four

  Wreck and Reckoning

  Simle þreora sum

  þinga gehwylce

  ær his tiddege

  to tweon weorþeð:

  adl oþþe yldo

  oþþe ecghete

  fægum fromweardum

  feorh oðþringeð.

  Always and invariably,

  one of three things

  will turn to uncertainty

  before his fated hour:

  disease, or old age,

  or the sword’s hatred

  will tear out the life

  from those doomed to die.

  “The Seafarer”, author unknown – The Exeter Book

  Chapter 56

  Ardith shivered. She had not been able to stop shivering since she had fled from the palace. At first she had thought it natural. It was night, and the rain that sliced down from the heavens was so cold it was almost sleet. And she had been clothed in the thinnest of wisps of silk. But now, despite the cloaks and furs the gruff sailors and warriors had strewn over her, meaning that her body was no longer cold, her trembling would not abate.

  The oarsmen grunted rhythmically with the effort of pulling the ship along the Secoana and out to sea. To begin with, the flow of the river had aided them, but after a time, as the river broadened, the incoming tide flowed against them and Ferenbald had cursed as their progress had slowed almost to a standstill. The lightening sky brought with it a breath of wind and Ferenbald had ordered the sail rigged, to help the beleaguered rowers. The wind picked up, and the ship, which she recognised as Hrothgar’s Brimblæd, began to slide slowly toward the Narrow Sea. And Albion.

  Home.

  Ardith could still not believe what had transpired. That all of these men would have set sail in winter to bring her back home, made her mind spin. And those warriors, and the leader, Beobrand. She had often heard her mother speak of him, and knew she had met him once before, but she had been a small child then and could not remember. Whenever his name had been mentioned, her father would grow even more morose than usual, and at such times, he would often shout at them, before stalking out of the house and slamming the door behind him in a rage.

  Ardith had watched the huge, fair-haired warlord at Vulmar’s palace. The men, savage-looking killers by the look of them, turned to him for command without question. He spoke little, and despite having features that could make him a handsome man, his face was scarred and perpetually scowling. Beobrand frightened her. But her father disliked him, and her mother spoke of him in tones of grudging admiration. And he had led these men in search of her. He had even brought Brinin with him.

  When she thought of the smith’s son, and how he had embraced her, his strong arms lifting her into the saddle, her eyes filled with tears. He had come for her. Her love. And then she buried her face in the cloaks to stifle a sob. She was so ashamed. Her face throbbed from Draca’s punch. Before they had mounted the horse that would lead them to the docks, Brinin had gingerly reached out to touch her cheek. She had recoiled from his touch and seen the hurt in his face. And yet it seemed she could no longer control her body. It trembled when not cold, and flinched away from the touch of the boy she loved. Somewhere in the bowels of Vulmar’s hall, part of her had been lost. She sniffed away more tears, rubbing at her eyes and looked up.

  Beside her, also huddled underneath layers of cloaks, furs and blankets against the cold, sat a girl. Maybe two or three years older than Ardith, her name was Joveta. Ardith knew that, because the girl’s father, a man called Halinard, had told her his daughter’s name when they had climbed aboard. Next to Joveta sat her mother. The woman had her arm about the girl and they had whispered in their Frankish tongue in the darkness. Neither of them had spoken to Ardith, and she assumed they could not speak Anglisc any more than she could understand Frankish. And so they sat in a heavy silence, the only sounds the creaking of the ship and the grunts of the oarsmen with each stroke of the long ash oars.

  Joveta and her mother were both staring at her now, and she felt her shame more acutely than before. Mother and daughter had the same large green eyes, high cheeks and straight nose. Joveta was beautiful and Ardith thought her mother would have been too, not so many years before. All the men laboured now at the oars and the ropes, leaving the three womenfolk alone at the prow. Ardith did not really understand how it was Halinard had come to be with Beobrand, Brinin and the o
thers, and there had been no time to ask questions, even if she had wanted to speak. All she knew was that as Ferenbald and his seamen had begun to manoeuvre Brimblæd out into the middle of the Secoana, Halinard and his family had come cantering down the quayside. The port reeve’s guards had let them pass unhindered. For a moment, the three newcomers had sat astride their mounts and watched the ship leaving the port. Their faces had been pale, and Halinard’s shoulders had slumped to see Brimblæd slipping away into the gloom.

  But Beobrand had muttered to Ferenbald, and after a brief exchange, the skipper had cursed and ordered the men to take the ship back to the wharf. The sailors had groaned and complained, but even as they did so, they were turning the vessel and heaving it back to allow these last three passengers to board.

  The sun rose, unseen through the low, dark clouds. With the sunrise, the horizon opened up before them, wide and grey as slate. Above Ardith the sail suddenly cracked and snapped in a freshening breeze. The ship heeled to one side and Ferenbald barked out orders. The crew adjusted the rigging to their master’s liking and Brimblæd picked up its pace. As they left the mouth of the Secoana, the ship shuddered beneath her, rising on the swell of the waves. Ardith shivered again. The sound of the rushing water along the strakes reminded her instantly and vividly of her time aboard Saeslaga. Of Grimr. And Draca.

  But this was not Saeslaga. She was surrounded by men of Hithe. She had seen pity and anger in their kindly faces as they had looked upon her. Shame welled within her at imagining what they must think of her. In their eyes, she was spoilt, sullied. She had not spoken out to tell of her ordeal, of how she had fought and escaped with her virtue yet intact. What would be the point? She could see in their pitying gazes that they each had decided what had befallen her since she had been taken from Hithe. No, not taken. Bought. Sold by her father. Tears rolled down her cheeks and this time she did not swipe them away. The wind chilled them on her face and she continued to tremble.

  From the stern came a shout. Sad-faced Cargást was pointing back to the Secoana and the pale wake they left behind. Ardith pushed herself up to make out what he had seen. For a moment she scanned the distance, struggling to separate the dark smear of land from the iron grey of the broad mouth of the river. But then, though streaming tears blurred her sight, she saw it. A ragged sob caught in her throat and she sank back to the deck. Her shaking worsened and her face was wet with weeping.

  A touch on her hand made her start. Looking down, she saw that Joveta had reached out her slender left hand. Ardith drew her hand away, cautious and tremulous. Joveta gazed at her. There was no pity in her eyes, just a deep sorrow. And understanding.

  Joveta reached for her hand again and this time, Ardith allowed her to grasp it. At the warmth of the girl’s touch, Ardith felt something deep within her give way. She clung to Joveta’s hand for a moment and then the Frankish girl pulled her close. Ardith shifted her weight, leaning in to be embraced. She felt Joveta’s mother’s long arms wrap about the two of them, and through the wracked release of her weeping, Ardith was glad she would not face death alone.

  And she was certain she would feel the cold hand of death soon. For on the distant horizon, where the dark clouds met the dull water of the Secoana, she had seen a ship’s sail. It was a blood-red sheet and she knew well the sleek, high-prowed ship that rode the waves beneath it.

  The wind gusted, slapping the sail and Brimblæd ploughed into a white-tipped wave with a splash of icy spray. The ship shuddered as if it too was frightened of the vessel that pursued it.

  Ardith let her dismay overcome her and she sobbed into Joveta’s hair. Saeslaga was following them and she knew that standing at its prow would be Draca, his one eye glaring out of his savage, scarred face. Draca, who had tried to violate her. Whom she had cut with Abrecand’s knife. Draca, whose brother’s corpse lay on a pile of his gut-rope on the cold cobbles of Vulmar’s yard.

  Saeslaga was surging through the sea behind them. Aboard its oaken deck came Draca. And Draca brought death.

  Chapter 57

  “That one-eyed whoreson is gaining on us,” said Beobrand, raising his voice so that it would carry over the roar of the surf and the wind that whipped the sail and sang in Brimblæd’s taut ropes. Ferenbald did not turn to look at their wake. He merely nodded grimly and said, “The bastard can sail, that’s as sure as eggs.” He spat over the side of the ship, careful that the wad of phlegm would not blow back onto him or one of the crew.

  Beobrand glanced behind them again. For a moment, he could not see Saeslaga, lost as it was in a trough between great waves. Brimblæd slid up a wall of water and in the moment, before it slipped into the valley beyond, Beobrand saw their pursuer. He remembered it well from when it had attacked Háligsteorra. It had the sleek lines of a bird of prey, a sea hawk, seeming to fly over the waves. Brimblæd’s deck heaved as they rushed down the waves and Beobrand grabbed onto the stern to prevent himself stumbling and falling. He could scarcely believe that this storm had come on so quickly. Dawn had lit a grey world with a dim, watery sun, but it had been calm enough. And yet the skies had quickly darkened and the wind had come in an angry rush from the south.

  “It is as though the gods themselves have sent this storm to us,” he had said to Ferenbald, “for it cannot be natural that the weather changes so speedily.” He thought then of Woden and how the All-father liked chaos and wondered whether the god watched their passage and hoped to see them founder and sink.

  But Ferenbald had looked up at the blackening sky and shrugged. His eyes were dark-rimmed, his cheeks drawn. They were all exhausted.

  “It is winter, Beobrand,” he’d said. “Storms happen.” He had leaned into the steerboard, adjusting their heading slightly, though how he knew where they were going, Beobrand could not tell. The world ahead of them was just grey water and grey sky. “We will ride this wind, and with any luck, it will take us quickly to Albion.”

  Beobrand cared not for the mention of luck. In his experience, its use all too often presaged tragedy.

  The wind grew stronger, but it blew towards the north-east and Ferenbald was right: it drove them quickly homeward. All the while Beobrand had stared behind them and watched the pirate ship draw ever closer. It was difficult to gauge, but after a time Beobrand was sure of it. Saeslaga was creeping nearer. The ferocious wind that aided them, also helped their enemy.

  Beobrand grasped the timber wale of the ship and watched as Saeslaga crested a distant wave. His stomach turned over and his mouth filled with bile. Gods, he had thought he was done with the sickness, but now it returned to him in a rush. He leaned over the side and vomited into the fast-flowing sea. The gulls that followed the ship swooped into the surf, picking at the erstwhile contents of his stomach. The sight made him vomit again. Shakily, he pushed himself upright, hawking a final string of spittle into the ship’s wake.

  “You would do better not to watch behind so much,” said Ferenbald. “That is a sure way for the sickness to get you.”

  Beobrand wished the man had said something sooner, but then he cast a glance towards the ship that was chasing them and knew he would have ignored the advice. In the belly of the ship, Bearn was wretchedly retching into the sea. The rest of his men were slumped amidships. Dreogan even slept. The others sprawled, with hooded eyes and open mouths, bodies spent from the previous night’s exertions followed by the frantic rowing to escape the clutches of the currents and tides of Secoana’s estuary.

  Spray blew down the length of the ship and Beobrand saw how Ardith and Halinard’s wife and daughter were doused by a breaking wave. Ardith and Joveta were huddled close, Halinard’s wife held them both in her embrace. Beobrand frowned. He hoped he would see them all safe. He had hardly dared to believe it was possible, but now, so close to the shores of Albion he began to feel a sliver of hope. Once again he wondered whether this storm was Woden-sent, cruelly destined to destroy them just when they might believe they could find safety. He clenched his jaw tightly against the nausea. St
ill, there was nought he could do. Brimblæd was in the able hands of Ferenbald, who had already proved himself to be a sailor of great skill. Beobrand took a deep breath and looked back again, feeling his gorge rise as he did so. In the seascape of foam-tipped peaks, he was certain that their pursuer was even closer than it had been but moments earlier. However skilled Ferenbald, it appeared that the skipper of the pirate ship was either more so, or perhaps the gods wished to see Saeslaga catch its quarry.

  “You think we can outrun him?” Beobrand asked, trying to keep his tone even, with no sign of the anxiety he felt. The idea of fighting aboard these ships, tossed like twigs on this storm-shredded sea, filled him with fear. But it would do nobody any good to know of his weakness.

  This time, Ferenbald looked over his shoulder, judging the distance between the two ships. His hair and beard blew about his head as he shook it.

  “No,” he said, “I have never known a faster ship than that. It is a thing of beauty, is it not?”

  Beobrand said nothing. He was aghast at the man’s calm acknowledgement that they were to be caught. And he cared nothing for the quality of the pirate vessel.

  He spat to free his mouth of the sour aftertaste of his bile.

  “So, I should tell my men to ready themselves to fight.”

  “I think that would be wise,” replied Ferenbald, looking intently forward, as if he expected to see something other than waves through the sleet that had started to fall. “But, if God smiles upon us and I know what I am about, I don’t think they will need to fight on this unstable deck.”

  Beobrand was confused.

  “You mean for us to board them?”

  “No,” said Ferenbald, grinning broadly, as he spotted something in the gloomy, drizzle-smeared distance. Beobrand peered into the storm, but he could see nothing beyond the endless mountains of water. The wind grew even stronger then, buffeting the ship in a chill blast, ripping the foam from the tops of the waves that surrounded them.