Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  “And you have not seen us,” said Dunston.

  The man swallowed.

  “Well, I have now,” he stammered.

  Dunston bent down and lifted his huge, besilvered axe. He swung it to rest upon his shoulder where the blade caught a ray of sunlight that lanced through the trees.

  “You have not seen us,” he repeated, his words slow and pointed.

  The hunter’s throat bobbed. He could not pull his gaze from the massive head of the long hafted axe. At last, he nodded.

  “I haven’t seen you.”

  Dunston waved his hand and the hunter snatched up the pigeons and the hare and hurried on, his shadow stretching out before him as he headed towards his home somewhere to the east.

  When the man had disappeared and they could no longer hear his footfalls, Dunston strode off into the forest once more. Aedwen stumbled after him, her blistered foot squelching and rubbing with raw agony. She longed to be able to halt, to pull off her shoes, perhaps to bathe her feet in a cool stream. And yet she remained silent, not wishing to further anger Dunston.

  The meeting with the hunter had done nothing to quell his nerves.

  They walked along a barely perceptible path that had been made by some woodland creature. For a moment she paused, trying to discern what creatures’ passing had worn this trail, but Dunston did not slow. Fearing she would be left behind, she abandoned her search for sign and limped after him. The track led south and east and Dunston seemed content to follow it as the sun fell. The shadows grew darker and colder, the light that filtered through the boles of the trees golden and blinding. The sun would soon set and they would be plunged into darkness. Aedwen shuddered. Her foot screamed in silent anguish.

  “We should make camp soon,” she offered.

  Dunston ignored her. His pace did not falter. Aedwen did not like the thought of spending another night in the forest with no fire. She hurried after him, wincing and hobbling on her bleeding foot.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked, raising her voice. “We should make—”

  Dunston spun to face her, raising his hand. For the merest instant she thought he meant to strike her, such was the anger in his eyes. She flinched. Dunston’s features softened and he pulled her in close and whispered.

  “We cannot halt here. We are being stalked. Keep your eyes open and,” he shook her shoulder, staring directly into her eyes, “no matter what happens, do exactly as I say.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he turned and continued along the path. She rushed after him, panicked thoughts tumbling in her mind. What did he mean? Who was stalking them? She had seen nobody.

  They walked on without speaking. With every tree they passed, Aedwen found herself peering into the shadows, staring into tangles of brambles. They passed a holly tree, its leaves glistening in the sunset. A breeze shook the branches as the travellers drew near and Aedwen jumped back, certain that an unseen assailant was about to leap upon them from the mass of spiny leaves. Nobody sprang out of the undergrowth and Dunston did not slow. With her breath ragged from the exertion and the building fear, Aedwen ran after him.

  When the men who hunted them finally showed themselves, they did not come crashing out of the foliage, but seemed to materialise from the shadows, like wraiths. The sun must have still been just above the horizon, but here, deep within the forest, little of its light penetrated. Without warning, Dunston halted and Aedwen almost collided with his broad back. Her eyes widened and panic rose in her throat as she saw three men had stepped into the glade before them. Glancing behind, she spotted the shadowy forms of three more.

  Her breath came in short gasps and the blood pounded in her ears. How had their pursuers managed to follow them here, into the darkest part of the forest? Her stomach twisted as she thought what the men would do to them both. They would be furious at the old man. He had killed two of their own. And these men had tortured and slain for much less. Would they rip Dunston’s lungs from his back? She trembled. Would they torture her too? Her mouth was dry and she felt faint.

  “I told you before,” said Dunston, “you do not need your bow.”

  The central man before them stepped into the failing light and she immediately realised her mistake. These were not the horsemen who had killed her father, raped and murdered the people of Cantmael and tortured to death the monk, Ithamar. The man confronting Dunston was the thin hunter. Relief flooded through her. They were safe. They would not be tortured and killed. The dirt-streaked hunter grinned at her with his unusually white teeth. There was something feral and disquieting in that smile. In his hands he held his bow, an arrow on the string. The wicked point of the hunting arrow was aimed squarely at Dunston’s chest. As quickly as the relief had come, so it was washed away on a fresh tide of fear. There was no welcome in this man’s eyes, only the wild hunger of a man who has nothing to lose.

  “I suppose it is not surprising that you said you only saw wolf-heads in the forest,” said Dunston, “as you are a wulfeshéafod yourself.”

  “You know nothing of me, or my friends of the greenwood,” snarled the hunter.

  “Well, that is not so, is it?” asked Dunston, taking a step towards the men who blocked their path.

  “What do you mean, old man? You do not know me.”

  Dunston nodded and took another pace forward.

  “I do not know your name, but I know much about you.”

  The archer raised his bow, pulling back on the string so that the yew wood creaked.

  “Not another step,” he hissed. Dunston halted. Swinging his axe down from where it rested on his shoulder, he grasped it in both hands, holding it across his body. The dying light of the sun made the silver threads in the blade glow in the gloaming.

  “What is it that you think you know?” asked the archer.

  “Why, I know that you are a wolf-head. Outside the law. I could kill you as I would a wolf and nobody would seek to take me to a moot. There would be no weregild to pay. Your life has no price.”

  “You know nothing of what I have done,” said the archer, a cunning gleam in his eye. “Being a wulfeshéafod is a curse, but it is a blade that cuts both ways. My life has no worth to freemen or reeves, so I have nothing to lose. I could slay you where you stand, old man.”

  “You could try,” growled Dunston, raising his great axe menacingly. “Do you truly believe your puny arrow could slay me before I could bury DeaÞangenga here in your skull?”

  Aedwen could scarcely believe Dunston’s words. Terror gripped her in its icy fist. She could barely move and yet Dunston seemed not only unafraid of these men, he appeared to be goading them into a fight. As she watched, she saw the bowman’s gaze flit to the weapon in Dunston’s massive hands and she realised she was not the only one frightened. Glancing past Dunston, the leather-faced wolf-head met her eyes for a heartbeat. Gone was the quick smile of before.

  “Drop your axe,” said the archer, “or we shall see just how deadly my arrows are.” He tensed the string once more, the arrowhead aiming unerringly at Dunston’s heart.

  Dunston did not move.

  “I will say this only once, boy,” he said, his voice low and rasping. “Walk away now. Lead your friends away back to wherever you call home. If you threaten me or the girl again, you will regret it.” He paused, glowering under his grey brows, his blue eyes flashing like chips of ice. “But not for long.”

  “Why not let them go, Strælbora?” said the man to the archer’s left. Younger than the bowman, he was just as dishevelled, with the gaunt, wary look of a stray dog about him. “They have nothing of worth. They are probably fleeing from tithe-men. Perhaps they are being followed. It will be just our luck to have them bring the reeve down onto us.”

  “Silence, Wynstan,” snapped the archer. “That axe of his is worth something. And when was the last time the camp had a young girl? That is worth more than a little.”

  Wynstan looked at Aedwen and licked his lips. She shuddered. She was sure this was how the hare must h
ave felt before the man’s arrow pierced its flesh.

  “Drop the axe,” repeated Strælbora, his tone harsh.

  Dunston’s shoulders slumped and with a sigh, he let the huge weapon fall to the loam at his feet.

  With a smile of triumph, Strælbora said, “Wynstan, fetch that axe.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Wynstan scurried forward. Dunston stood, head down as if in defeat. Aedwen wanted to scream. These men would surely kill him and after that… She could not bear to think of what would become of her.

  Wynstan bent quickly to lift the axe, clearly meaning to hurry back to Strælbora’s side. But in the instant when he took his eyes from Dunston to retrieve the weapon, the grey-bearded warrior pounced. If she had not witnessed it with her own eyes, Aedwen would never have believed one so old could move with such speed. Like a striking serpent, Dunston’s right hand lashed out and grabbed Wynstan by the neck of his grimy kirtle. Surging forward and stooping, he gripped the man’s groin with his left hand. Wynstan let out a pitiful yelp.

  For a heartbeat, nobody seemed able to move. Apart from Dunston. He hoisted Wynstan off the ground at the same moment that the unmistakable sound of an arrow being loosed sang out in the shadowed glade. The arrow thudded into flesh and for a terrible instant Aedwen believed Dunston had been struck. And yet it was Wynstan who howled in pain. Strælbora had let fly his arrow into his friend’s back, and now, using the man’s body as a shield, Dunston surged forward. He did not attempt to pick up his axe, instead he ran towards Strælbora, holding Wynstan as if he weighed little more than a child.

  Suddenly, the clearing was filled with chaos. Men yelled and shouted. Somebody grabbed Aedwen roughly from behind, a strong arm encircled her chest and the stench of stale sweat and woodsmoke enveloped her.

  Despite the horror that threatened to overwhelm her, Aedwen could not tear her gaze away from Dunston. He flung Wynstan’s injured body at Strælbora. The archer was trying to free another arrow from his belt, and Wynstan clattered into him, sending him reeling backwards. Both men collapsed in a heap on the forest floor. Dunston did not slow his advance, instead speeding into the man who had been standing to Strælbora’s right. The man had pulled a rusty knife, but Dunston seemed unperturbed by the blade. Catching the man’s wrist in his left hand, he thundered a right hook into his jaw. The man fell to the ground as if dead. Perhaps he was, Aedwen thought, such was the power behind that punch.

  “Halt!” shouted the man who held Aedwen. As if to reinforce his command, he shook her and pressed a cold blade against her throat. Aedwen felt her strength leaving her. She could barely breathe. Her legs trembled and she feared she might fall. “I’ll kill her!” yelled the man, his voice hoarse and ugly. His warm breath, sour and stale, wafted against her cheek. His left hand was clamped over her chest. His touch made her want to squirm away, but even if she could have summoned the courage to move, his wiry strength would have held her firm.

  Dunston showed no sign of hearing the man’s threats. He did not turn or falter, instead he flung himself onto Wynstan and Strælbora. Wynstan screamed as the arrow was pushed further into his body before snapping from the pressure of Dunston’s bulk. Strælbora was pinned beneath his injured comrade.

  “You whoreson!” he bellowed, trying in vain to pull himself out from under Wynstan’s stricken form and Dunston’s considerable weight. “I will cut your eyes out and piss in your skull! I will cut off your manhood and—”

  Dunston hammered a punch into his face, silencing him. Strælbora’s head snapped back against the loam, his eyes vacant and unfocused. His mouth opened and closed like a beached trout, but no sound came. Dunston looked down at him for a moment, before thundering another blow into his nose. Blood blossomed, bubbling and flowing into Strælbora’s dirty beard. His eyes rolled back and he lay still.

  With a sigh, Dunston shoved himself up from the earth and the tangled forms of the wolf-heads. He rose to his feet with a grimace and turned to Aedwen and the three remaining outlaws.

  As if remembering his role in this confrontation, the man who held her tightened his grip. The knife pressed against her throat and she gasped.

  “I’ll kill her,” he said. Did she hear an edge of panic in his tone now?

  Dunston ignored the man. He moved to his axe and lifted it from the earth.

  “I will!” shouted the man, desperation in his voice now. Aedwen readied herself for the pain of the cut. How quickly would she die? She had seen plenty of pigs killed with their throats slit and they didn’t seem to suffer for long after their initial squealing terror. Without being aware of what she was doing, she began to recite the prayer to Maria, Mother of God.

  “If you harm her,” said Dunston, his voice as cold and menacing as the huge axe in his grasp, “it will be the last thing you do on this earth. Even if you think you could kill me, I promise you I will take you with me. Death holds no fear for me. What about you, boy? Do you truly wish to stand before God in judgement of your sins before this day is out?”

  Behind Dunston, Wynstan whimpered and panted.

  For a long, drawn out moment, nobody spoke. Aedwen was aware of the man who held her wavering. She could almost hear his thoughts as he looked at the grey-bearded axe man and his three incapacitated companions sprawled on the forest floor. Could the three wolf-heads who remained standing defeat the old warrior? Was the prize worth the risk?

  Dunston did not move. His cool eyes were unblinking as he glowered at the wolf-head. There was no doubt in Aedwen’s mind that this was no idle threat. Dunston was prepared to kill them all, even if he died in the battle.

  The tight grasp around her chest loosened. The wolf-head, it seemed, had decided to release her. Aedwen let out a ragged breath. Without warning, the blade was removed from her throat and the man pushed her away with such force that she stumbled and fell.

  “Kill him!” he screamed.

  The three wolf-heads surged forward, and Dunston widened his stance, swinging his war axe up to meet their attack.

  Aedwen watched in horror from where she lay on the damp leaf mould. Death was in the late afternoon air and all that remained to be seen was who would survive. Surely Dunston could not hope to stand before the three outlaws and live.

  The instant before the men met, a new voice rang out in the clearing.

  “Halt! Put up your weapons!” the voice bellowed. It was loud and clear and carried the power of command in its tone. Aedwen could not see who it was who spoke. The voice came from the shadows beneath the trees.

  The wolf-heads evidently recognised the voice, for they responded by stepping back and lowering their blades. Dunston did not step after them, instead he lowered his axe and peered into the gloom of the forest, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “Aculf?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “Is that you?”

  Thirty-One

  “Time has caught up with you, I see,” said Aculf. He sat across the fire from Dunston, the flames lighting his face with a ruddy glow. It was full dark now, the forest black, the grey boles of the trees surrounding the camp crowding about the gathered band of wolf-heads.

  Dunston offered a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Time is the hunter that always catches its prey,” he said.

  Beside him Aedwen leaned against his shoulder. The eyes of the outlaws glimmered in the gloom. All of the men were dirty and thin, with skin ravaged by the weather and years of living outside. Off to one side, Strælbora glowered at him. Huddled around the archer were the rest of the men Dunston had fought. Aculf, who had always been skilled with the ways of healing, had removed the arrow from Wynstan’s back and now the injured man lay in a feverish doze. He had cried out like a child when Aculf had drawn the arrow point from his flesh, but despite the man’s complaints, Aculf said he would more than likely live.

  Strælbora’s nose was broken, his eyes dark-ringed and bruised. The other man Dunston had punched had lost one of the few teeth he had left. The five of them did
not cease to glare at Dunston and Aedwen, and he wondered whether he would be able to sleep that night.

  “You may be old, but you are still as strong as an ox,” said Aculf with a grin. “I cannot imagine any other man lifting Wynstan the way you did.”

  Dunston grunted. He did not feel strong. His back ached terribly and the pain in his elbow was worse than ever. You are not young any more, he rebuked himself after the fight. Lifting Wynstan was foolish. The moment he pulled him from his feet, Dunston had regretted it. His back screamed with the effort, but what else could he have done? He would not stand by while they raped Aedwen. You should have just killed them, a small, dark voice whispered deep within him. Perhaps he should have. They were outlaws, men who had lost their place in society. Why not simply strike them down with DeaÞangenga? It would have been faster and the chances were that if he had killed a couple, the others would have run. And yet he recalled slaying the man by the horses in the night, and how the thrill of the kill had coursed through him. He had made a solemn promise to Eawynn, he did not wish to forsake that vow. He had clung onto it for too long. He did not wish to admit to himself that he would resort to killing so effortlessly, as if the promise had never been made. Or that it meant nothing to him.

  Looking over the fire at Aculf, Dunston felt his world shift about him. For a moment it was as if he had stepped back into his past. So easily had he returned to a life he’d believed gone forever, and now, to add to his discomfort and unease, ghosts were returning to the land of the living.

  Aculf was thinner than he remembered him, his forehead bore a long scar Dunston did not recall, and his beard was dusted with frost, but the power of the man’s character still shone in his dark eyes.

  “I thought you long dead,” said Dunston.

  “I have come close,” replied Aculf. “And now,” he waved a hand to encompass their surroundings and the couple of dozen wolf-heads that were dotted about the clearing, “I am as good as dead to all but those outside of the law.”