Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  “Well, Tweoxneam is a rich port, with a wealthy church, so it was a good place to attack. But what the red-bearded bastard and his crews didn’t know is that the king was there with his hearth warriors to celebrate the wedding of the son of Tweoxneam’s ealdorman. Bad luck for the Norsemen. Good luck for the king.”

  “Or perhaps God helped the Christian king of Wessex to defend the land against the heathen.”

  Dunston gave her a strange look that she could not interpret.

  “We met them on the beach, shieldwall to shieldwall.” He grimaced at the memory. “It was a bloody business.”

  “You were in the shieldwall?”

  “Oh yes, I was there all right. Got this scar on that beach.” He pulled back the stained sleeve of his kirtle to show a long, thin white line running down the corded muscle of his right forearm. “It bled like a stuck pig,” he said. “Looked worse than it was really. It stung like the Devil himself though. Funny that I can remember that so clearly but still cannot recall the name of that Norseman.”

  He scratched at his head, as if that might help him to remember. They were covering the ground leading to Exanceaster more quickly than she had expected. After the days of threading around trees, brambles and bushes, to walk in the open, with the wind and sun on her face, was a relief.

  “Was Aculf there too?”

  Dunston shook his head.

  “No, he had left us before that.” He paused, turning to face her. “When we reach Exanceaster, you are not to mention Aculf or the others. I gave my word.” As if he needed to explain himself, he added, “We were friends, once.”

  She nodded, uncertain of what had been said in the night; what bonds connected the two old warriors.

  “You have my word too,” she said. Whatever Aculf had done to see him cast out from the law, he had helped them and he was a friend to Dunston. She thought he probably didn’t have many. He held her gaze for a moment, then, seemingly satisfied, he continued walking through the long wet grass.

  “Tell me of the Vikingr and the rainbow,” she said.

  Dunston looked up at the colourful arch of light against the rain-laden clouds, adjusting his huge axe on his shoulder.

  “We drank ale together the night after that battle, that red-bearded warrior and I. As the sun went down, there was a rainbow over the Narrow Sea and he told me that his people called it Bifröst.” Dunston let out a guffaw. “By God, I can remember that! What was the man’s name? I should remember. Ah, it will come to me, I’m sure. I haven’t thought of him for years. He said that Bifröst was the bridge that led to the afterlife, or to the kingdom of their gods, or some such nonsense.”

  They walked on, and Aedwen noted that Dunston had grown grim once more.

  “He said that seeing the bridge was an omen that he would die and that his spirit would depart and travel to the feasting hall of the gods.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Dunston sighed.

  “The following morning, the king came to where we held the captives.” Dunston stared up at the sky.

  “What did the king do to the Vikingrs?” she asked, unsure whether she truly wished to hear the answer.

  “He ordered them all hanged.” Dunston spat. “They begged to be allowed to hold a weapon as they were killed. They said otherwise they would not go to the feasting hall of Valhalla.”

  “Did the king allow them their request?”

  Dunston glanced at her.

  “No,” he said.

  She pondered what he had told her as they continued across the meadow.

  The men the king had ordered to be killed had attacked Wessex, had sailed intent on murder and theft. Was it not right they should be hanged? And yet she could sense Dunston’s sadness at the memory of the death of the red-bearded Norseman and his Vikingr crews.

  The rainbow had gone now, vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She watched Dunston stomping across the meadow, his great axe on his shoulder and his beard bristling from his jutting jaw. He looked more marauding Norseman than Christian. She would never look upon a rainbow with unbridled happiness again.

  In the distance, a flock of green plovers burst from the grassland, filling the sky with flapping and squawking cries.

  Dunston halted, raising his hand to shade his eyes, peering to see what had disturbed the birds.

  And then, beneath the angry screeches of the birds, she heard something deep and resonant, like a far off peel of thunder. But this thunder did not dissipate, it grew until it was a thrumming rumble. She could feel it in her feet. The earth was shaking.

  Dunston grabbed her shoulder.

  “Run!” he shouted.

  She could not make sense of what was happening. And then, in an instant of crashing terror, she saw what was making the thunderous roar. From beneath the swarming birds in flight came a line of some ten horsemen. Her eyes were young and keen and she picked out the glint of buckles on the mounts’ bridles, the shine of sword blades slicing through the air. They came at a gallop and great clods of soft earth flew up behind them as they trampled the flowers and grass of the meadow. In an instant she recognised Raegnold, his sharp face mottled and swollen from where Dunston’s axe had smashed into his jaw. At the sight of him she knew these men had only one purpose: to slay them; to silence them before they could deliver the message and its secrets to Exanceaster.

  Dunston was shaking her, pointing away from the river. A copse of alder stood a spear’s throw away.

  “Run!” he repeated, thrusting his bag into her hands and shoving her towards the trees. “Climb a tree. I will fight these bastards.”

  “But… they are so many.”

  “Enough!” he bellowed and the strength of his voice alone spurred her into action. “Do as I say, or it has all been for nought.”

  She sprinted towards the trees, not looking back until she was in the shade beneath them. Her blood roared in her ears. As she ran she slung Dunston’s bag over her shoulder. When she reached the trees, she leapt for the first low branch she saw and swung herself up. She could not carry her staff, so she let it fall. She still had the knife at her belt though. She prayed the horsemen did not have bows, and climbed as fast as she could, scrambling higher and higher. Her hands were raw and cut from scrabbling at the rough bark. Lichen and moss stained her pale soft skin.

  When she was more than two men’s height above the ground, she looked back at the meadow. She stifled a scream at what she saw.

  The wall of horsemen were almost upon Dunston. They had not slowed and they bore down on him with weapons raised. Some carried spears, others swords, two wielded axes. The men screamed and shouted.

  Before them, alone in the meadow, damp grass hiding his feet, stood Dunston. As immobile and resolute as a rock awaiting the incoming tide. His legs were set apart and in his strong hands he held DeaÞangenga. How could one old man stand before so many mounted warriors? It was folly. But what else could he do?

  She offered up a prayer to the Blessed Virgin.

  “Mother of God, please protect him,” she implored.

  And then the riders were upon him with bone-crunching force and Aedwen’s tears prevented her from seeing clearly any more.

  Thirty-Three

  Dunston felt no fear as the riders charged towards him. There were too many of them for him to defeat alone, of that he had no doubt and he felt a pang of terrible sadness as he thought what they would do to Aedwen once they had finished with him. Hefting DeaÞangenga before him, he rolled his head, causing his neck to pop and crack. He would make them pay dearly for his life. Perhaps she would find a way to escape if he could hold them long enough. He knew that the idea was foolish, but he clung to it. He could not think of what might befall the girl. All he could do now was to kill as many of these bastards as he was able.

  Glowering at the horsemen as they galloped towards him, he was filled with rage. Fury at his failure to protect Aedwen. Ire at the atrocities these men had performed on innocents. And anger at having
to break his oath.

  They were nearly upon him now, and he had already chosen the man he would kill first. A broad-shouldered man with blue cloak and a long, deadly spear. The spears were the most dangerous weapons in that first pass, so he would slay the largest spearman first.

  “I am sorry, my love,” he whispered, wondering whether Eawynn’s shade could hear him. Well, they would be together soon. “I know that I promised, but I must break my oath to you once more, for it seems I will die fighting.”

  He thought she would have understood. What else could he do? He had to try and defend the girl. Surely that is what Eawynn had seen in him all those years before; what set him apart from other killers of men.

  There was no more time for thinking. The thunder of the horses’ hooves enveloped him. He stared into the eyes of the beast that carried his first target. It was a roan stallion, muscled and strong, but this was no warhorse. Its eyes were white-rimmed with terror as its rider urged it forward. The men screamed abuse at Dunston, but he ignored them all. There was nothing now save for the stallion and its rider. The man’s spear dipped towards Dunston. In a heartbeat he would be skewered on the sharp steel point of the weapon. But in the last instant, he stepped to the right and raised DeaÞangenga high. The spear whistled harmlessly past his face, and the rider was powerless to adjust his aim. Even if he had been fast enough to do so, the horse’s head and neck were in the way.

  With a great roar that caused the horse beside the spearman to shy away from the axeman, Dunston swung DeaÞangenga in a great downward arc. Its silver-threaded head bit deeply into the roan’s neck, splattering gore in the summer air. The animal let out a pitiful scream and collapsed, turning over itself in a flail of legs, hooves and mud. The rider was thrown.

  But Dunston did not pause to see how the spearman tumbled into the long grass. Instead, he used the momentum from his great axe’s swing to spin around and, crouching to avoid any strikes from the horsemen, he swung DeaÞangenga low. With a sickening splintering, and a jarring force that almost knocked the axe from his hands, DeaÞangenga’s blade hacked into a second horse’s forelegs. Bones shattered and the beast added its cries to those of the first animal. It ran on awkwardly for several paces, before toppling forward into the earth. Its rider leapt from the saddle, landing badly and sprawling on the ground.

  The remainder of the horses rushed past, with no blow coming near Dunston.

  In the time it took the horsemen to wheel their steeds around, Dunston ran past the first dying horse. The spearman was rising, half-dazed, from the long grass. Dunston’s axe hammered into his neck. Blood fountained and the man fell back, to lie almost hidden from view in the meadow.

  The second rider fared momentarily better. He clambered to his feet, sword in hand and advanced on Dunston. Perhaps he expected to be able to take the older man easily, while Dunston fought his comrade, but the axeman spun to face him a heartbeat later. Bright gore dripped from DeaÞangenga, and the man hesitated.

  Dunston did not.

  “Now you die, boy,” he hissed and he sprang at his assailant.

  The young warrior raised his sword, but Dunston batted it away with his axe before burying the blade into his opponent’s chest. The young man collapsed to his knees and his eyes filled with tears. His face took on a look Dunston had seen countless times before: a dreadful mixture of despair and disbelief at how quickly death had come when moments before life had pumped hot and vibrant in his veins.

  Dunston tugged his axe, but it was held fast between the man’s ribs. The man keened. Wrenching harder, DeaÞangenga made an obscene sucking sound as it came free. Dunston kicked the man over and turned to face the rest of his attackers.

  The riders had regained control of their mounts and were gathering for another charge now. But Dunston did not wait for them to come. He sprinted towards them, giving them no time to gain any momentum. Several of the riders’ horses turned away, refusing to attack. Perhaps they were frightened by the screaming man rushing towards them, or maybe from the smell of fresh blood in the air. Dunston cared not, all he knew was that he had to keep moving, keep killing. To give them a moment to organise themselves would spell his doom.

  Three of the men managed to spur their mounts forward. Dunston ran straight towards them. Only one, the man on his right, had a spear, the other two brandished swords. They built up speed, but they only reached a fast trot before Dunston was upon them. He laughed, filled with the glee of blood-letting, all thought of his broken oath now forgotten. The Wolf was no longer the hunted. This is what he had been born to do.

  Feinting towards the spearman, Dunston swerved to the left, making it impossible for the man to bring the spear to bear without fear of striking his companions or their horses.

  One of the swordsmen swiped at him, but Dunston dodged the blade easily. Reaching for the man with his left hand, he grabbed hold of his kirtle and hauled him from the saddle. The man’s left foot caught in the stirrup and he was pulled away from Dunston. The horse, scared and confused by the unusual burden, bucked and shied, dragging the man away from the fight.

  The second swordsman was evidently an accomplished rider, for he spun his mount around and aimed a strike at Dunston’s neck. Dunston caught the sword’s blade on DeaÞangenga’s iron bit. The two weapons clanged together and Dunston half-expected the sword’s blade to shatter. But despite the terrible blow against the axe’s head, the sword was well-forged. Its patterned blade sang from the impact, but it did not break.

  The man’s steed reared, pawing the air with its hooves. Dunston jumped back and was surprised to see his assailant sliding from the saddle. He smacked his mount on the rump and the horse bounded away, happy to be distanced from the battling men.

  “What are you doing?” called a heavy-set man on a splendid grey mare. He was richly dressed in fine linen and wool. A garnet-studded clasp held his cerulean cloak and a golden chain hung at his throat. He was older than the rest of the men and Dunston took him for their leader and clearly a man of worth. Dunston did not recognise him.

  The dismounted warrior however was known to him. The man had been with Hunfrith at Briuuetone. It was impossible not to recall those ridiculous red breeches. The man swung his sword before him and grinned, his teeth white in his swarthy face and black beard.

  “Just kill him and be done with it, Bealowin,” shouted the leader. “We cannot tarry here. We are too close to Exanceaster.”

  So this was Bealowin. The torturer. The defiler. The murderer.

  The swordsman was stepping lightly through the long grass and Dunston circled to follow his movement, unwilling to take his eyes off him for even a moment.

  “I will slay him soon enough, lord,” Bealowin said. “But this bastard has taken too many of my men. His life is mine. You would not deny me vengeance, would you?” He smirked at Dunston then, as if they were both party to some secret jest. The leader of the men was silent.

  From the edge of his vision, Dunston could still make out the lord and the clump of horsemen gathered about him. He would have to hope that the man who had been pulled along by his stirrup had been dragged too far away to pose a threat.

  Dunston took in a deep breath and swung DeaÞangenga in a wide arc, flexing the bunched muscles of his shoulders. Droplets of blood, as brilliant and red as the garnets in the lord’s brooch, sprayed up in the sunlight. Sweat trickled down Dunston’s forehead and stung his left eye.

  “Feeling your age, Dunston the Old?” sneered Bealowin.

  “At least I have grown old, boy. Just like Aculf. We both yet live. You must ask yourself how that is so.”

  If the mention of the wolf-head registered, Bealowin did not show it on his face. Without warning, he leapt forward and lashed out with his sword. He was fast and Dunston was barely able to step back from the attack. He felt the wind from the passing blade on his face. He recovered quickly. Taking advantage of Bealowin’s lunge, he swiped across the man’s chest. Bealowin’s speed and agility saved him, and he dan
ced away from Dunston, giggling.

  “You are so slow,” he chortled. “Just like Aculf. How you managed to kill so many of my men, I will never know. They say you were once one of the fabled Wolves of Wessex, but I cannot believe it. You are so very old now.”

  Dunston was out of breath, but willed himself to appear calm and poised. He could feel the sweat running in rivulets down his back.

  “You will find out soon enough how easily I can kill,” he said. “I am Dunston the Bold. Son of Wilnoth. I am yet a Wolf of Wessex, boy. And I will take your life.”

  “God,” said Bealowin, stifling his laughter with difficulty, “how I wish I could have more time with you, old man. Your bleating amuses me. I would have liked to make you sing a merry song beneath the blood-eagle.”

  Dunston said nothing. The time for words was over.

  This was the man who had performed the atrocious acts of butchery on Lytelman, Beornmod and Ithamar. Dunston thought of Nothgyth and the corpses at Cantmael. Who knew how many others Bealowin had tortured or killed? Dunston had met his kind before. Bealowin was one who took pleasure from the pain of others. And Dunston knew something with absolute certainty: Bealowin would die here today. Whatever the cost, Dunston would not allow the man who had inflicted such pain and misery to live.

  As the thought hardened like tempered steel in his mind, Bealowin’s expression changed, as if he too had come to the chilling notion that he might die here.

  Without a sound, Bealowin sprang forward once more, slashing and scything his sword in a frenzied attack. It was all Dunston could do to parry and dodge the blows. All the while he was pushed back. Sweat drenched him now. His eyes smarted and his breath came in gasping wheezes. Step after step, Dunston retreated. DeaÞangenga was heavy in his grip now, and with each parry he seemed to be growing weaker and slower. Damn Bealowin. He had the one thing that Dunston could never regain: his youth.

  A savage swing at his head made Dunston stagger, barely catching the sword’s blade on his axe haft. Splinters flew from the rune-carved wood. The watching men let out a ragged cheer. But Dunston saw an opening in Bealowin’s defences. The young man had over-stretched, leaving himself open to attack. Shifting his weight, Dunston sliced DeaÞangenga to-wards Bealowin’s unprotected midriff.