The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (42 page)

Hengist timed his reaction perfectly. He had survived many battles and had the instincts of a cornered animal. He dropped to one knee, raising his shield to protect his head and swiping with his sword upwards. His blade caught Beobrand squarely in the stomach. Beobrand was glad of the iron-knit shirt then. It turned Hengist’s blade and rather than being disembowelled, he was merely winded and bruised. The sword was deflected upwards and to the side where it completed its arc by hitting the inside of Beobrand’s shield. There it caught his left hand, severing his little finger and the tip of the next.

Beobrand staggered back. Blood streamed from his hand. He could feel his arm growing weak.

Hengist stood, his face once more a gruesome smile. He sensed victory. “I will feed you to the ravens,” he spat. “I will kill you like I killed Octa, and then Hrunting will be mine once more.”

Beobrand was pale under his helm. He looked at his mutilated hand, unable to understand fully what had happened. Pain began to throb in his hand with each heartbeat. His grip slipped on his shield, the blood slicking inside the iron boss.

At that instant, both shieldwalls seemed to reach some unspoken agreement for respite and they pulled apart. They took several paces back and gulped in the early morning air.

All except for Hengist and Beobrand. They remained where they were and stared into each other’s eyes with hatred. Beobrand could think of nothing but vengeance. He shook his head to clear it.

“No,” he said. “Hrunting was never yours. It was gifted to my brother, Octa, son of Grimgundi, and I am his last kin. And I am sworn to avenge his murder.” With that, he leapt forward again, Hrunting held out before him. Hengist laughed aloud and parried the blow easily.

Despite his brave words, Beobrand could feel his strength waning. His grip was weakening on his shield as the injury to his hand took its toll. He would get ever slower. And then Hengist would kill him.

All along both shieldwalls, the men stood and watched in awe as these two huge men, resplendent in war gear, fought out their blood feud. It was the stuff of songs and none dared interfere.

Hengist sent a flurry of blows resounding off of Beobrand’s shield. Beobrand stepped back quickly, leading Hengist on toward him. Hengist came on, smiling, scenting Beobrand’s weakness as a wolf sniffs out a lamb. With no warning Beobrand sidestepped and aimed a desperate strike at Hengist’s thigh. It was a clumsy attack, and Hengist saw it coming. He parried with his blade and then, quick as a snake, he flicked out the point and raked Beobrand’s forearm.

More pain, and more blood. Beobrand retreated, just avoiding a follow up blow aimed at his face.

This must end now. He was injured badly. He was almost dropping his shield, he would not be able to grip the boss much longer and now his sword arm was cut deeply, the blood running freely. Had it all come to this? Despair’s icy fingers ran down his spine. In the end, Hengist was stronger and more experienced in battle. Beobrand could not defeat him.

“Beobrand, look out!” shouted Acennan, breaking the silence that had descended on the battlefield.

Hengist had seen his opportunity to finish this once and for all. Beobrand looked spent, dazed; blood-splattered and weary. Hengist seized his chance and lashed out his sword at Beobrand’s face.

But Acennan’s warning penetrated Beobrand’s despondency and instinctively he threw his shield up and forward to deflect the thrust. His hand, weak and blood-slick could no longer hold the weight of the linden board. The handle of the iron boss at the shield’s centre slipped through his fingers and the circular shield flew forwards, catching Hengist’s blade and turning it away, but then moving on, through the air, straight at Hengist’s face.

Hengist swayed sideways, dodging the flying shield, which narrowly missed him before it embedded into the soft ground. There it remained, sunk at an angle into the marshy turf.

Hengist began to smile broadly, his scarred face hideous with glee at his opponent’s loss of the shield.

But the moment of distraction had provided Beobrand with his own chance and channelling all the anguish, pain, loss and despair of the last months, he grasped that chance fiercely. He had no shield now. He was badly injured and Hengist was stronger; rested and deadly. Beobrand realised that he would die, but he was sworn to avenge Octa, Cathryn and Strang. Hengist must not live.

So, in that moment of Hengist’s triumph, while his attention was still on the shield in the earth, Beobrand leapt forward, all thoughts of defence gone. He would die, but Hengist would join him this day. Beobrand let out a scream of such unearthly rage that men involuntarily stepped back, touching holy amulets. He flung himself at his kin’s slayer.

Hrunting’s blade slid into Hengist’s unarmoured throat. Such was the force of the attack that Beobrand felt no resistance. Octa’s sword travelled through Hengist’s neck, splitting flesh, sinew and bone. The blade’s full length sank into him and Beobrand came to a halt with the hand on Hrunting’s hilt rubbing against Hengist’s black beard.

The smile left Hengist’s face. His eyes burned with a fury and hatred to rival Beobrand’s. For a moment they stood, as close as lovers. Hengist, in a last effort to take Beobrand with him to the afterlife, tried to swing his own blade into Beobrand’s body. But Beobrand sensed the movement and reached out with his mutilated left hand and grasped Hengist’s wrist. For a heartbeat they struggled. Beobrand’s bloody hand slipped on the thick leather of Hengist’s wrist guard. Hengist’s power was shocking, even in the throes of death. Yet his struggles grew weaker with each passing moment.

Hengist dropped his sword and opened his mouth to speak. He mouthed angry words, but no sound emerged. Beobrand could smell the last sour breath gush from him. Hengist slumped and slid from Hrunting’s blade, a great gout of crimson gushing from the wound as he fell.

Beobrand looked down upon his foe. Hengist’s throat bubbled and spouted. He was still clinging to life. His hand was searching the ground to his side, flopping and flapping like an injured bird. Beobrand saw that he wished to hold his sword as he left this life. Only then could he be sure Woden would see his death and take him to his corpse hall.

Beobrand took a step and kicked Hengist’s blade out of his reach. He then stepped on his wrist, crushing it savagely beneath his foot. Hengist looked up at him, his eyes imploring. Just as Cathryn had begged for help.

“You killed without honour,” said Beobrand, his words carrying over all of the warriors amassed on both sides. “You stole and murdered in darkness. You are craven and do not deserve to dine at Woden’s table. I curse you, Hengist.” Hengist’s eyes widened into a final bright instant of abject terror. Beobrand spat into his face and held his gaze until the light had left his adversary’s eyes.

Only then did he stagger back to the Bernician shieldwall.

Acennan gripped his shoulder and, casting a worried glance at his friend’s left hand and bloody right arm he leaned in close to Beobrand. “How bad is it?” he asked.

“I’ll live,” he said and turned back to look at Hengist’s corpse, lying on the earth. Beobrand had forgotten to reclaim his shield, and it still stood there like a leaning grave marker at Hengist’s head. “Which is more than can be said for him.”

Despite the glory of young Beobrand’s victory over the evil-looking warrior, Scand was rapidly losing hope. It had been briefly rekindled, but there had been too much fighting. Coupled with the sleepless night of fast-paced marching, the strength sapped from him by moments. He could feel the energy leaving his men, like lifeblood pumping with each beat of a dying heart. He looked up and down the line and saw exhaustion, injury and death on either side. The line had held the first onslaught and despite the tiredness wracking his body, and the despair that threatened to engulf him, he felt a surge of pride. These men were worthy companions. They would be remembered for their valour. They would die with honour and the Waelisc would suffer before the end.

The ending of Beobrand’s feud before all of them sent a ripple throughout the gathered warriors. It was as if a spell had been broken and now, having witnessed the duel to the death, both Bernicians and Waelisc were ready to resume their battle-play.

He swiped his forearm across his brow to clear it of sweat. All he managed to do was smear blood from cuts on his arm over his face. He turned to the men closest to him. He forced a smile.

“Well, my friends. Beobrand has once more reminded us of who we are. Let us take up shield and spear one more time and send some more of these bastards to the afterlife before we have another rest.”

A burly warrior next to him returned his grin. “A rest, is it? I think the next time we lie down we won’t be getting up again. It’s been an honour. You have been the best of lords.”

Others of his retinue heard the exchange and voiced their approval of their lord. He had given rings and served plentiful mead in the halls they had shared. He was worthy of their deaths. They lifted their weapons one more time and prepared for the end.

A horn sounded far off in the east. The note was long and drifted to them on the soft breeze. Both groups of warriors hushed, listening, unsure that they had heard the sound.

It came again. Clearer now. A strong blast from a hunting horn. Long and plaintive.

The Waelisc pulled back from the Bernicians and turned to look towards Bebbanburg.

Scand and the Bernicians could not see past the Waelisc shieldwall. But they began wonder at the turn of events. Could they be spared defeat? Again seizing victory when all appeared hopeless?

The Waelisc retreated further. The horn sounded again, closer now.

Shouted orders rang out in the musical tongue of the Waelisc. Then their shieldwall broke up and they ran to their horses.

From the gates of the fortress of Bebbanburg streamed several dozen armed men. They were shadowed by the crag but they could be clearly made out.

They came in a tight group; a bristling hedge of spears.

The Bernicians let out a ragged cheer.

Beobrand watched as the Waelisc moved away towards the tethered horses. Behind them they left several dead and dying. He looked again at the still form of Hengist, his tormentor, the man who had slain Octa and so many others. He could hardly believe Hengist was dead or that he had survived. His left hand felt as if it had been dipped into boiling water and his right arm stung as if plunged it into a bees’ nest. The pain rose up both arms, making him weak. He did not feel the elation he had hoped for upon Hengist’s death. He felt empty and bone tired. All around him men cheered and rejoiced at being saved from certain death.

He stumbled, a wave of dizziness hitting him, and Acennan put his arm around his shoulders, holding him upright.

“Looks like we live. And that ugly whoreson won’t be troubling you again. Not a bad day’s work, eh?”

They watched as the Waelisc mounted and galloped away to the north. Men moved through the bodies left in the wake of the Waelisc looking for loot. Any enemy found alive was quickly dispatched.

Beobrand and Acennan watched as the warband from Bebbanburg approached. The mounted Waelisc were distant now, receding into the haze of the early morning.

At the head of the warriors strode a tall, thin man. His face was serious beneath a fine helm that was girded with silver. He was clothed in a polished byrnie and a sumptuous cloak of red wool draped his shoulders. To his left a man held aloft a starkly plain wooden cross. It seemed to be in place of the more gaudy banners usually chosen by warlords.

Scand, battle-weary and smeared with gore and grime, stepped forward and knelt at the feet of the imperious lord.

“I give you thanks, Oswald, son of Æthelfrith, son of Aethelric. You have saved us.”

“Praise the one true God, Scand, son of Scaend. I am merely his messenger.” Oswald looked around at the wounded and broken men. “What news of my brother?”

“We come with ill news. Eanfrith is killed and Gefrin has fallen to Cadwallon.”

A strange expression passed over Oswald’s features, as if many emotions vied for supremacy. After a moment, his face settled on a scowl.

“Come, let us retreat behind the walls of Bebbanburg. There, you and your men can rest and you can tell me how my brother fell.”

CHAPTER 23

Sunniva dipped the cloth again into the bowl of water. She wiped Beobrand’s brow, trying to soothe his fever. His body trembled at her touch. He was wrapped in blankets and yet he seemed to be cold, his body racked with shivering.

The hall where he lay was filled with other men who had arrived injured from Gefrin. The sound of coughing could be frequently heard. The coarse retching of someone vomiting was less frequent, but still quite common. Three men had died from their wounds, or the fever that set in soon after, in the week since they had arrived.

As they had entered the fortress, Sunniva had been overjoyed to see Beobrand still alive. He was exhausted and wounded, but he was still living. She had flung herself into his arms and wept with joy. He had held her tightly, crushing her to his muscular frame. They had stood that way in the courtyard for a long time.

Later, she had cleaned and bound his hand and forearm. The stumps of his fingers had been raw and inflamed, but he had appeared well enough. Well enough to make love to her. She remembered the passion of that afternoon’s reunion. They had found an unoccupied stall in the stables and coupled frantically. He had lifted her with ease despite his injuries, his strength and vigour intoxicating to her.