Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (18 page)

‘Ah, that’s where James and Darga help,’ said Dominic.

Augustus exploded with laughter. ‘I don’t know about James,’ he chortled, ‘but put Darga in the pit and any Saxon who falls into it will soon throw himself upon his own spear in despair.’

Augustus’ brothers laughed aloud with him, their baritone mirth echoing around the clearing. Darga reddened and was about to foolishly challenge Augustus, when a smiling Dominic signalled for them to be silent.

‘Don’t worry Darga,’ he said, ‘I don’t expect you and James to wait in the pit. But you can put some fangs into it for me.’

‘You talk in riddles,’ said Darga impatiently. ‘What do you mean put
fangs
into it?’

Dominic sighed, his own patience strained. ‘Go into the forest,’ he said, pointing across the clearing. ‘You and James are to collect stout staves from it and sharpen them to a point. These you will place in the pit. Sharp fangs, don’t you agree, to pierce the hides of murderers?’

‘But wont they be wary of such a plan after last time?’ asked James.

‘If Egbert or Cissa made it back to the coast then the answer to your question must be
yes
,’ said Dominic. ‘We’ve nothing to lose, anyway. Maybe if Egbert’s in the raiding party he’ll expect to find an ambush pit, but that
may
play into our hands. This is what I have in mind …’

The next morning Dominic and Murdoc left at first light and rode eastwards down the track. The day was uneventful and by mid-afternoon, they had covered a respectable distance. Dominic halted his pony, dismounted and examined the trail. Hoof prints led from it into the forest.

‘It looks like we have company,’ he said. ‘These are fresh prints from two ponies—outriders probably. We need to take care from now on.’

For the rest of the day they rode alongside the track, mindful to remain hidden as they followed the newly found prints.

Murdoc had kept his ploughshare spear, which he viewed as a symbol of his deliverance from the Saxons. Dominic had helped him to improve its efficiency and had expertly sharpened it, after which Murdoc had set it anew in a slender shaft of ash wood. Furthermore, Murdoc now carried a recurved bow similar to Dominic’s. Dominic had patiently built the bow during the cold, winter months.

That night they lit no fire, and when morning came they again rode behind the cover beside the track. Dominic frequently dismounted and examined the ground. At mid-morning, he left Murdoc and walked back to the track, stooping at intervals to touch the forest floor.

He returned some moments later, put a forefinger to his lips, and signalled Murdoc to dismount. ‘There’re two men scouting ahead, as trackers to the main party,’ he whispered. ‘One of them passed by this here recently and now he rides on the main trail. He can’t fail to find Gus and the others, and we can’t allow that to happen.’

Murdoc followed Dominic as he ghosted through the head-high, brushwood. When he reached the track, Dominic stopped and pointed to a bank of hazel newly in leaf. ‘Wait in there,’ he instructed. ‘The other rider’s on his way. It’s time to get rid of him.’

Murdoc concealed himself behind the bush as Dominic walked up the track and stood in full view of the approaching Saxon.

The man was at first startled. Regaining his wits, he jumped off his pony and grabbed his war ax from its saddle. He ran at Dominic.

Murdoc, hidden, allowed the man to run by, then stepped from behind the hazel and hurled his spear. The Saxon’s shoulder blade took the strike, the bone deflecting the missile from his vitals. He fell to his knees, still grasping his ax, as Murdoc’s spear fell to the leafy ground.

From behind, Murdoc saw Dominic raise his bow. ‘Stand back!’ he shouted as the man struggled to rise to his knees. He released an arrow. It entered the man’s mouth, stifling his scream and ending his life.

Dominic pulled the arrow free and wiped it on the grass. He replaced it in its quiver. ‘Half a morning’s work wasted if I’d left him with this,’ he said. He dragged the corpse into the bushes, then stood and darted a quick glance up and down the track. He turned to Murdoc, telling him: ‘Slap his pony’s rump and send it down the trail.’

The pony responded to the whack and galloped away. After clearing the killing scene of all tell-tale signs, they led their mounts through the brush a distance.

Murdoc was amazed at Dominic’s cold proficiency, but was alert again when he stopped dead and whispered to him. ‘Over there by the stream!’

Twenty paces away, through a narrow gap in the shrubbery, Bealdwine, the tracker and formidable warrior, crouched as he took a drink from his cupped hands. Vigilant and primal, his narrow eyes flitted around the bower looking for movement.

The two moved back, ensuring they were out of sight as Bealdwine, his instincts telling him to be wary, stood up sniffing the air like an animal.

‘This time I’ll break cover and let him see
me
,’ said Murdoc. ‘Then it’s up to you.’

Nodding, Dominic nocked the same arrow. ‘Right, go now’ he whispered. Gently, he pushed Murdoc from the cover of the bush.

Bealdwine saw Murdoc at once. In a blink, he flipped his hunting knife and threw it at Murdoc’s head.

The Briton’s reflexes saved him, his raised arm receiving the knifepoint. Dominic’s arrow missed Bealdwine, who sped across the ground, his ax swinging in a practiced blur as he ran towards Murdoc.

Now, Dominic exploded from cover, and was able to prevent Bealdwine burying his ax head into an incapacitated Murdoc. He slammed his palms into the Saxon’s chest, forcing him into a backwards stumble. 

The two faced each other, ax against sword. Bealdwine sneered and insolently flicked his tongue at Dominic as they circled. He continued to swing his ax about him, his intention to distract Dominic. Rapidly, he shimmied into killing distance and chopped down at Dominic’s skull. The Briton’s sword met the blow. Enraged, Bealdwine repeated the move, and again Dominic parried. A flurry of clangs resonated through the forest as strikes and counter strikes ensued.

Both men panted with the effort of the fight. Behind them, Murdoc grunted to his feet. Bealdwine’s breathing settled an
d
he readied himself to attack again. Dominic raised his sword, his knees bent in a posture of readiness, just as the loose pony reappeared and ran from the undergrowth. Bealdwine’s eye-flicker towards the beast betrayed his distraction. Quick to take advantage of his fleeting opportunity, Dominic slipped his bow from his shoulder. At speed, he nocked and released an arrow at Bealdwine.

Rushed and ill-aimed, the arrow entered Bealdwine below the meat of his right shoulder, the impact sending his ax to the floor. Incensed and empty handed, he ran at Dominic, spit flying from drawn lips as he made to gouge him.

Older than Bealdwine, Dominic’s energy had drained with the intensity of the struggle. As they met, he had barely the strength to push him an arm’s distance away, but now he had room to swing his sword at Bealdwine. The Saxon’s head took the flat of the blade, the blow sending him to his knees. With little energy remaining, Dominic kicked him to the ground and stamped on the arrow in his shoulder.

Rapidly, he positioned his sword tip under Bealdwine’s Adam’s apple. The Saxon’s eyes burned with rabid hate as he screamed out his death cry of ‘
WODEN
!’ the shriek ending in a grotesque cackle as Dominic leaned on the sword, pushing the blade through flesh and vertebrae and deep into the leaf litter of the forest floor.

Now he stooped, hands on knees, as he gasped out his exhaustion. Slack jawed, he turned to Murdoc who still had Bealdwine’s knife stuck in his arm.

When his breath had returned a little, he went to Murdoc. ‘There’s no … no easy way to do this,’ he said. Without preamble and taking Murdoc completely by surprise, he immediately extracted the blade. Murdoc’s eyes shot wide with surprise as Dominic, unable to contain a little chuckle at Murdoc’s visage, turned his attention the wound. ‘You’re lucky the knife pierced nothing vital,’ he smiled, ‘otherwise you’d be bleeding like a stuck pig.’ He went to his pony and returned with a cloth bag.

Murdoc watched as Dominic tipped the powdery contents of the bag into his drinking bowl. ‘Burdock root?’ he asked.

Dominic nodded as he mixed the powder with water from his gourd. He daubed the resultant paste onto Murdoc’s wound. ‘This should soothe the pain and stop the wound going bad,’ he said.

After Dominic had bandaged his arm with a strip of cloth torn from Bealdwine’s shirt, Murdoc shakily found his feet and gripped Dominic’s arm. ‘Thanks again for saving me, it’s becoming a habit with you,’ he said.  He turned his attention to the lifeless Bealdwine. The Saxon’s head had been partly severed by the sword and now lolled at an angle to his neck. ‘If they all fight like him then maybe we would be better to head westwards as Griswalda would have it. I reckon this is a tide we can’t stem forever.’

‘Not forever but we must do it for now,’ said Dominic. He picked up Bealdwine’s hunting knife, impressed with its proportion and balance. ‘A good knife.’ He glanced at Bealdwine. ‘I think we should leave his companions a message.’ With that, he turned to attend to Bealdwine.

CHAPTER TWENTY- SEVEN

Several days earlier, the floods had also delayed Osric and his followers, but when the waters dropped low enough for departure a gathering of raiders assembled in the town square. Ponies stamped and bellowed steam as the men awaited Osric’s arrival. An aura of tense anticipation interlaced their discourse as they wheeled the animals around the town’s open ground.

Osric, who was dressed in a fur jerkin and hide breeches, his braided hair hanging like twisted, copper wire from his iron helmet, joined them. With a hand on the hilt of his broadsword, he gave his speech.

‘With Egbert and Wlensling showing us the way we should reach British villages before too long.’  He reined his pony so it faced the town and raised a gold encircled arm towards it. ‘If anyone doesn’t relish a tough journey through the wild lands, then retire to that tavern and town and prepare yourselves for a straw death.’ The men waited in silence until their leader again turned his pony to face them. They noticed his smile. ‘As I thought, none of you wish to die like old women. Rather, you wish to gain riches. This time, the treasure will be British women and brats to sell in the markets. The prices are high for them now. Believe me when I tell you this, we
will
grow rich from this campaign.’

‘And like good merchants we’ll sample the goods for quality before we sell!’ shouted Egbert. ‘Would it not harm our reputation to sell shoddy goods?’  Raucous laughter broke out as Egbert stood in his saddle grasping his groin, a look of ecstasy on his bearded face.

Osric, glad the men were in good spirits, smiled and turned his pony towards the town’s exit. With the malevolent assembly in his wake, he rode from Camulodunum.

Two days passed and they followed an easy track along the edge of the forest, and this provided them with an easier passage for a while.  The route was familiar to most of them, having raided throughout the area in the previous years. It was Egbert’s idea to take the benign route, knowing from his earlier flight that the other way had to be in poor condition after the recent floods—the narrow path round the steep incline in particular.

After discussing it with Osric, Egbert had planned to enter the forest at a place familiar to him. From there, he was confident he could find his way—firstly to Dominic’s camp, then to the newly discovered lands further along the trail.

Yet, even the easy route proved tough in the aftermath of the flood. The path was pocked, rutted and liberally dotted with deep puddles, and the company often found themselves riding thigh-deep through muddy water. Soon, grumbling broke out amongst them, especially at night when they had to search long and hard for dry tinder to burn.

The extent of the previous year’s killing was apparent: the lands were empty. Whenever they came upon abandoned villages there was little sign of life. Most buildings lay in ruins, and a few bones all that remained of the dead—beasts having scavenged on the cadavers during the cold winter. But one thing that most of the villages did offer was fresh water. The earlier raiders had anticipated colonisation by Saxon folk, so no rotting corpses befouled them.

They saw scant game, their shouts as they struggled through the boggy terrain serving to set the animals to flight.

On the fourth day, the raiders set up camp near to Murdoc’s sacked village. Sluggish smoke spiralled from a damp-wood fire that had been a struggle to light. The men stood around the blaze, palms or buttocks against it. Wood from the ruined village was added to the pyre, and soon a good-sized conflagration forced the men to back away a distance as damp clothes began to steam.

Osric, who sat on a log near the heat, beckoned Egbert to join him. Many boots—stuck on upright sticks jammed into the ground near to the fire—steamed as they dried.

Osric spoke. ‘By my reckoning, it’s only three days’ travel to the village where you allowed the woman to escape.’

Egbert nodded. ‘Yes, and from there it’s only a few days to reach the storage post where the wolf-man ambushed us.’

Osric’s expression betrayed his concern. ‘We can’t take any chances this time. We need to be be ready for them to come at us as soon as we get near, but I’ll dispatch scouts as outriders long before we do. Bealdwine’s the best scout I’ve ever ridden with and a viscous bastard. I’ll send him ahead with one other man.’ Pensive, he threw a twig into the fire. ‘And Woden help any soul who crosses
his
path.’

Three days easier ride, over roads that had suffered less erosion, brought them in good time to Martha’s village. Undisturbed and sombre, a silence hung over the place. Simon’s delving tool still lay next to the hut where he had rescued Martha—a huge section of soggy, broken wall bearing testimony to the escape.

The men had no reason to linger, and after a brief pause during which Egbert regaled the men with anecdotal accounts of his brutality in various parts of the village, they entered the deep forest.

It was the first time Osric had penetrated the inner British woods and the difference in light and shadow immediately struck him. His mood became sombre and uneasy as they rode into the gloom.

Bealdwine and another were dispatched ahead to scout the shrub cover on either side of the track. The first day was to prove uneventful, and as evening approached the two men returned to the main group. Osric met them, seeking news.

A trail-weary Bealdwine gave his report. ‘There’s nothing to be seen, and nothing apart from animals have trampled the land ahead for many a month. The trail’s easy to scout, being so little growth this time of year.’ He rubbed at his back. ‘Hretha! My bones pissing ache in this dampness.’

Osric was concerned that one of his hardiest and best men was beginning to show signs of fatigue so early in the journey. A long, inactive winter had taken its toll on most of them, but Osric had hoped that days in the saddle would have restored the men to travel fitness by now.

He slapped Bealdwine’s shoulder, intent on raising his moral. ‘Come on Woodhawk, live up to your name and don’t fret over a damp arse. You’ve worked well today. Before long you’ll be on top of a British wench.’

Next day they reached the bracken-filled clearing where Cerdic and Aelred had fallen to Dominic’s arrows.

Egbert pointed to a shrub on the edge of the glade. ‘That’s where we first saw him, and from there he dropped Cerdic. If I’m not mistaken the trail runs north from behind that bush.’

Osric rode over and surveyed the faint trail that led from the bush. He turned to Bealdwine. ‘Be extra careful from now on,’ he said. ‘The trail looks used—even my untrained eye can see that. The wolf-man could be close by.’

Bealdwine removed his hunter’s knife. ‘This knife will see him off, don’t worry. I’m not the one who’ll have his beating heart cut out.’ 

Osric, encouraged, slapped the rump of Bealdwine’s pony setting it into a trot. As Bealdwine and his companion slipped into the tree cover, he shouted after them. ‘Bring me back his heart, then! We’ll roast it over the fire tonight!’

For the rest of the day Wlensling, a good scout in his own right, rode at the front, occasionally stopping to examine the ground when the trail grew faint. He was to notice that Bealdwine’s spoor crisscrossed the trail; proof that they were still on the right course.

That night at camp, Wlensling sat with Osric and Egbert. ‘Tomorrow should see us reach the Roman road that runs from east to west,’ he said. ‘After that, a further day and half’s travel should see us at the storage huts.’

Egbert shifted anxiously at the mention of Dominic’s former camp. ‘We need to be careful then. They were able to kill some of my best in these woods but we now have a scout and warrior in Bealdwine to equal anybody they’ve got.’

Osric poked a stick into the fire before him, provoking a fresh combustion of flames. ‘Bealdwine reports that the woods ahead are empty of people. Maybe the harsh winter has put an end to some of their miserable lives.’ Nearby, a creature stirred in the undergrowth, startling him. Unsettled, he shouted at the darkness. ‘But if they do still live maybe they should show themselves and fight like men!’

Next day when they joined the Roman road, Bealdwine and his companion again went on ahead.

Hours passed without sight or sound of Bealdwine. By mid-afternoon, Osric voiced his concern to Wlensling. ‘Perhaps the easy passage persuaded them to push further ahead. Knowing Bealdwine as I do …’ His voice faded as he squinted to see up the track. After a moment, he smiled and continued. ‘See, there’s movement up there. It’s probably Bealdwine.’

Wlensling saw a disturbance in the trees, his view partially obscured by drooping branches. He approached with Osric until fifty paces away. Once there, they met their scout. But upturned and suspended by his feet, Bealdwine was missing his head. That it was him, they knew from his distinctive tunic.

A wide piece of birch bark lay below him. Upon the bark was written, ’
Amyrorian
.’

’
Murdere
r,’ whispered Egbert, as he reached the gawking men. ‘No doubt Withred has taught them some of our language. It seems the wolf-man survived the winter after all.’