The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (52 page)

"Aethelwulf," hissed Beobrand, "see to the fire, but have a care to keep it in the pot. The rest of you, ready yourselves and take the torches."

The movement of the men, rustling and stealthy, still sounded as loud as a shout in the hazy darkness.

From where Aethelwulf knelt, there was a sudden flare of light, gone as quickly as it had appeared. For the briefest of moments the men, the horses and the trees were illuminated. If anyone was watching in the dark, they would surely see the light.

"Position yourselves between Aethelwulf and Nathair's hall," said Beobrand. The men shuffled around.

Then Aethelwulf struck his flint again. As they watched, they saw how he captured the spark inside a large earthenware pot where he had already placed a small pile of dried fungus shavings. The spark rested on the fungus fleetingly and then dwindled to nothing, plunging them all into darkness again.

For a third time, he struck a spark. Again the spark fell into the prepared bed of tinder. Aethelwulf, his crooked nose and beard aglow from the tiny flame, leant over the pot and pursed his lips. His breath brought life to the flame and he fed it with slivers of dry wood. The light grew from the pot and gave a warm glow to the faces of the men who looked on.

Another otherworldy shriek split the night and the men looked up from the warmth of the fire that called to them in the darkness with the seductive voice of home and hearth. A flash of ghostly white flitted across the path in the direction they had travelled.

"By the gods, it is a night spirit," said Ceawlin, terror in his voice.

Acennan muttered, "It was only a bird." And with those words, echoed from the darkness of a winter cave far away, the vision of Nelda's jackdaw, Muninn, came to Beobrand. The white-rimmed eye, twitching with a malevolent intelligence. Charcoal wings beating. Jagged talons stabbing at his eyes.

He glanced at Acennan. His eyes were like the embers of a funeral pyre in the flame-glow. Acennan met his gaze and nodded slowly.

"Only a bird," Acennan repeated, as if he knew what Beobrand was thinking.

Yes. Merely a bird. Muninn was nothing more than broken bones and feathers now. Beobrand raised himself up to his full height. The men looked to him for strength. He was their lord. He could not cower in the night, frightened of the calls of birds.

"Do not lose your nerve now, my gesithas," said Beobrand, forcing his voice to remain calm. "It is but a white owl. They scream to each other in the dark, but they are birds, nothing more." The faces of his men were strange in the trembling flicker of the flame in the pot. He was unsure his words had settled their fears. Ceawlin's eyes were wide.

"They scream, but when they hunt they are as silent as spirits, and so must we be. And as unseen. Now, cover that pot and get ready to move. Attor should be back soon."

Aethelwulf placed the lid on the pot, leaving a small gap for air to allow the flames to breathe. He took cloths from a pouch and wrapped the base of the pot with them so that he could carry it without fear of burning his hands. The smallest amount of yellow light seeped from the gap, lighting Aethelwulf from below and giving his face the aspect of a savage creature from legend.

They stood silently for some time then, each lost in his own thoughts in the darkness. Beobrand fought against the memories that threatened to drown him in their misery. Instead, he focused on his anger. He longed to feel the weight of Hrunting in his hand again. He recalled the sneering features of Wybert. He could scarcely believe the man had survived the attack by Anhaga, but such was what he had heard before leaving Dor. But Wybert would die at his hand. He had sworn it. And he had sworn to protect the people of Ubbanford. The sons of Nathair had awoken a bear by killing Tobrytan and capturing Reaghan. Beobrand stoked his fury. He was surprised to find he was thinking of the Waelisc girl. He remembered her hair. The touch of her skin. Her scent. And then, unbidden, his son's tiny features played in his mind. These Picts had sealed their doom when they had raised their hands to his people. His kin.

From the darkness, as silent as fog rolling over a fen, stepped Attor. The pale light from the fire pot picked out his face. His mouth was wide in a savage grin. In his hand he held his seax. It was black in the darkness with fresh blood.

"I was not seen," Attor said in a hushed voice.

"Wardens?" asked Beobrand.

"Only one at the door of the hall. He died silently. We should go now, before his body is found."

So the die had been cast. There was no more time for dwelling on the past, or what might be. The time had come to act.

Beobrand grasped Attor's shoulder.

"You have done well," Beobrand said, drawing Hrunting in a smooth motion from its fleece-lined scabbard. "Lead the way."

CHAPTER 32

The seven men crept through the settlement towards the hulking shadow of the long hall. The houses brooded silent and dark in the night. After the darkness of the forest path, the moonlight seemed bright. They followed Attor, who had led them off the path to cross the stream where the banks were shallower, avoiding the wooden bridge and the noise they would make by crossing it.

Beobrand scanned the shadowy bulk of the buildings they passed for any sign of movement. But all was still. To his left he spied the glimmer of light from the fire pot. It glowed weakly on Aethelwulf's face, which was a mask of concentration as he carried the pot, careful not to let it drop.

They reached the hall. Its black shape blotted out the moonlight. They gathered in the moon shadow of the building and Beobrand touched Aethelwulf's shoulder gently. Aethelwulf set down the pot, took a cloth so as not to burn his fingers and lifted the lid. A dim red glow lit his face. He quickly dropped some more wood into the earthenware vessel. Within moments, flames crackled and yellow light flickered.

Aethelwulf stepped back and as one the warriors dipped their fish oil-soaked torches into the pot's fire. The light dimmed, smothered by the torches. They were all suddenly blind again after losing their night sight from staring at the flames.

Beobrand's heart hammered in his chest. To be discovered now would bring disaster. He turned his back on the fire pot and the torches, looking out instead into the night.

The flames were evidently catching behind him, as the light expanded and cast his shadow, black and dancing before him. Still there was no movement from any of the buildings. Beobrand offered up silent thanks to Woden. Perhaps it was his wyrd to be victorious this night. He spun back to his gesithas. Their faces, lit by the guttering torches, were all ruddy cheeks, shadows and glinting eyes. These were his men. His gesithas. They had followed him here. They trusted him and he believed in them. They would fight for him. Kill for him. Even die for him.

But they would not die this night. These men were eager for battle. To hear of the abuse of Sunniva had dismayed them. They still felt guilty for their part in it, Beobrand was sure. The death of Anhaga had shaken them. And now they had lost one of their own. Tobrytan was liked by all, and had been murdered in a cowardly attack by Torran, son of Nathair.

Beobrand could feel his own battle fury threatening to blank everything else out, and he knew in that instant, with the clarity of the searing flames on the torches, that his men felt the same way. They had come to this place to rescue Reaghan. Yes. But more than that, they had come to satisfy their need for blood. They brought flame and sword in the night and they all now looked to him to give the command. To unleash their vengeance.

Beobrand nodded at Acennan. For a moment, he merely frowned back and Beobrand thought he would not respond. Then Acennan signalled to Elmer and Garr, and like hounds released to the scent of a stag, they ran off, disappearing round the side of the hall. Propped at the edge of the porch, Beobrand noticed in the torchlight a slumped shape. The door warden's corpse. Attor was sly. The guard could have been asleep.

Acennan indicated for Attor and Ceawlin to watch the village huts, protecting their backs. Then, ramming his burning brand into the soil, he joined Beobrand and Aethelwulf to form a small shieldwall before the doors of the hall.

Beobrand hefted his shield, tightened his grip on Hrunting. It would not be long now.

He could hear the crackle and hiss of larger flames from the rear of the building. Elmer and Garr had brought flasks of fish oil to aid the fire and the night was dry. A red glow crowned the hall's roof as the flames began to feed hungrily off the wood and thatch. Beobrand looked up at the moon. Did the gods look down from there? He knew not, but if they gazed upon him, he would give them a night to remember. A night of fire, battle and death. A night worthy of the songs of scops. He hoped Leofwine was seated in Woden's corpse hall watching. The scop would revel in the telling of this night's tale. What a song he would sing.

And then Beobrand's attention was pulled back down to the hall.

Because the doors burst open.

The dark hush of the night exploded into light and cacophony. Flames leapt high from the hall, sending sparks flying towards the bright moon. Behind their meagre shieldwall, Beobrand heard screams. Shouts of fear. Cries of pain. The high-pitched wailing of children shaken from their slumber by frightened parents. He sensed Ceawlin and Attor readying themselves for any attacks from brave or foolhardy villagers.

The hall doors had been flung wide and smoke billowed forth as men tumbled into the night. The first man was large and clumsy with sleep. He was shouting over his shoulder, evidently to those yet to escape the burning building. He was close to Beobrand when he turned and saw the warriors, flame-licked helms and weapons gleaming. His face took on a comic look of surprise, his mouth a black circle. Beobrand recognised his grey-streaked hair and unruly beard, remembered how his toe had ached when the weather turned cold ever since kicking this same man in the teeth. The man had no time to recognise Beobrand, who took two steps forward and smashed his shield boss into the shocked face. The man went down hard.

The second man was fractionally more alert. He saw his friend drop from the shield-blow to the face and managed to arrest his forward motion. But before he could take stock, Acennan leapt forward and swung his sword. The blade sank deep into the man's shoulder. He looked down in absolute horror at the iron jutting from his body. He began to keen, an ululating shriek the like of which none had heard before. His hands flailed up, flapping like injured bats at the cold blade that had pierced him. Acennan twisted the blade savagely and pulled it free of the sucking flesh. A great gout of blood spewed forth. The man's keening turned into a grunting groan and he collapsed, face first onto the earth.

The other men who had begun to leave the hall retreated back inside. Behind them, flames and smoke were engulfing the wooden structure. They would not stay long within the hall. The heat would force them out soon enough.

Beobrand glanced back to where Attor and Ceawlin stood. As he looked, a man dressed in nothing more than a kirtle, bare legs pale in the night, ran at them. He was armed with a small axe. Attor let the man come. The hatchet rose high and the man screamed his defiance. At the last moment, Attor dropped his shoulder, slid harmlessly beneath the man's flailing attack, and lifted him with one fluid motion over him. The man crashed into the hard earth. Attor picked up the man's axe and turned away from him. It was only then that Beobrand saw that Attor must have driven his seax into the man at the same moment as catapulting him into the air. He lay there, mouth gaping and hand gripping at the bubbling hole in his stomach. His kirtle was stained red.

Beobrand turned his focus back to the man at his feet. The man was dazed, his eyes groggy. Blood and spittle flecked his lips and beard. His teeth were a jagged ruin of broken grave markers. Beobrand dropped to the ground beside him. He put Hrunting down beside the man and slapped him hard.

"Where is she?" he bellowed.

The man's eyes tried to focus. Flames and sparks reflected in the large pupils.

Beobrand took hold of his throat and shook him.

"Where is she?" he repeated. The fire was raging now. If Reaghan was in the hall as he suspected, she would die if they did not get her out soon.

"Who... what?" The man's voice was slurred.

"The girl? The girl you took, where is she?"

Recognition came then. He looked up at Beobrand and found his courage. He smiled through his bloodied mouth and broken teeth.

"She's inside. She was a tasty morsel. We all had her," he started to laugh. "She was a fighter. Made it more fun."

The words turned to burbling choking. Beobrand had taken up Hrunting and drawn its blade across the man's throat. It sliced deeply, through sinew and flesh, until metal rasped against bone, such was Beobrand's ire and Hrunting's sharpness.

Beobrand stood. Acennan and Aethelwulf shuffled close on either side.

"She's inside," said Beobrand. The rear part of the hall's roof was now a conflagration worthy of a king's funeral pyre. They could see the shapes of figures in the doorway, dark against the flames. The heat was increasing. It was getting painful to stand this close to the hall. Gods knew how long those inside could hold out.

From behind them came more sounds of combat. Another glance told him Attor and Ceawlin were still standing. More corpses had joined the axeman at their feet. Attor was mad with the blood-lust. He grinned widely and screamed at the gathered villagers.