And with that the full weight of it hit him.
Mannus and Grania.
***
The branches whipped at him as he ran onward. Mannus’s house was just ahead, through the trees. Connor could already smell the smoke. The trees finally gave way and Connor froze. The wedding house was burning high, the roof already caved in. But it was not this sight that stole his breath from his lungs. It was Mannus, leaning hard against the trunk of the ash tree, pushing his pale fingers against his open belly as his red blood seeped out onto the ground.
Connor recovered his senses and ran to his friend. Mannus lifted weary eyes as Connor drew near.
“Mannus!”
“Connor,” the young man whispered. His voice seemed weak, as if he had little life left. But as Connor reached him, Mannus grabbed his shirt with a clutch of steel, pulling Connor towards him until their faces were nearly touching. Mannus’ eyes, so glassy and weary a moment before, were alight with panic and despair.
“Connor, they took her!” he hissed. “I tried to stop them. I tried. You must not let them take her away, Connor! They will destroy her. I could see what they will do!”
“Easy, Mannus,” Connor managed as new tears formed in his eyes. “You’re hurt. We need to get you further away from this fire.”
“Go, Connor!” Mannus growled. His face wore a mask of death and the veins of his head and neck bulged as he sucked the air into his damaged lungs. “What happens to me does not matter. Don’t let them take Grania! As you have loved us, Connor, do not let them take her! As you have loved us!”
Connor rose to his feet as Mannus released his bloody grasp.
“Swear to me!” Mannus said.
“Wait here,” Connor said, trying to force strength into his voice. “I will return with her. Stay alive and wait.”
Mannus tried to smile. He let his head drop back against the tree as the pain contorted his face.
“Stay alive and wait,” Connor said once more, as he turned to run.
He left Mannus behind, shutting out the thought that he would not see his friend alive again. He had to think of his task. There was no reason to think that he was not too late, and as he left Mannus behind he realized that he had not asked him how many there had been, or any of the other crucial questions he would need to know. But he did know one thing – where they were going. He headed straight for the beach, again cutting through the brush without regard to trails. If the raiders had Grania they would not be able to move very quickly. He may yet be able to catch them. What was to happen after that would be up to God. Connor prayed fervently as he ran, spitting out the words, begging and imploring for mercy, for justice. He had to catch at least these marauders, stop at least this one act. Just this one. But despair clutched at him as he charged on; every time he closed his eyes he could see Mannus, Titus, and Dervel. The chorus of the murder and cruelty all around him bombarded him, carried like fell arrows on the wind.
Connor stopped as a different sound met his ears. It was a woman’s voice coming from just ahead. He could not hear her words, only the piteous tones of begging and lamenting, cut by the harsh jeers and commands of men.
Connor hastened stealthily ahead, veering right to flank them. He dropped behind an old oak as he drew near. Once more, as he had that day so long ago, he saw the glint of gold hair through the leaves. He had found Grania. And, as she never had before, she needed his help.
Crawling on his belly, he moved closer. He peered up from concealment as four figures came into full view. In the lead was a black-bearded man. He was tall with wide shoulders. In his right hand was a stained sword, but his other thick arm carried a full bag of the plunder they had found. Behind him was another of the raiders. This man was blonde haired and more slightly built, but had the wiry physique that Connor had learned more than once to respect. He carried a heavy axe in his free hand as he led Grania, dragging her along with a fist full of her hair. Grania winced under his cruel grip. Her face was red, streaked with tears and creased with misery. There was blood on her hands and her white dress from where she had held Mannus’ broken body. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, but she appeared as yet unharmed. She stumbled on the uneven ground, and the blonde haired man yanked her up. Behind her a small, narrow-eyed man poked a sword-point into the small of her back, pushing her along behind the other captor.
Connor took in a deep breath. Three enemies. Only three. But men who wore armor, and had killed before. There was only him, and he only had his hunting tools. What could he do against them? But one look to Grania’s despairing eyes steeled him.
With the skill of a lifelong hunter, Connor moved to a nearby tree and set his back to it. He set one of his javelins against the trunk, where he would be able to reach it quickly. He took the other in his right hand. The distance was not far – only about fifteen or twenty meters, but there would be little time to aim. The leader’s shield was on his back and his chest was well-exposed, but Connor knew that if his javelin flew the slightest bit off-line the invader’s chain mail would turn the point harmlessly aside. His throw had to be true. There would not be another chance. If the man did not fall, then the three would quickly flank him, and he could expect no better than a speedy death.
He touched the cold blade of the weapon to his forehead. It had already served him well once that day. Let it serve him again.
“Blessed are thou, Oh Lord,” Connor breathed, “who trains my hands for battle and my fingers for war.”
He took a deep breath.
Connor leapt out from cover. His left foot planted as his arm rose. His eyes bore into the chest of his enemy. He could see nothing else. Nothing else mattered. His arm came down as his core twisted and his right leg came up. The ash shaft sped from his open hand, and all was one line. The black-bearded man saw him. His mouth opened to shout and he began to raise his sword, but Connor’s eyes, shoulders, hips, and legs all pointed straight to his heart, like the finger of an accusing judge. The javelin sped on that line.
“For Dervel,” Connor thought. But at the same time he heard another voice in his head.
“Thou shalt not kill.”
The point of the javelin head split into the chain links with hammer force, rending them as the shaft pushed forward. The black-bearded man cried out as the sword and bag fell from his hands. He fell back as the spearhead buried deep into his chest. His hands found the ash shaft as he lay on the ground, as his life fled his body with his final breath.
Connor turned to see the blonde-haired man speeding towards him. His round shield was held ready, and his axe was raised high. His green cloak trailed behind him, like the robes of the death angel. Connor risked a glance to Grania. She was held fast by the other man, who held his sword blade to her throat. But there was no time to think of that now, and there was no clear shot at her enemy. His attacker rapidly closed the distance as Connor reached for his second javelin.
With one motion he threw his weapon. It crossed the few yards to his enemy. The man brought up his shield and the javelin stuck firmly.
Connor held his weight low as he heard a burst of mocking laughter from the narrow-eyed man. His attacker swung his axe.
Connor moved, taking hold of the javelin shaft lodged in the man’s shield. He twisted his body and dropped his weight to the ground. Titus had taught him the technique, used for nearly a thousand years by the Roman legions to unshield and throw their enemies, and Connor executed it perfectly. The man crashed onto his back as Connor flung the shield aside. Connor pounced before his enemy could move to right himself. He pinned the axe arm with his knee and pushed the blonde-haired man’s head to the earth.
“For Titus!” he said as his hunting knife flashed across the man’s throat. The man’s struggling ceased. He coughed, sputtering blood as his sea-colored eyes looked up incredulously, accusingly. Then his face and body went slack.
Connor took hold of the axe and began to walk down the bank. His eyes were locked on the small, narrow-eyed man.
/> Grania winced as her captor pulled her tighter, but she made no sound. The man shouted something to him in a tongue Connor could not understand.
“If you harm her, I will kill you,” Connor said, drawing closer.
The man shouted back at him, but Connor did not slow. The raider was making a show of holding Grania in jeopardy, but Connor knew that the girl was an object of value to the man, and was now his bargaining piece. The raider would not cast her aside needlessly.
“If you harm her, I will kill you,” Connor said, this time in Latin.
The man seemed momentarily surprised.
“If you come closer, I kill her!” the man said. “And you.”
His Latin was broken and badly accented. It was certainly not his native tongue, but the man must have learned enough of it to trade. Well, they would trade now. Connor reached the corpse of his first victim and bent down to take his sword. He was careful to avoid the dead man’s eyes. Testing the weight of the sword, he cast the axe aside.
“Who are you?” Connor said.
“We are Jutes,” the man replied, in a loud voice.
Connor knew the name from Titus’s stories. They were a tribe of Germani, whom had been raiding and invading the far coast of Roman Britannia for as long as anyone could remember.
“Why are you here?” Connor demanded.
“The wind,” the man said. “Woden’s wind has brought us to this rich source for the markets. Rich men he makes us.”
Again the man’s voice was loud, almost a shout of defiance. But Connor suddenly realized it was not merely arrogance. They were not far from the ships. The Jute’s boasts were a call for help to the others. The conversation had gone on too long.
Connor stormed forward, raising his sword.
“Release the girl and be gone!” he commanded. The man glared at him, seething in malevolence. But he had just seen his two comrades cut down. He raised his sword.
Then he flung Grania towards Connor. Instantly the girl buried her face in the grass and began to sob. The narrow-eyed man turned and fled.
Connor darted back to his first victim and wrenched his javelin from the man’s chest. The blade and shaft were still straight. He rested his eyes on the fleeing thief. The man had murdered his kinsfolk. Maybe he was even the one who had so grievously wounded Mannus. He could make the shot. He could slay him as he fled.
“Thou shalt not kill,” he thought. No. God had not given him the victory to tarnish it with hate and dishonor. “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.”
He lowered his javelin and ran to Grania. Gently he lifted her face in his hands. As he looked into her eyes he felt as if his heart would break.
“You are safe,” he said.
“You came for me.”
“Yes.”
“Mannus, is he –”
“We must go to him now.”
Connor took her hand as Grania nearly leapt up. He tucked the sword into his belt and took his javelin in his free hand.
“This way.”
They were far from safe. The raiders could be anywhere, and were likely to be thicker near the ships as they began to load their plunder. But Connor reasoned that he and Grania might be at least somewhat safer where the Jutes had already been. He had to get her back to Mannus, to fulfill his promise before Mannus – he dared not think of it. As they moved up the hill, Connor stopped to pull his second javelin free of the Jute’s shield. He resisted the urge to spit on the man or speak a curse on his soul. No. God had helped him, and because of this he would fight with honor.
“They kicked the door in,” Grania said. “They were upon us before I knew what was happening. They grabbed me. Their hands were everywhere. I could feel their eyes burrowing into me. I was so afraid. Oh, Connor. Mannus tried to stop them. He gave them his gold neck torc, and when that did not work he fought. He tried to protect me.”
“Don’t speak of it,” Connor said, quickening his pace. He could sense that Grania needed to tell him – tell someone – but not now. He raised his hands to his lips. Grania nodded. She followed on silently, her fear giving her the speed to keep up with the desperate pace Connor set.
Shouts broke out behind them. To the left, more voices sounded.
“They are taking our gold,” Grania breathed. “But what they are really here for is us. They are taking us as slaves. And if they do, we will never see home again.”
“I know,” Connor whispered. “I know.”
Grania froze as she saw movement through the thicket. Connor grabbed her arm and they changed course. Now, through the terror-stricken and grieving cries that rent the air, they could hear the strange tongue of men. They were close; and getting closer, until their chopping words seemed to be coming from everywhere. The urgency in their voices was like spurs to Connor’s soul, driving him ever faster. But like two deer fleeing the pack of hounds the trap was closing in on them. He could not be sure that the voices calling to each other were searching for them. It did not matter. If one of the murderers saw them it may be over. It may take no more than that.
“I do not want to die,” Grania said, her voice barely audible over her labored breath.
“Keep running with me!” Connor said, forcing reassurance into his voice. “You will not die. We are going to get back to Mannus. You two will live together. You will raise children, and see them grow.”
Grania’s face was set with determination. Her eyes grew strong as she quickened her pace once more, pushing past the boundaries of her body’s strength even as their path turned again uphill. Her hair trailed behind her as her breast heaved and her arms pulled at the air for speed. And for a moment Connor thought that he had never seen her so beautiful.
The cries of the men smashed into him a breath before he saw them. There were two Jutes bounding through the thicket, flanking them on the right. Their weapons were drawn as their voices sounded in a shrill whooping.
“This way!” Connor shouted, pulling Grania away from their attackers. But even as they turned they saw the gray iron through the spring leaves. Two more men were closing from the left, closer than the first pair.
“Connor!” Grania cried out. Her voice was pleading, visceral, and it felt like a knife in Connor’s heart. But as it was answered by the cries of men descending from behind, the full weight of the fear gripped him. He glanced back to see four more, running hard. Their mouths frothed like hungry dogs. Their faces seemed twisted and as cold and cruel as the weapons they carried. In the fore was a tall man who wore not only mail like the others, but a sinister helmet that covered his face down to his full beard – and yet his eyes were clearly visible, burning from the round metal sockets of the iron skull. Behind this man was the small, narrow-eyed Jute who had held Grania before.
They were closing in.
“God, help us!” Connor prayed in a shout.
“Gud, heldius!” one of the Jutes aped. The others laughed and jeered in their own tongue.
They were trapped. It was about to be over. And suddenly, through his desperation, Connor felt his courage rekindle.
“Follow me!” he said as he crossed in front of Grania. “Release my hand. You need to run on your own now.”
“Connor what are you doing?” Grania cried. They were heading straight at the two men who raced in from the right – their closest attackers.
“Follow me!” Connor commanded again. He would not let the Jutes triangulate on them. He was going to burst through the wall.
Connor quickened his pace to a sprint, placing his left forearm on Grania’s back and driving her forward. He held a javelin in each hand.
The two warriors rushed towards them.
“Go!” Connor said, pushing Grania forward. “Run to Mannus and do not stop until you reach him.”
Grania ran.
Connor’s eyes found the two straw-haired men. The forest around them was thick, and there were obstacles everywhere, but Connor did not care. They were close, and they were his. His eyes locked on the open mouth of
the closest warrior. The warrior seemed heedless of him, as his eyes were focused on Grania and his ugly mouth busy with insults and jeers.
Let them be his last words on this earth.
Connor planted his left foot and let fly his javelin.
Both Grania and the second warrior froze as the javelin split through the back of the warrior’s head. The second Jute was the first to recover. His round shield came up as he closed the distance to Grania.
“Forward!” Connor cried to her. “Forward!”
Grania began to run towards the murderer. She closed her eyes. Behind her Connor sprinted. He reached her even as the Germani did, and as he did he leapt. Sailing through the air he lunged with his second javelin. The smooth ash slid forward in his extended hand until his fingers closed tight on the butt end. The blade came over the warrior’s raised shield and cut into his unprotected face. As Connor’s feet hit the ground he moved the weapon to strike his enemy’s sword arm, opening his defenses. Connor whipped his weapon back, cutting across the Jute’s neck. Pulsing blood sprayed his face as the thief fell to the ground.
“Run now,” Connor said, coming alongside Grania. “Just a little further.”
They were in his hunting ground. The slope was rising. Over the bank the forest grew darker and denser. It would be a good place to get lost.
But with a roar two figures burst out of the brush almost right in front of them. Their axes were raised and their shields ready. One of them wore a bear hide as a mantle, the beast’s skull serving as his helmet. They were too close to evade. One made for Grania and the other for Connor. A great cheer erupted from their pursuers.
The Songs of Slaves Page 4
