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

by Atkinson, F J

  Waving his arms above his head to make himself big, he continued to shout and growl at the bear. In response, it raised itself upon its hind legs so that it now towered above him, its enormous bulk fading out much of the light.

  It seemed invincible, but suddenly became disinterested in him. Content that its display of dominance was sufficient; it dropped back to its paws, turned casually, then trotted into the thicket beside the tree. Its cub followed.

  Dominic’s ordeal was over as suddenly as it had begun. He slumped back, exhausted and panting—his eyes on the bush where the bear had left. When his breath returned, he picked up his bow, pushed his wolf hat to a rakish angle, then continued on his way.

  Two days passed without further incident until in the early afternoon he came to the river. It was a landmark for him, marking what he guessed was the two-thirds point of his journey, and it gave him supreme satisfaction to see its calm, green waters swirl towards him. Up river, his route seemed benign. Knee-high grass carpeted the narrow flood plain beside the water and grew in an undulating swathe from the water's edge to the encroaching forest. Across the river, the trees grew thickly up to the banking; and Dominic was happy to be knee-high in the grass, rather than in the thick scrub opposite. He filled his hat with water from the river and dumped it upon his hot head. The water’s relieving coolness was invigorating, and he shivered with pleasure as the droplets wormed their way down his back.

  He scratched at his shallow abdominal wounds and began to walk alongside the river. He met little resistance from the loose grass and for the rest of an uneventful day made good progress towards his goal. That night, his camp was comfortable beside a low fire. Sleep soon came to him.

  Yet as a traveller of many experiences, he was never far from wakefulness. Three hours of sleep had passed for him when a faint splashing in the otherwise quiet river had him awake and onto his feet in a moment. Again, the splashing, and Dominic’s senses prickled. After walking knee-deep into the water, he nocked an arrow into his bowstring and peered into the darkness. The scene became clearer as smoky shifting clouds blew clear of the moon. A group of deft shadows were visible on the far banking of the river.

  His bowstring sang as he sent an arrow at the smallest of the shapes. The fawn fell, quickly killed, as the others swiftly faded into the deeper shadow of the wood. He ran splashing through the water and skilfully and quickly butchered the fawn where it lay. He returned across the river to his overnight camp; his immediate need for sustenance now taken care of.

  When morning came, the woods across the river appeared unvisited. He cooked and breakfasted on a portion of the deer. What remained, he left for the scavengers of the forest; happy that they would benefit from his kill. After staring long and hard across the river, he gathered his possessions and continued on his way.

  Another two days passed without event.

  He smelled the marshes half a day before he came to them. Littered now with huge boulders, his route proved more troublesome than before, and soon Dominic was soaking, both from the perspiration of his efforts and from the humidity that seemed to increase the nearer he got to the swampland.

  The evening was casting a dusky pink glow when he at last got his first sighting of the marshes. Astounded, Dominic realised, not for the first time in his life, why he had chosen the existence of a wanderer. Before him was a vast, grey-pink expanse of shallow water. Stretching as far as his eye could see, dragonflies skimmed its surface, while toads and coots croaked and screeched their songs into the gloaming. An enormous oasis within the confines of the gloomy forest, it offered light and openness. Yet Alder trees had still managed to puncture it, and these reared from the marsh at intervals, stretching far into the distance.

  He decided to rest at the marsh edge that night, not wishing to chance a passage through the moonlight. He knew he needed be extra vigilant yet he could not help feeling enchanted with his surroundings. Eventually, though, he fell into a light slumber as he succumbed to the toils of the day.

  He woke early; his brief disorientation causing him to jump with sword in hand. His head swam as he again took in the swamp, this time cool and misty as the day awakened.

  He picked out a likely route and began to splash knee-deep through chilly water, keeping well away from the many swirling currents that warned of deep turbulence. Complicated but unconstrained, his passage proved benign due to low water after a dry summer. Whilst sapping his energy, the many dead trees he clambered over also served him as resting platforms proud of the water.

  It was mid-afternoon when he saw a thicker bank of trees ahead. They were not water-loving alders, so he knew the marshes were ending. He soon reached dry ground and continued as in the valley by walking alongside the river. Huge-girthed oaks, swathed with deeply etched and gnarled bark, now crowded in around him.

  He moved slowly, his eyes straining to see into the gloom. Woodland noises occasionally caused him to stop and squint into the green murkiness beside the river. Soon, he came to an area where the trees grew sparsely. Here, the light flooded in to reveal the track and the ruin he had travelled days to find. Looking up and down, he was satisfied that nothing stirred. He now realised he had gained his present position the hard way by approaching from the broken, marshy land to the south. He examined the ground and saw no human trace upon it. Turning his attention to the ruin, he noticed that its walls seemed to be overgrown, craggy, continuations of the forest floor.

  The Romans had long abandoned the building but its basic construction was still intact. The main structure of the storehouse was above ground and built to house two guards. Not such a ruin after all, realised Dominic, and less work to do than anticipated. Roman built, so well built, he thought. Apart from the wooden roof, which had collapsed into its interior, the building was sound. A slow trickle of water wormed its way down a small bluff to the side of the hut, before running across the ground to join a small ditch nearby. Dominic walked over to the flow, placed his hand under the cool shower and tasted the stony but drinkable water. He felt pleased with himself. The site could be made habitable in no time at all. If he worked long and hard, he would be comfortable within days.

  He entered the building and removed old rotted sections of roof, throwing them outside for later use as firewood. A soggy rope-pull attached to a rotting door was uncovered on the floor, and he guessed he had found the entrance to the storage cellar. He knew he must enter it. It would give him shelter until he had fixed the roof of the upper building.

  The cellar door opened with stiff reluctance, revealing dusty stone steps. As Dominic descended, the steps wound into utter blackness. He walked cautiously with his bow held outright before him as a makeshift probe. He continued down a short passage before the bow hit a flat surface. He groped in the dark until his hand touched rough timber. His hand explored until finding an iron ring. He realised he had found a door.

  With both hands and with little optimism, he twisted the ring, and was surprised when both ring and door moved. Not knowing what to expect, he peered through the widening crack between door and frame. Nothing, neither sound nor movement could he detect. All was still; all was black. He pushed the door further until he could squeeze through sideways. He entered a level passageway, and that was when they hit him.

  The quiet air exploded into a fit of whirling, rushing madness. He lashed about him in the darkness, impotent now with only an empty bow in his hand. He expected a deathblow to follow the whirling blasts of air that seemed to alight all over his body. In desperation, he managed to stumble into the door. He placed both of his hands against its rough edge and heaved it open.

  He fell to his knees in the passage, his heart hammering as he watched the last of the bats leave. He was furious with himself. He didn’t deserve to live. What a ham head. What a fool. Ambushed by flying rats and brandishing a weapon that could not hurt a child. He regained his feet, still cursing to himself. Then he placed his bow over his shoulder and drew his sword.

  A line of fain
t light at floor level caught his eye. He edged toward it, again using his sword as a probe until he struck wood. He had found another door. At his feet, daylight spilled from a gap between door and stone floor. Another iron ring, and again success as it turned and the door moved. He knew he must enter, but now he was equipped and ready. He slid through the ingress and adopted a crouching, defensive stance, his sword held in both hands before him.

  Immediately, he saw the source of the light. The cellar was huge and its domed and fluted roof had several slits built into it which were open to the leafy woodland floor above, and which allowed shafts of diffused light to illuminate a huge area below. Used for storage, a wide, stone square (now completely empty) formed the centre of the cellar. Nothing now remained except leaf litter and a number of weightless bird skeletons. Dominic’s entry evoked an air change, causing some of the dry leaves and bones to skitter across the floor. Looking around, he could see stone vaults recessed into the sides of the cellar.

  He observed no movement as he shimmied, crouched and ready, around the cellar, approaching the vaults and turning quickly and purposefully into them. This he did until he was sure he was alone. He now saw that the cellar would offer good shelter and with its one entrance would be easy to defend. He had found his new home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Simon left his dwelling just before dawn and strolled up to an outcrop on the far side of the fields. Here, he began to sort stones, putting them in piles according to their shape and size, ready for their use as a walling material later in the year. As a man of sixty-eight years, his contribution to the village workload was now undemanding, but tasks such as the one he was now undertaking, engendered within him a feeling of usefulness and satisfaction. He assessed the job at hand. If he worked smartly until midday, it would give him an appetite for his sister’s delicious stew. Then he could spend his afternoon at leisure, teasing the children and joking with his older friends as they chewed the fat outside the huts.

  He enjoyed the intricate dawn chorus as he worked, adding his own cheery whistle to it, until the rumbling of thunder had him look to the sky. As the noise grew louder, he realised it was the sound of approaching riders. Chilled now in spite of the sunshine, his thoughts went to the tales of brutal folk from beyond the Grey Wash; tales that had circulated around the night fires and seriously unsettled him. Although he considered the tales to be exaggerated, they had still delayed his slumber on many a night. He had hoped that the dangers of the world would somehow avoid his village, but as he heard the sound of approaching hooves, he could not help but think of the brutal Saxon folk.

  He knew the riders could only approach the village along the track which lay below a nearby knoll. Dropping to his belly, he inched slowly up the rise to sneak a glance at the riders as they passed below. Upon seeing them, Simon knew that his old way of life had ended forever.

  The dawn was blood red as the war band (which numbered fifty men) rode into the village. The fat, bearded man who led the group, harshly jabbed the heels of his leather boots into his pony’s belly and removed a single-bladed war ax from beneath the secured sheepskin that served as his saddle. Raising the ax, he shouted over his shoulder. ‘No mercy! Kill all except any women or children who will fetch gold at the markets!’

  As the pace of the group increased, they rode in a blur of dust and howls into the village—their need for concealment now unnecessary.

  The village had a population of forty souls—most of them still in their simple dwellings preparing for another day in the fields. Some of the smaller children were already outside at play, but now they stood frozen and transfixed as the brutal Saxon torrent swept towards them. They were the first to perish; some trampled and left bleeding and broken in the dust; others callously impaled upon spears or cleaved by the cold iron of the war axes.

  Soon, the dusty square of the village began to fill with the confused as they emerged to investigate the riot of sound outside their huts. Awful, keening shrieks filled the air as mothers ran to attend the critically injured. None of the older women survived the attack. Only the younger women and children considered sale worthy survived, and these confined to an empty hut at the edge of the village where a raider took up guard.

  The attack, as was usual against an undefended village, was over quickly and savagely; the men of the village having little time in the confusion to put up anything other than token resistance. Most of these died bravely, brandishing makeshift but ineffective weapons. Then the village was set to the torch, and bodies left to lie where they had fallen. A smouldering scene of slaughter remained.

  The fat leader, Egbert, walked amongst the bodies with his men, delighting in the scene as he searched for the maimed and dying. These he killed with hacking blows from his ax. After a while he paused and wiped his hands, greasy with blood, upon his tunic. He shouted to a nearby subordinate. ‘Find some ale you slacker! We’ll have a feast then rut with the mares.’ Raucous laughter now mingled with the moans of the dying as some of the raiders ran to an intact store which contained ale.

  ‘Tomas!’ shouted Egbert. ‘Where are you, you slug?’ He glanced around until he spotted the boy. He beckoned impatiently to him and pointed around the clearing. ‘Search the bodies … usual things, weapons and gold.’

  The boy, who was slight in stature and aged no more than fourteen, knew better than to delay for even a moment when set a task by Egbert. He scurried amongst the bodies, deftly searching for rings, armlets, bracelets, brooches and weapons. What little he could find, he placed in a pile at the centre of the clearing. He was glad to see that Withred, a man who had always treated him fairly, was standing by the pile of low-grade treasure.

  Withred belonged to the Anglii tribe, and his early life had been lived in Angulus on the shores of the Baltic. The Romans had ignored his land, considering it economically bereft, having no desire to campaign through its difficult country of marsh and forest. After his parents had died in a tribal dispute, his Aunt had taken him into her protection. Their people had worshipped the Goddess Nerthus, and his aunt had taught him to respect the world around him and all that lived in it, in keeping with their religious beliefs.

  Eventually, the tribes had united and prospered, but good arable land had become scarce as the sea encroached inland. Withred decided to join one of the war bands that was due to sail to Southeast Britannia under the leadership of Hengist and Horsa. Years before, Rome had abandoned Britannia, leaving it unprotected, and soon the northern Scot and Pict tribes had begun to threaten the British settlements further south. It was in response to this threat that the British king Vortigern had invited Saxon mercenaries to help him.

  Withred had soon proved himself a fierce warrior and shrewd tactician, and had quickly risen in the ranks to become a respected member of the mercenaries. Furthermore, a linguistic talent had ensured he was soon fluent in the British tongue.

  Eventually, the Saxon, Angle and Jute group had turned against Vortigern and a larger scale conquest of the island had begun. Withred had travelled to the eastern fringe of the island to aid the Saxon warlord, Osric, and it was from this time that he had struggled with his role. Before his relocation to the east, he had always fought brutal battles against well-armed men. Now he was accompanying war bands tasked to destroy and strike terror into undefended British villages. His aunt’s earlier teachings still had a bearing on his actions, though, and although he realised that his present life meant he had to kill, he still felt disgust at the excesses he witnessed on the raids. Always, he had always refused to kill either the unarmed or weak.

  ‘That’s it, lad.’ said Withred as Tomas approached, ‘Do as he says and maybe he’ll give you the night off.’

  Tomas glanced at Withred and attempted a smile through a swollen mouth that evidenced a recent slap from Egbert, but Withred had become distracted by the bloodletting that surrounded him, and Tomas’ smile was lost upon him.

  Tomas had heard whispers around the camp—that Withred had been sent by Osri
c to keep an eye on an increasingly wayward Egbert, who had been trusted to lead some of the independent sorties into the countryside. Tomas now saw his tormentor approaching, so quickly left and busied himself in another part of the clearing.

  Tomas was a native of the island and had been travelling with Egbert’s troop for two years. His, was one of the first villages taken by the raiders. They had spared his life so he could serve them but he dearly wished they had slaughtered him, as they had done to everyone he knew in his world, such was his life with Egbert and his men.

  They had treated him harshly at first, before he had learned what tasks they expected of him. He had lost count of the kicks he had received and the objects he had dodged. Then he had grown accustomed to camp routine, and from that time life had become bearable for him.

  Eventually the men had warmed to him, in the same way a man might grow fond of an obedient dog, and indeed sometimes they would reward him with choice cuts of meat and words of encouragement, but they would be just as ready to slap or rebuke him. Although he would play up to them, clowning around when he thought it might amuse them, he nevertheless hated most of them. Yes, camp life was hard for the boy, but he would have accepted a lifetime of kicks and abuse, and considered it a small price to pay for the exemption of witnessing the men on their hateful raids.

  These were the worst times— the days when they raided the defenceless and did things that sickened him. He had seen them commit many awful deeds, the first being the sacking of his own village where they had forced him to watch as they had brutally killed his mother, father and infant sister before him. Although he had witnessed many raids since, he still felt deep revulsion at what the men did to their captives. He was thankful that his job on the raids was only to round up and tether the ponies. This diverted his attention from the killing, although he hated the subsequent search of the bodies for treasure which Egbert always insisted he undertook. Sometimes, however, he could not avoid seeing the slaughter, and these images were indelible and reoccurring to him.