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

by Atkinson, F J

  A buzz of conversation broke out amongst the men, and Tomas, who was sitting at the rear of the group, sensed that Osric’s command was unwelcome.

  Egbert, who had been skulking towards the rear of the listening men, now pushed to the front. Unkempt, his shaggy black beard was festooned with filth. ‘But it’s been a hard spell for us!’ he shouted. ‘Why not finish the season here then start this trek you talk of—this march through the brambles—next year or at the beginning of the new campaign when there’ll be enough fodder for the ponies. Surely the men deserve a rest.’

  A murmur of approval grew in support of Egbert’s challenge; the most enthusiastic endorsements coming from men who Osric knew to be supporters of Egbert.

  He gave Egbert another hard stare. ‘I’ll not take a full company of men through the forest next year chasing their tails,’ he rasped. ‘We need to know if there’s more good land to plunder before we set off on a wild goose chase. You’ve made too many mistakes and to make amends you’ll lead the men—that’s final. Withred will make sure you’re up to the job.’ He scrutinised the others, looking for dissenters. Seeing none, he barked at them. ‘Now I’ll hear no more arguments, get ready to leave.’ He looked at Withred who nodded towards Tomas. ‘Ah yes,’ said Osric, reminded now. ‘Egbert … the slave will help you prepare and he can serve you on your journey … and listen to me … no harm must come to him; he’s worth gold now he’s familiar with our tongue. I may sell him yet, who knows.’

  Egbert let out a chesty laugh. ‘It seems you’re determined to make me lose fat, but if it’s what you want then fair enough, I’ll get ready to leave.’ He turned and walked through the group of men towards the ponies, his eyes cold and furious.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ceola slept in a feverish torment as Murdoc pushed his way through the relentless bramble at the forest edge. She was growing weaker by the hour and Murdoc realised she needed rest and food. Having given her the last of the water, Murdoc’s his own tongue was now dry and fattened from thirst. The sun still burned, but he knew the daylight would not last much longer. He considered his options. To find drinkable water was his first priority. Then he would try to build a rough shelter for the night.

  A distant wolf howl had him stop. His superstition became active as other twilight sounds filtered through the darkening woods. Campfire tales of demons and wood sprites came to him. He had loved the thrill of the tales but now that he was actually in the woods he preferred not to think of the stories. Here he had no door to shut out the outside world.

  To rest his aching arms, he placed Ceola gently to the floor and crouched beside her. A snort from nearby caused him to start. He knew there were wild beasts in the forest, many attributed with mystical qualities. The snort came again. Murdoc thought of the stories. White faced, he held Ceola close as a stag, its horns stripped of their summer velvet, stepped from the undergrowth. Such was its proximity that he could almost touch its flank as it expelled a grating roar.

  Murdoc’s whisper was infused with awe as he crouched low and placed his hands over Ceola’s ears to dampen the grating bellow. ‘By the one Christ, it is Cernunnos.’ His courage seeped back as he realised he must protect Ceola. Leaving her on the leafy ground, he rose to his feet and clapped his hands together. ‘Away with you, go! GO!

  The stag turned its noble head towards him and locked its amber gaze upon his green eyes. It expected a challenge, but seeing that its adversary had no horns to entangle, merely let out an explosive grunt before turning upon its muscular flanks and bounding into the failing light. Murdoc let out a slow steady sigh as he peered into the gloom

  Satisfied the danger was over, he picked up Ceola and brushed a stray lock of hair from her grime-streaked forehead. His tone was gentle. ‘It’s gone … we can have a nice rest now.’ She attempted a smile and this encouraged him. ‘I’ll build a soft warm bed for my little girl,’ he added.

  With this in mind, he walked to the gap in the undergrowth where the stag had left. He approached a rocky outcrop beyond the bushes, judging it a good place to build a shelter. He sat Ceola against the outcrop and began to gather armfuls of the bracken that grew profusely all around. He placed it against the rock face until he had formed a shoulder high stack. He found kindling and firewood—his intention to provide heat and light throughout the oncoming night. Thankful he still carried his small flint and iron, he sparked the kindling and soon a fire was burning steadily as bleak darkness encroached them. He placed Ceola in the nest of bracken and covered her with his woollen tunic. He listened (encouraged) as her soft rhythmic breathing evidenced her sleep was less troubled than for several days. His thoughts now were for food and water; knowing as he did that Ceola would die soon without them. He also knew he would have to wait until sunrise before he could search for what they needed.

  Suddenly, an excessive weariness engulfed him as the massive strain of escape finally took its toll upon his body and mind. He lay beside Ceola and nestled himself deep within the nest. Soon he slept himself—the warmth of the fire and the springiness of the bracken providing him with his first real comfort for days.

  He awoke with a start when bright sunlight disturbed him the next morning. Heart pounding, he swung his stare in every direction until his lucidity returned. He saw that Ceola still slept, her small face twitching as her eyes moved rapidly under her closed lids. Murdoc’s heart was riven as he beheld her. He knew what she had endured. What she had seen.

  The gloomy and oppressive atmosphere of the previous evening had dispersed with the coming of the new day. At that moment the sunlit clearing looked bright and unthreatening to him. Now they had found a sheltered spot under the overhanging rock face, he intended to rest up a while. He figured the cliff would provide a measure of shelter should the weather worsen. He also knew that Ceola needed to convalesce for a few days, and his intention now was to find food and water. He felt her skin and was encouraged by its warmth, then carefully smoothed her hair and stroked her face. Satisfied she was comfortable, he left to look for provisions.

  Aware the likelihood of catching and killing game was remote, he decided his best course would be to search for produce provided by the forest. He was not to be disappointed. His search took him to a fruit-heavy bank of brambles

  Bare chested and enjoying the warmth of the sun, he returned and placed the blackberries on the ground. He roused Ceola and lifted her from her bracken bed, keen to get the moisture and nourishment of the fruit inside her. He encouraged her to eat as once again he considered their plight. He could not allow the Saxons to hurt his girl; he had seen what they did to children. He would smother her before he would allow them to take her from him. A grimace slid over his face as unwanted thoughts again tumbled into his brain.

  They had been in the fields furthest from the village, chasing a stray pig that was running amok through the barley crop. The pig eluded their comical lunges, much to the squealing delight of Ceola, before finally escaping into the rough scrubland beyond the village boundary. After a brief but fruitless chase they returned to the village where from a distance they observed the sight that now inhabited their dreams and conscious thoughts. Aghast with shock, he had watched helplessly as the raiders had forced everyone he knew in his world into the village clearing. Mercilessly abused and butchered, their bodies were defiled even in death. Dragged through fires or towed behind raiders’ ponies they were left to die slowly, many of them no longer recognisable as human beings.

  Then his torpor had eroded as his senses sharpened—his instinct to do something to help those he loved driving him towards the village and certain death. Ceola’s screaming had stopped him dead. She was alone, he realised. He could not abandon her. Returning, he had swept her into his clutches and ran from the village, sobbing and distraught; his intention then to reach the wilderness and escape. In a daze, he had stooped to pick up the tip of an abandoned ploughshare as he headed towards the green blur of forest.

  He examined the ploughshare and consid
ered its use as a weapon. The thoughts of the raid had evoked his anger. He lifted Ceola back to the fern couch and placed the berries beside her. After walking to the stone outcrop, he began to scrape the implement against the rock face. Soon its edges began to crudely sharpen and burnish through the rust. For another hour he worked on the blade as Ceola sat quietly in the sunshine watching him work, her mouth smeared black from the fruit.

  When satisfied the blade was serviceable, he went in search for a suitable shaft. He found a shoulder-high sapling the thickness of Ceola’s arm. The shaft’s position in the shade of other trees had ensured a straight growth in its search for light. A nearby pine provided him with a globule of dried resin. Using the newly fashioned spearhead as a tool, he cut a notch in the end of the shaft. Next he lit a fire and placed the resin within its hottest part. Using a twig, he teased the fire-softened glob inside the notched shaft until it oozed from its base. He wiped off the excess and entwined a cord from his tunic around the head and shaft to secure the union.

  As soon as the resin had cooled and hardened he picked up the spear and tested its weight and balance in his hand. He looked to Ceola and smiled. ‘Look, I have a spear; I made it in the same way I make the arrows for the village—now we are protected.’ In emphasis, he threw the weapon at a nearby tree. Its flight was true, the tip effortlessly piercing the bark as it drove into the timber.

  He walked to remove the spear, his mouth set in a grim line. A dark rage was gathering within himas he thought of the village. He was about to explode, it was inevitable … he had been fighting it for days. There was nothing he could do about it now.

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—of course if he did that Ceola would think him insane. He had to get out of her earshot. Shaking his head, he placed his fisted hands against his temples as he walked away.

  But the thoughts would not leave him. All of his friends—all of his family—were dead because of him: the old and weak, his brother, his wife. While he had looked on and done nothing. A man of honour and courage would have run into the village and died helping his people instead of fleeing like a stinking coward into the woods. Ceola too would be better dead—rather that than live like a ragged hermit in this dark forest.

  Turning his attention to the forest floor, he struck it repeatedly with his spear as if attacking an unseen adversary. Unrelentingly, he struck at the ground until near to exhaustion. Wailing and with nothing left, he dropped to his knees with the spear clutched to him. Foetal-like, he rolled to the ground, his tears and mucus mixing with the dry leaf litter beside his cheek. Snivelling, he chattered and lamented his loss to the forest loam.

  When his grief had gone, he lay and looked up to the forest canopy—at the swirl of blue and grey beyond its swaying boughs. His torment had left him in the way that vomiting gives temporary relief from nausea. But like nausea he knew it would return. For now, though, he was content just to lie at one with the wilderness.

  With a cool breeze whispering against his cheek, he felt removed from all the ills and responsibilities of his life. Sadly the feeling faded and his thoughts soon went back to Ceola. She needed him and would be wondering where he had gone. He gained his feet and jammed the heel of his hand into his eyes to remove the vestiges of his tears.

  He returned to discover that the food and warm sunshine, as well as a restorative sleep, had served to strengthen his daughter. Her eyes were brighter as she looked at him. ‘I heard shouts, da. I thought the monster had come back.’

  His smile felt strange on his face, and at complete odds to the grimace that had distorted it only moments earlier. He cupped Ceola’s face. ‘Don’t fear the stag my little mouse; it’s only a monster in the minds of silly men like me.’

  Encouraged by her spark, he decided they would stay in the clearing for a while and allow their strength to grow, even though they were only a short distance into the forest.

  For three days the weather remained fair and they stayed within the protective confines of the rocky outcrop and bracken barrier. A diet of berries and hazelnuts, although mundane, was sufficient to sustain them while they rested. Yet Murdoc was aware they must move on, and on the fourth morning decided it was time to leave.

  They could not live in the forest forever, but his immediate plans did not extend much beyond finding the forest road built by the Romans. He hoped it would give them an easier passage through the tangle of trees, towards a place he believed others of their folk had settled to farm on the swathes of arable land that lay within the unyielding clay of the wilderness.

  He looked through the forest, intending to head northwards to where he believed they would find the road. The trees wore green on their north facing sides and this would be his guide. He lifted Ceola from the bracken and placed her upon his shoulders.

  The grunt of a pony stopped him dead.

  Like a fleshy caterpillar, the skin on his back contracted up towards his shoulder blades. He turned. A group of Saxon riders had entered the clearing. Ceola had also seen them, and fixed them with a fearful wide-eyed stare.

  ‘Stay still,’ breathed Murdoc, ‘they may yet miss us.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Three weeks after Dominic had found the ruins, he had still not seen another mortal soul. Game, though, was plentiful, and already his traps had supplied him with surplus meat which he had begun to salt and dry. The cellar beneath the upper dwelling had proven ideal for storage purposes and provided him with a cool and darkened environment to keep his supplies fresh. As for the aboveground structure, he had completely weatherproofed it, using materials at hand to repair the roof. Inside, he had constructed rough furniture, including a springy, bracken bed covered by several hides and pelts to keep him comfortable and warm at night.

  This part of the forest was unknown to him, and each day he explored new ground and set his snares, ever careful to avoid leaving a trail that would lead undesired company back to his base.

  The forest had its own weather, absorbing the worst extremities of the elements, so that at root level there was scant change whatever the season. Dominic saw the woods as a physical breathing body—an organic Goddess; a deity who would be generous and forgiving providing he gave her the esteem she deserved. And respect her he did, and trusted her, and loved her—in a way he had never loved any other living thing.

  On a quiet morning when he walked deeply into an unexplored part of the woods, his thoughts again strayed to the time he had witnessed the aftermath of a massacre.

  On that day, two months earlier, he had made his way to one of the villages on the forest edge where he often traded, but when still distant from it, he saw the worrying plume of smoke. He approached cautiously to discover the result of a callous raid. Apart from those taken as captives, all of the occupants of the community were lying dead amongst the smouldering, ruinous buildings. The condition of the victims had sickened even the hardened Dominic—a hunter who was skilled in the arts of butchery and far from squeamish. He had looked for survivors but found none. Relieved when the time came for him to end his hellish search, he had returned stunned and shaken to the sanctuary of the forest.

  The gruesome discovery had confirmed the rumours which had been circulating in the villages: that Saxon war bands had landed on the eastern and southern shores and taken land by force. Dominic was well aware that Saxon folk had, for many years, travelled to south-eastern Britannia for one reason or another. Now some of them had become aggressive and land hungry. He had learned that more of this type had followed and taken more land, forcing many of his compatriots westwards as refugees.

  The days had passed swiftly since his awful experience in the sacked village, and since then his caution and stealth had been utilised for the avoidance of human, as well as animal predation.

  Now, as he walked through unfamiliar terrain, four miles from his base, he sought to increase the range of his hunting and trapping grounds. A sandy, pockmarked mound caught his eye, and here he knew there would be rabbits. Not for the fi
rst time, he thanked the Romans for introducing the creature to his isle. Beyond the mound, a rocky bluff reared and this interested him. He knew from experience that here he would find eggs—from rock doves probably. He was about to explore the bluff when the first humans he had seen since the day of the massacre stopped him dead in his tracks.

  A man and child were standing beside a pile of bracken. What’s more, and to his utter astonishment, he realised he knew the man; knew him as Murdoc—an extremely agitated Murdoc. Approaching voices warned Dominic to hide. He faded into a stand of nearby shrubbery to watch and wait, his caution turning to deep concern as he saw Murdoc slip to the floor with the girl.

  Quickly, he nocked an arrow. His bow was formidable and a lethal tool. He pointed it to the ground as he drew it to full tension.

  First, he heard the snort of ponies and the distant murmurings of men, then he saw the riders as they came into view. They stopped beyond a huge ash that grew some distance away. By their garb, he deduced they were strangers (almost certainly Saxon raiders) and would have little knowledge of the woods. Yet he knew they could not fail to discover Murdoc and the child. Without hesitation, he made his decision to strike, and quickly released an arrow at the leading rider. With a choking, curtailed cry, the man fell backwards over the rump of his pony. Dominic thought of past events and dedicated the slaying—the first of many he intended—to the slaughtered victims of the village.