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

by Atkinson, F J

  Three men, who had still not reached cover, took arrows and fell.

  Osric, crouching behind a low mound, could see Wlensling kneeling for cover a few paces away. ‘What do we number Wlensling?’

  Wlensling picked up his iron helmet and replaced it on his head. ‘I make it just twenty-four fit men left.’

  Osric’s head whirled in frantic thought. ‘Gods!’ he cursed, then looked towards the village. ‘Withred . . . Withred! How goes it my friend?’ he shouted.

  Silence met him.

  ‘Withred, why do you side with the Britons? It’s not too late to work things out with me. You know I’m a reasonable man. Come back to us. You cannot wish to spend your life in the fields with this miserable carrion. I’ll share the spoils with you. Come over now!’

  Again, silence. Osric turned to Wlensling. ‘Muster any men who possess bows to gather together under cover and prepare to get at them. We can’t stay here any longer, we must get this done with.’

  Twelve archers assembled, and on Wlensling order they stepped from cover and sent a volley at the Britons.

  The salvo was hurried and again inexpert. It caused no injury, but Withred, aware of the scarcity of his force and not willing to expose his men to further arrows, gave the instruction to withdraw to the cover of the ox carts.

  Seeing the Britons run and leap over and behind the carts, Osric gave the order to charge at the Britons.

  Withred and Brinley had placed several axes and spears behind the carts, so all the men were able to arm themselves quickly upon reaching the barricade.

  Withred, with his broadsword, and Brinley with his spear, defended the centre, while the rest, now joined by Griswalda, fought at the ends. The line held, as clumsy blows from the war axes and inexpert jabs from the spears barely managed to repel the attackers.

  Some of the Saxon Geoguths resorted to running and kicking sole-first at the carts, in a hopeful effort to knock them over. Three died in this manner when they got too close to Withred’s slashing broadsword. Six villagers also perished in the opening attack—victims to Saxon axes and spears.

  Consecutive waves of Saxon hostility were repelled as the fight raged on with unbridled savagery. Eight more villagers and two Saxons fell—the Saxons to Tomas’ arrows. From his outlook on the mound, the boy had a clear site of the battle, and was able at last to put his relentless practice to cynical use.

  Out of range of Tomas’ arrows and well away from the fight as they looked for any weakness in the British defence, Osric and Egbert watched the battle from the elevated position of their mounts. Above the hubbub, Osric shouted to Egbert. ‘This is getting us nowhere! Any ideas!’

  Egbert looked at the knot of undergrowth on either side of the elm trees. ‘There’s nothing for it but to ride through that tangle. Leave a dozen men to occupy the Britons. Get the rest up onto their ponies, they can follow us through the breach.’

  Stark and ashen, Osric surveyed the thick brush on either side of the barrier. He came to a decision and shouted to Wlensling. ‘Get on you horse, man … you and six good men, and get over here now!’

  Wlensling, on foot as he marshalled his men, grabbed six others away from the conflict. Moments later they sat bestride their mounts at Osric’s side.

  Nine riders left and pushed through the testing shrubbery a short distance from the barricade.

  ‘They’re trying to flank us!’ shouted Withred. ‘We can’t let them approach us from behind!’ He fended off an attack from the wire-hard Alfred, who had rained down a series of clanging blows upon his defensive sword. Beside him now, Brinley pierced Godrys, who had attempted to jump over the cart. Griswalda also jabbed out indiscriminately with his spear at the centre of the melee.

  ‘We can’t leave this position!’ shouted Brinley. ‘To turn back to the village now would be suicide!’

  Withred delivered his mortal thrust to Alfred and pushed him from the rim of the cart. ‘Then let’s get this done with!’ he answered. ‘We number just eight now!’

  Tomas had watched the conflict from his lookout after delivering his two kills. Osric and Egbert had been out of his line of sight, and so he had been unable to snipe at them. When he saw the nine riders squeeze through the choking entanglement of brambles, he set off in a quick jog and followed them. Hidden behind a tree, he saw them dismount and start to search all the huts in the village.

  He avoided the Saxons and made his way to the fugitive’s sanctuary. As he neared it, he heard the screaming of children, terrified as the tumult of battle penetrated the roof of their hideaway. Shocked, he realised their discovery was inevitable.

  Osric had decided to task the men to find hostages rather than join the fight at the barricade, and this was a mistake. He was hopeful his enemy would give themselves up when faced with the choice of either throwing down their weapons or seeing their loved ones slaughtered before their eyes.

  Furious at not finding anyone, Egbert smashed his way through the huts. ‘They must have taken the women and brats out of the village and hidden them!’ he shouted.

  Osric looked frenetically around him. He glanced back towards the oxcarts, and was ready to order the men to return to them when Wlensling signalled to him. ‘Osric! I can hear them. Over there, it’s coming from the hut.’

  Tomas watched from distance. He knew there was little hope for the occupants of the hut. His next action was spontaneous.

  In the dark of the hideaway, Simon had tried unsuccessfully to comfort the children, but the sound of battle filtering into the pit had terrified them to the point of hysteria. Even the older children, who had sat bravely with trembling lips, had given into their fear and begun to weep.

  Martha and Ceola had been through it before, but this was far worse, and when it became evident that Wlensling had found the hut, Ceola buried her head in Martha’s bosom.

  Simon felt broken as he picked up his ax and pledged his life to them. ‘For as long as there’s breath in my body, I’ll fight,’ he said. ‘I watched once and did nothing, but not this time.’

  Martha rocked Ceola as the wolf howl filtered into the pit.

  Simon was at first stunned, then elated. ‘Dominic!’ he whispered. ‘I knew he was not finished. Now we’ll see what happens when the wolf is let loose.’

  The searchers froze as the spine-tingling howl resonated, but their momentary torpor was not to last. After an initial stunned pause, they took to their their ponies and made for the bramble squeeze. ‘We must meet him and his followers with force! The others will have to finish off at the blockade!’ Osric shouted.

  Just four Saxons now fought at the oxcart, but rather than fighting on as Osric had supposed, they withdrew and mounted upon hearing the wolf howl.

  Withred and Brinley were the only survivors. Griswalda had been the last Briton to fall, and now lay against the cart clutching at his abdomen. As an old man, he had accounted for himself with impressive vigour, but in the end it had been all he could do to fend off the blows of the men who relentlessly attacked him. Having scant reserves of energy, he had eventually succumbed and taken his mortal wound.

  Nineteen villagers and eleven Saxons lay dead or wounded around the barricade. Many of the raiders had died at the hands of Withred, who had welded his broadsword with lethal skill. The villagers had fought valiantly to the last man and had succeeded, at least, in checking the thrust of the raiding party.

  Withred spat blood as he stooped. ‘Dominic and the others must have made it,’ he gasped.

  Brinley, his face grey with acute fatigue, slumped against the cart. ‘Just in time, thank the Christ, I’m all but done in here.’ He glanced at Griswalda. But it’s too late for our friend here. He’s coming to his end.’

  ‘Our fight goes on, I’m afraid,’ said Withred as he knelt by Griswalda, grasping his hand. ‘Dominic will need us; I reckon there are still more than a dozen of Osric’s men mounted.’ He turned his head towards the village. ‘We can only hope that Simon’s group have survived.’

&n
bsp; A bustling came from the undergrowth beside them. ‘They’re moving back through,’ said Brinley, ‘…to meet Dominic, no doubt. We need to get away from here in case they turn to us. We can’t fight them alone now.’

  When the wolf’s howl had echoed through the village, Egbert had been ready to enter the refuge hut.

  Cursing now, he turned to see the others mount their ponies and assemble beside Osric. ‘Not this time,’ he muttered as he turned back and entered the hut. He spotted the flour barrels and heard the whimpering coming from below. He shot another quick glance at the doorway, then strode to the barrels and dragged them across the plank floor.

  He snatched away the loose boards and saw the occupants of the pit—all blinded by the flood of bright daylight—squint up towards him. Ceola instinctively lifted her arms upwards, and so Egbert was able to lift her out.

  ‘NO!’ Martha’s scream was desperate as she realised what had just befallen Ceola. Egbert quickly gained his feet, grabbed an old sack, and left the hut with the infant under his arm. He was aware that pretty children such as this one were in fervent demand at the slave sales. Far better he left now with this jewel of a child than risk injury or death in a futile tussle with the Britons. He mounted his pony, noting that Osric and the others had already returned to the fight.

  Ceola recoiled as she took in Egbert’s brutal visage. ‘A pretty price for a pretty little girl at the right slave markets,’ he said as he galloped away from the village.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Gherwan had chosen five capable men to accompany him on his survey of central and eastern Britannia. Will was an experienced tracker, having worked firstly for Rome and then for Arthur. He was also an adept fighter and a good man to have in a tight corner. Erec was a weapons instructor at Brythonfort and a formidable warrior. He had brought along three of his best young trainees for the experience: Alcwyn, Cadmon and Flint, all sons of local peasants. A merchant named Wilfred, who was returning to his home town of Aebbeduna after visiting Brythonfort, accompanied the six.

  After leaving Brythonfort, they had seen no sign of the invaders. The farms and villages for many miles around the fort were under the protection of Arthur, and thus avoided by the Saxons. On the few occasions any raiding parties did stray into the protectorate, they were either annihilated or sent on their way.

  The organised structure of the towns the Britons now passed had broken down since Roman departure, and impromptu farms existed within most town walls, as spare ground was utilised for crop and animal rearing.

  It was three days before the party saw any sign of disruption. A huddle of old men, women and children, weary and disconsolate, had taken to the highway and were making their way westwards—their worldly possessions heaped onto two rickety hay carts, pulled along by two old oxen.

  The Arthurians stood to one side as they passed. ‘What’s the story old fellow?’ asked Gherwan as the group paused a moment.

  ‘They took the villages nearby so we didn’t wait to be next in line,’ said the old man. ‘Our stronger and younger men have stayed back to fight. We hear that the land in the west is protected and keeps out the invaders, and—God willing—that’s the place we’ll live until it’s safe to go back to our homes.’

  Gherwan wished them good fortune and let them pass. ‘It’s no use telling them of Brythonfort,’ he said to Wilfred, who was looking at him enquiringly. ‘There’s little room for new fugitives and no land for them to farm unless we stretch our forces even more thinly.’

  Wilfred looked at the departing refugees, a dour look resident upon his craggy features. ‘I fear they’ll not reach the west anyway,’ he said. ‘Many of them looked close to exhaustion and all were in despair.’

  Two more days passed and the road to the west became ever more crowded with refugees. Hoards of despairing people passed through villages and towns, yet untouched. Here, they received alms and shelter from fellow Britons who had now become worried about their own impending destinies.

  ‘Most of the disposed are from the eastern lands,’ said Will as he sat on the summit of a small hill with the others and watched a group of bedraggled migrants pass below them. ‘The ones I’ve spoken to tell me that the eastern coast is now entirely in foreign hands.’

  ‘They’re raiding in the south as well,’ said Erec. ‘It’s only a matter of time before they take the entire south east.’

  ‘We’ve an tough task before us, but at least we fight as one force. It’s said the Saxons quarrel amongst themselves and have loyalty to tribal leaders rather than one man.’

  Gherwan spurred his horse down towards the track below. ‘Be that as it may, but the news is still bad. At least we have a better idea of what were up against. We don’t need to go any further than Aebbeduna, I reckon. By that time we’ll have seen enough. After that, we get our arses back to Brythonfort.’

  Three days later, they reached the town and said their goodbyes Wilfred. The merchant looked concerned as he embraced his six companions. ‘See the smoke from the forest.’ He pointed to the wildwood. ‘The fires I told you about are still burning strong. There are farmsteads and small villages in clearings inside the forest. Folk try to farm wherever there’s good soil but few of us go onto the forest roads now. Instead, the settlers come to us. Lost and broken some of them, seeking our help. But hell approaches here as well, I reckon.’

  The border of the forest was a ragged line of green, two miles from the town. A languid pall of smoke hung over the trees like a tattered veil. Cattle grazed and pigs grubbed upon the scrubland that lay between the forest edge and the town boundary.

  ‘We’ve still not seen one Saxon on this journey,’ said Erec as he squinted towards the forest edge. He looked to Gherwan. ‘My view is that we should at least see what they’re up to in there.’

  ‘My thoughts too,’ said Will. ‘It would do no harm to take a closer look at them.’

  Gherwan pondered a short while then nodded. ‘I have to say, my curiosity wouldn’t allow me to return without looking into the woods, but don’t forget we’re more than likely to be outnumbered. “Observe and return,” Arthur said. He was right, we can’t afford to take casualties. It would be no use to our cause if we fell in the forests.’

  They bade their farewell to Wilfred and picked their way through the scrubland ahead of the woods. Upon reaching the track that led into the forest, they looked skywards to their Gods and entered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  After emitting his wolf howl, Tomas ran back through the bramble squeeze and returned to his lookout. There, he watched as the four Saxons attacking at the oxcarts deserted their position and mounted their ponies.

  Before long, the remaining force of thirteen men, expecting to engage Dominic’s party, emerged from the shrubbery beside the oxcarts. Tomas realised his wolf cry had only bought a little time for the hidden fugitives. Now he hoped they would at least run from the hut and hide in the forest. He watched as Withred and Brinley ran back into the village and away from Osric and his men.

  Now on their toes and ready to fight if the need arose, the two Britons had recovered a little from the privations of battle. Uneasy about the fate of those hidden, they reached the hut to witness the aftermath of Egbert’s kidnapping of Ceola.

  Penetrated, Martha sobbed in the arms of Simon. The old man looked to Withred and Brinley. Aghast, he said: ‘Egbert took Murdoc’s little girl.’

  Frantic now, Withred darted his glance around him. ‘What…which way?’

  Simon nodded towards the western exit of the village. Withred grabbed the reins of a nearby pony.

  Brinley stopped him. ‘No! Withred, wait! Dominic needs you and your sword; you must go back to the fight!’

  ‘But we can’t just let him get away,’ said Withred with heat. ‘Who knows what that bastard will do with the child.’

  ‘Then I’ll go after him. At least I know the country around here’

  ‘And I’ll take our group into the forest,’ said Simon. �
�Dominic showed me a place he found in the winter month—a secluded place beside a outcrop of rock—it’s where we would have gone anyway with more warning of the raiders. We’ll wait there till this is over.’

  Withred withdrew his sword and turned towards the gap in the brambles. ‘Then get on with it!’ he shouted. ‘Fly into the woods and hide yourselves!’

  The Saxons circled the area in front of the ox carts, tense as they awaited the arrival of Dominic’s force. Osric counted the men who had survived to fight alongside him. Then it dawned on him. ‘Egbert . . . where’s Egbert?’ He looked to Wlensling, craving news.

  ‘I last saw him about to enter the hut,’ said Wlensling. ‘He may have been delayed there.’

  ‘Yes, and we all know what delays him,’ blistered Osric. Angry now he shouted his command. ‘Guthren! Ride back and get Egbert here now! We need every man ready to meet them when they arrive!’ He looked up the track towards the woods. ‘Come on then wolf man, where in Woden’s name are you.’

  Guthren left the group and urged his pony back through the bramble squeeze. As he emerged from the obstruction, he met the full force of Withred’s broadsword. Landing flat across his chest, the blade knocked him backwards off his pony. He fell, winded, onto the leafy floor, his disorientation and surprise becoming curtailed when the second sword strike razored his jugular and sent him to Woden.

  Withred stepped over Guthren’s body and edged through the gap. He paused, partially hidden. Before him, edgy and expectant, Osric and his twelve remaining riders wheeled their ponies. Both ponies and men flinched as Dominic’s blood-curdling howl resounded a second time.

  Tomas lay low and hidden on the elevated mound as he watched the riders below. His anxiety heightened when three of them dismounted and headed towards him.