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

by Atkinson, F J

  Augustus pulled at the dog’s ear as it attempted to bite into the flesh of his midriff. Completely oblivious to the tugs, the dog continued to tear at him until it had torn open a flap of his skin. Beneath the flap, Augustus’ flesh glistened raw and vulnerable. He swiped his fist at the dog’s head. No, you are not eating me alive. Augustus was adamant; he could not let it happen.

  The blow only enraged the dog, making it turn its attention from his gut to his face. On his back now, Augustus jammed his elbow under the dog’s muzzle as its jaws snapped at him a finger’s width from his nose. He was aware that one bite on his face would signal the end for him. He could see no way to gain advantage over the dog, but was not prepared to stop fighting, even though his energy had almost gone and his arms now screamed for relief. As the quiver in his arms became a shake, he imagined, with an uncontrollable morbidity, what it would feel like to have the flesh ripped from his face.

  Then he remembered the arrow in his shoulder.

  With his last reserves, he took the full weight of the dog on his right arm only, then reached across with his free hand and snatched the arrow from his shoulder. It emerged slick and bloody, its shaft clamped within his fist.

  Inevitably, his right arm collapsed under the sustained weight and pressure of the mastiff, but he met the dog’s descending face with the leaf shaped arrow point, jamming it through the dog’s wild, amber eye; deep through its socket, and into its brain. A small, curtailed yelp was all the dog could manage as it immediately flopped dead upon him.

  ‘CHRONOS!’ Griff’s scream was shrill and girl-like as he witnesses the demise of his bitch, causing Ambrosius to look at him with some concern. Now Griff could only stand mute and horrified—his hand pressed to his open mouth.

  ‘Shall I finish him?’ asked Ambrosius as he drew his sword.

  Griff, eyes wide with shock, hand still to mouth, could only manage a tiny nod. Ambrosius left and trotted down the steps and across the arena floor to Augustus.

  Augustus managed to climb to his knees and gasp in a mouthful of air. Only now did he notice that the screaming from the wagon behind him had stopped. A wet chomping and occasional crunching indicated that the dog was now feeding upon the driver.

  As Ambrosius ran towards him, Augustus knew that his struggle was not going away any time soon. His thoughts raced madly. He considered getting into the wagon and shutting the door to give him a brief respite, but no … the dog was in the wagon, he could not enter it.

  Without shield or weapon, and exhausted after his struggle with the mastiff, he knew he had little chance against the fresh, adept man who now approached him with purpose. As Ambrosius quickly closed on him, Augustus looked at the dog, dead at his feet below him. Grabbing the collar of the dog with his right hand, its stumpy tail with his left, he lifted it chest high just as Ambrosius reached him.

  He hoisted the body of the dog above his shoulders to meet the first overhead vertical strike from Ambrosius. The sword crunched through bone and tissue, almost cleaving the dog in half. Ambrosius immediately followed the strike with a waist high horizontal swipe at Augustus’ midriff. Augustus just managed to block the cut with the now-articulated body of the dog; the second strike cutting the dog in half.

  Still grasping the collar of the riven dog, Augustus stumbled back towards the wagon. He was done in, he knew it—his next action would be his final one, and as Ambrosius shuffled towards him, readying himself to deliver his deathblow, Augustus threw the half-dog at him as a last act of defiance.

  Ambrosius’ avoidance of the dog carcass caused him to shift his balance as he attacked Augustus with another overhead slashing swipe; the slight stumble giving Augustus the extra moment he needed to avoid the attack.

  Ambrosius’ sword rang shrill as it hit the metal rim of the wagon wheel, creating a myriad of orange sparks, the force of the impact causing the sword to fly from his hands. Augustus was exhausted and could only fall upon Ambrosius, but his leaden weight was sufficient to press him to the side of the wagon.

  Wild-eyed, Ambrosius looked towards the floor searching for his sword. He twisted violently and attempted to wriggle free, but his strength was no match for Augustus, even though the Briton was at the end of his reserves.

  Augustus was now able to place his meaty hand on Ambrosius’ forehead and slide his fingers through his crinkly hair. He made to slam Ambrosius’ head into the metal rim of the wagonwheel but Ambrosius could sense that Augustus’ strength was seeping from him and with a backward jerk of his neck he managed to liberate his head from Augustus’ grasp.

  Placing both hands and his knee against Augustus’ chest, he pushed against him, at last causing him to let go and fall backwards onto the dusty floor. Now Ambrosius darted past him, intent on retrieving his sword, but Augustus swiped at Ambrosius’ ankle, causing him to stumble then fall. Nauseous now with exhaustion, Augustus once again found the strength to gain his knees. He again fell upon Ambrosius, this time spreading his weight evenly over him. He grasped Ambrosius’ free arm and jammed it into the arena floor.

  Griff’s man grimaced as he strained to free himself from Augustus’ dead weight. He wriggled, strained and pushed; his white teeth clenched; his eyes wide with rage, but to no avail.

  Augustus remembered the dog; remembered how he had killed it; remembered how easily it had died. ‘Gods forgive me,’ he breathed as he sought out Ambrosius eyes with his finger and thumb. Ambrosius’ instinctively squeezed shut his eyes as Augustus thrust his thick digits through his sockets. Griff’s man yowled as Augustus continued to push his finger and thumb beyond the popped orbs and into his brain. As Ambrosius lay moaning beneath him, Augustus saw the sword that lay nearby. Wearily he gained his feet, retrieved the sword, and placed the point over Ambrosius’ sternum. Utterly exhausted now, Augustus fell upon the pommel.

  Griff looked on, aghast, as the fight came to its unlikely conclusion. Unable to take in what he had witnessed in the arena, his only thought now was for his remaining dog.

  ‘Titon,’ he wept, as he ran to the wagon, intent on letting the mastiff loose again. He did not fear the huge Briton who now knelt exhausted beside Ambrosius. He knew the man could have nothing left. All his fight had to be gone.

  However, Griff was wrong. With his last reserves, Augustus—who was aware of Griff’s intent—was able to get to his feet just as Griff reached the back door of the wagon and began to fumble with the tightly knotted twine that secured it. Griff chattered and whined inanely as he scrabbled at the knot, his whimperings matching those of the dog behind the door. Now he cursed Augustus for tying the knot too tightly; cursed him for killing Chronos; for killing Ambrosius; cursed Augustus’ mother for even spawning him. And that was when the sword struck him; the blow hacking through the nape of his neck, decapitating him cleanly.

  Augustus stepped back to allow Griff’s body to fall to the ground. He dropped the sword—too shattered now to even bear its weight. With his arms hanging limply beside him, he looked, first at Griff’s head, the lips of which still twitched as if attempting to spit out one last curse at him, then up to the grey, scudding clouds above.

  Now his body shook with convulsive sobs … of relief … desperation … utter exhaustion. He looked around at the carnage he had caused, looked at his wounded stomach, and wondered how he would ever get back to Brythonfort.

  With a stumbling, weary gait, he walked out of the arena. Now he could collect Cate and the youth. Now he could take them home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  One day into the forest, Dominic, William and John came to the abandoned village. Once the home of William and John, the village was the scene of the battle at the ox carts, where a Saxon force—led by Osric and Egbert—had been defeated. By a mixture of guile and bravery, and led by Dominic and Withred, the village had managed to stem the tide of Saxon incursion that day, but in doing so most of the men of the village had been lost. The relocation of the survivors was then inevitable, and the remaining population had soon made
the journey to Brythonfort.

  William and John were somber as they looked at the village for the first time since they had left it, two years earlier. Samuel, their youngest brother, lay buried, along with all who had died that day, in a grove behind the village. He had fallen victim to a Saxon ax after fighting bravely on the final day of the battle. Now his brothers intended to visit his grave before moving on into the deeper forest. Dominic kept a respectable distance behind them as they made their way along the short track that led to the graves. Overgrown, the track proved awkward, and Dominic was immediately alert when his woodsman’s eye noticed that recent passage had occurred upon it. When William and John abruptly stopped, Dominic quickly nocked an arrow to his bow.

  John, who walked ahead of Dominic, held out his arm telling him to hold fast. ‘Don’t make a sound, Dom,’ he warned. ‘Figures linger near the graves … and listen … someone cries out.’

  Augustus had found the pony outside the arena. Earlier used to pull the cart, the driver had led it to a grassy area beyond the gates to protect it from possible attack from the dogs. Augustus had been grateful to find the beast, although he had no idea how he was ever going to mount it, such was his level of exhaustion.

  Eventually, he had managed to pull himself up onto the pony. Then, he could only let the beast find its own way back to the villa, as he lay slumped against its neck.

  Back at the villa, the two slave women now opened the gates for him. Shocked and with hands to mouths they blanched when they saw him gore-daubed and dissolute. Augustus was to learn from Ciaran later, that Griff only had a small household, consisting of Ambrosius and the two women.

  The women led him to the bathhouse. Here, Cate and Ciaran came to him, and Augustus briefly told them his tale.

  Shocked, yet delighted to discover he had accounted for Griff and Ambrosius, they left him to his bath. When he had finished, the two women dressed his wounds as best they could and led him to Griff’s opulent room.

  Augustus had no idea if Griff had any accomplices who might visit; who might be hostile to him. Quite simply, he didn’t care now. He knew he had to rest at least one night before making the arduous journey back to Brythonfort. One night’s rest could mean the difference between life and death for him. But that night his sleep was plagued with feverish episodes, and the next morning he awoke fatigued and unfulfilled.

  After meeting Cate and Ciaran on the square, they prepared to leave. The two slave women hugged Ciaran and Cate and looked with concern at Augustus. Wincing, he hauled himself onto the biggest of the three well-provisioned ponies they had brought from Griff’s stable.

  After assuring the concerned Ciaran they would be fine—would find other employment or stay at the villa until someone came to investigate—the women gave the travellers one last embrace before saying farewell.

  The group rode all that day—Augustus pained and grey as he leaned into his abdominal wound and rode at the front of the group. He had little fear of meeting any large groups of riders now the campaigning season had ended. As for chasers … frankly, he had ceased to care. Whatever happened now would happen. He had done all he could.

  The next day they entered the forest. Augustus knew now that he would not survive the journey to Brythonfort. The wound inflicted by the dog had begun to throb and weep—a vitreous gunge now soaking through his bandage. His arrow-torn shoulder, too, pulsated with every beat of his heart.

  Cate and Ciaran, who helped him when they could, were his main worry now, and the reason he had entered the forest rather than keep to the road. Should he die, he knew they would be unlikely to survive on the road without him. On the open road, they would be victim to any travellers they met harbouring malicious intent—and they were bound to meet a few.

  So he had chosen the forest in the knowledge that Dominic would come that way. Dominic would have set out to help him. He did not doubt it. He knew the man too well. Once on their trail he would find them—find Cate and Ciaran, at least.

  For four days, they struggled through wood and hollow yet saw no one. As Augustus slowly got weaker, Cate took to bouts of crying as she rode at the back of the group and observed him before her—bent over in his saddle, open mouthed with pain and hardly able to keep himself upon his pony.

  Ciaran, once pristine and feminine in his demeanor, now looked every inch the soiled and ragged traveller; his ginger hair dirty; his clothes soiled and unkempt.

  Towards the end of the fourth day, Augustus, now feverish, slipped from his pony and lay unmoving. Cate and Ciaran attended him, frantic with worry, thinking that death had finally come to him.

  But Augustus was still alive. The fall had been gentle enough, but his wounds now screamed. Incredibly, Cate and Ciaran watched, as Augustus raised himself to his knees and turned his pained and lined face towards them.

  He pointed up the track. ‘Not far now … my old village … it’s not far…’

  Totally drained of all energy now, he beckoned Ciaran to help him gain his feet. This proved less than easy, and took Ciaran three attempts to get Augustus upright. Eventually, Augustus swayed where he stood and looked at Cate as if trying to remember who she was. Blinking away his confusion, he managed to look up the trail again. Then he looked at his pony. Giving a weak little laugh, he shook his head. ‘Can’t get on that … have to walk … not far now …’

  He stumbled forward like a drunken man walking home from the alehouse. Cate followed with the ponies, whilst Ciaran supported him by his elbow.

  Soon they came to a grove dotted by piles of stones. ‘Sam’s here … my brother,’ whispered Augustus as he nodded to Ciaran. ‘This is where they’ll come to find us … here they’ll come to see his grave.’

  He lurched towards a big pile of stones at the edge of the grove and slumped down upon them. His face now seemed peaceful to Cate and Ciaran as he looked up to them—a face flooded with relief now his terrible trial was about to end. Now he was with his brother and all was well.

  Lying down on top of the stones, as if settling on his side to sleep, his voice was weak and distant. ‘Put me with him when I go … the others will come … do not worry ...’

  But Cate could take it no longer.

  ‘NO!’ Her scream was shrill and sudden, as the tension of the days exploded from her. ‘No … do not dare do this to me. I have lost one father, I will not lose another.’ Kneeling beside Augustus now, she pummeled her small, grimy fists into his thick thighs. Her tone was desperate … almost angry. ‘Wake up … wake up, damn you!’

  As Augustus remained unmoving, Ciaran put his hand on Cate’s shoulder, uncertain of how to help her through her anguish. He had only known Augustus for seven days (an unwell, dying Augustus true enough), but he had already started to love the man, just as Cate so obviously loved him.

  Cate turned towards Ciaran; her face quickly changing from despondency to astonishment as she saw three men heading towards them. She recognised the inimitable Dominic immediately. Two other men, who had to be Augustus’ brothers, walked beside him. Dominic quickly ran over to Augustus, followed by William and John.

  As Dominic stooped to attend to Augustus, Cate pulled anxiously at her trail-stained dress as she wept behind them. ‘He died,’ she sobbed. ‘You’re too late … he could take his torment no longer.’

  Dominic looked up frowning as he pressed two fingers against Augustus’ neck. ‘No, his heart still beats, he is not dead, girl.’ He looked to William who stooped beside him. ‘We must get him to Aebbeduna and Wilfred. There, he may be comforted, though I fear the journey will kill him.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Six months were to pass before Maewyn, Flint and Nila stood on the shores of Hibernia.

  Two months prior, they had made the journey to the old Roman town of Deva in Britannia to meet the Hibernian monks who had crossed the Oceanus Hibernicus to spread the word of God. Here, a small number of people still lived within the walls of the town, leaving each day to farm the surrounding lands.


  After meeting Ingle in the simple lodgings appointed by the monks for their stay, Maewyn and Flint had embraced him warmly, before introduced him to Nila.

  Maewyn had then explained to Ingle their reason for coming to Deva— how they intended to accompany him back to Hibernia after his short stay in Britannia; their purpose to visit Mule’s grave.

  Ingle had then told them what had happened on the days following Mule’s death.

  True to his word, Ingle’s uncle, the dock master Guairá, had removed and hidden Mule’s body, before Fróech’s brother, Colman, had arrived at the docks. (Later, his body would be taken to the monastery and buried near to the ponds that Mule had so loved to fish.)

  Guairá had then told Colman of how the Britons had sailed away without the children, believing them all dead, having perished in the marshes. He also told them of their fight with Froech’s force on the dockside.

  Colman had been devastated to see the headless corpse of his brother, but had believed Guairá’s story. Assuming the children dead, he had taken Fróech’s body back to Fincath. For a full month after that, Fincath had held a wake in honour of his son. Like Colman, he now believed that the children had perished in the marshes. The monks would not be troubled again.

  Eight weeks had passed in Deva, before Ingle readied himself to return to Hibernia with Flint, Maewyn and Nila. During that time, Maewyn had accompanied Ingle and the other monks as they visited remote communities, introducing the word of God to the peasant folk.

  Maewyn himself had helped deliver the message on some occasions, having partly embraced the Christian doctrine. After Mule’s death, he had struggled to find any meaning to life; any purpose to the vicious world he inhabited. He had grieved long and hard for his brother, and his thoughts had often gone back to his previous brief stay in Hibernia with the monks.