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

by Atkinson, F J

  The Saxon twisted his head, eyes fearful and wide, as he took a sideways peek at Augustus. Upon seeing the close proximity of the big bearded face, the bald hair-encircled head and the fierce glittering eyes, he gave a frightened little nod.

  ’You’re sure you are not going to make a noise?’ repeated Augustus.

  Again, the nod, and Augustus lowered him to the ground and removed his hand.

  ‘But I’m not a soldier, I’m just a—‘

  ‘Shuush!’ Augustus held a finger to his lips and the man fell silent. He nodded down at the man’s crotch, where his manhood still dangled. ‘Put … it … away,’ whispered Augustus.

  Moments later, Augustus had him bound and gagged, and thrown over the back of his horse. Then, as if returning from the market with a sack of grain, he walked the horse upwards to Badon Hill.

  Withred and Arthur met him when he crested the ridge. ‘Good … good,’ enthused Arthur. ‘Lock him away for now with the absconder. Flint will talk to him later; any information we can get from him is better than nothing.’

  Augustus removed the gag from the man and pushed him through the darkness towards the holding cage.

  Dominic stood in silence as he surveyed the scene before him. The ragged rain clouds had shifted, allowed a gibbous moon to cast an ethereal glow upon the walls of Aquae Sulis. Before the walls were the Saxon military tents. The campfires still burned, and beside each one lay a dead Saxon guard from the earlier attack.

  The archers crowded Dominic awaiting his next instruction. ‘We all need to act together on this,’ he said. ‘Once we move make sure you use all your fire-arrows’—he jerked his head towards the low fires still burning—‘use those to light them. When you’re finished it’s every man for himself so get on your horses and get back up that hill.’ He strained to make out his men in the darkness, looking for any who might be hesitant. Satisfied, he gave his last order. ‘Right; go to it. Move now!’

  Murdoc ran towards his fire clutching the first of his arrows. Its tip, wrapped in fat-soaked hemp, seemed top-heavy to him. The day before, shortly after Dominic had come up with his plan, Murdoc had practiced briefly with the flame-arrows and found them to be awkward and unpredictable. Now he hoped he could find his mark.

  His ponderings ended as an arrow flew into the tents to his right. A quick glance told him that Dominic had no intention of hanging around. Murdoc lit his own arrow, let fly, then watched as its incandescent trajectory described a low arc away from him. Lower than he would have liked, the missile nevertheless shot through the side of the nearest tent. A glow immediately erupted within. Murdoc quickly lit another arrow.

  All along his line of sight, shrieking flames flew skywards. Soon, he had exhausted his own supply. He turned from the walls and began his retreat as a cacophony of shouts and screams erupted from the tents behind him. Forty paces away, tied to a makeshift hitching rail, the horses awaited. Dominic’s words came to him as he approached one of them. “Get on a horse when you’re done, don’t worry which—any horse—just get up and ride away.”

  Tomas arrived at the same time, panting and urgent. Murdoc offered his hands as a stirrup and Tomas deftly stood in them and bounced up to a snorting mare. ‘Thanks, Mur,’ he breathed. ‘Now get yourself out of here; the beasts are becoming spooked.’

  As Murdoc went to grab a nearby horse, it shied away, causing him to stumble. The hitching rail, earlier erected by one of the archers, had come away from the muddy ground, pulled out by the remaining six horses which now tossed their heads in a bid for freedom. Murdoc berated himself for his earlier hesitancy when realising that Dominic and the others were long gone.

  Heat from behind had had him turn to look. In total, fifteen tents were aflame. Murdoc saw that most of the occupants had escaped death by running into the open. These, a large group of bedraggled men and harlots—some dressed, some naked, some in night apparel—milled around in apparent confusion. Soon the gates of Aquae Sulis parted and a detachment of Guertepir’s riders emerged.

  ‘Separate, and see what you can find!’ Diarmait’s shout sounded thin and distant to Murdoc as he again attempted to grab the reins of the only horse remaining. The beast, eyes rolling, reared and kicked away from him—the red glint of fire on its hooves, his last sight of it as it bound and whinnied its way into the darkness.

  Alone and horseless, Murdoc cast a quick glance back to the city. At least two of the riders were heading his way. Knowing his only option was to flee, he turned and headed back through the civilian camp towards the distant shadowy bulk of Badon Hill.

  ‘Here! He’s trying to get away! Over here!’ Murdoc, his blackened face and dark clothing marking him out as a marauder, had caught the attention of a Saxon baker who had emerged to investigate the riot of sound outside his covered wagon. The man beckoned to one of Diarmait’s men then lunged at Murdoc, but the Briton was having none of it and struck the baker, knocking him to the ground.

  Murdoc cursed at the revealing fire-glow as he stumbled, fatigued, onwards and upwards. More people came from the tents and wagons and he could only push through them now. None attempted to stop him this time, and slowly he gained the open, clear fields. He welcomed the modicum of approaching shadow and could feel the churned ground beneath him. Dominic and the others were long gone—he knew that now. Girding himself for his final push up the hill, he took in a lungful of air and set off in a stumbling, exhausted run.

  When the sound of pattering hooves sounded, it was sudden and unexpected. But it came from behind which meant this was no rescue. More likely, imminent death came his way. With his bow now impotent, and armed only with a knife, he turned to encounter the rider who galloped straight through him.

  ‘No! Do not kill him!‘ Diarmait’s shout was enough to stay the hand of his man. Having knocked Murdoc senseless with his horse, the rider had fallen upon the Briton, intending to cut his throat. As a third rider arrived, Diarmait took charge. ‘Get him back to the city,’ he snapped. ‘Quickly before anyone rides down to look for him. A live captive is worth thirty dead men, you should know that.’

  ‘A big bastard took hold of me when I was taking a piss,’ explained Cutha to the other occupant of the wooden cage. ‘Don’t know what they want with me, I’m just a cook … came here to see if I could grab some land when they move westwards.’

  ‘You should’ve stayed back in you rat hole back east, then,’ said Liofa, the Angle. ‘Come to think of it, we’re both a pair of rat-brains.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  Liofa gave an indifferent sniff and toyed sulkily with the hole in his hose. ‘Because we’ve both ended up in this bleedin holding pen, why d’you think; and before the battle’s even started.’

  ‘But you’re an Angle, listening to you. Whose side are you on anyway? I hear Angles have ridden to Arthur’s cause.’

  ‘And more fool me for doing so. As soon as I saw the numbers against us, I said, sod this, I’m off.’

  ‘Numbers against you? What do you mean? I thought Arthur had thousands behind him.’

  ‘He has got thousands, my friend … three thousand. Outnumbered two to one he is; why do you think I’m sat here this night. I got as far as Corinium; was going to try and make it to Norwic and sail home, but I got caught and they brought me back.’

  Cutha pondered a moment as his simple brain struggled to assimilate the information. After a period of contemplative silence, he asked: ‘What d’you think they’ll do with us?’

  ‘Who knows; torture us maybe.’

  Cutha’s eyes widened with fright as his mouth formed a shocked O shape. He then told Liofa of the rumours he had heard about the slaughter in the town. ‘Killed all the women and children they did, and the knight and his wife and baby. They’ll torture us for sure.'

  Liofa chuckled. ‘Naw, don’t shit your pants just yet, we’re the least of their troubles. They’re waiting for reinforcements from the west. As soon as they get here they’ll have the Saxons and the rest surrounded. Arthur
’s happy to sit here and do nothing; the last thing he wants to do at the moment is fight. This standoff suits him, even though he gave Guertepir the impression he wants him to come up the hill. He’s expecting help—big help—and he wants to sit pretty till it gets here.’

  ‘Are you saying he doesn’t want to fight yet?’

  ‘No of course not,’ laughed Liofa, astounded at Cutha’s naivety. ‘If they fought now, uphill battle or no uphill battle, Guertepir would kick his arse. If you ask me—’

  A tumult from outside cut Liofa short. He scuttled to the bars of the cage and stuck his nose through them as he struggled to make out its cause. After sniffing ineffectively at the air he turned to Cutha. ‘Sounds like something’s ruffled their feathers,’ he said. ‘A load of them just flew down the hill like they’ve got rats up their arses. Time I sneaked off while I can—the guard’s gone from the door.’

  ‘What do y’mean, time you sneaked off,’ said Cutha with an alarmed whisper. ‘You can’t just open the door and leave.’

  Moonlight glinted off Liofa’s knife as he sawed away at the twine securing the door. ‘Yes I can, and this knife’s my key,’ he grunted as he continued to slice through the twine. ‘They missed it when they put me in here … is it any wonder I ran away from the useless bastards.’

  Liofa soon had the door open. He peeked outside, his head darting around like a cautious lizard as he strained to see any movement. Preparing to leave, he turned towards Cutha who had shrunk against the far wall of the cage as if terrified of the world beyond it. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way,’ he said. ‘It’s off this mad island and back to the marshes of Angeln for me.’ When Cutha didn’t move, Liofa gave an indifferent shrug. ‘Please yourself, stay there if you must, but don’t be surprised if they take my escape out on you when they get back.’ With that, Liofa crawled from the cage and bounded off into the darkness.

  Cutha’s torpidity departed him upon hearing Liofa’s final words. Indeed, he would take his chances. If he ran into angry Britons then so be it. Waiting in the cage was suddenly the wrong thing to do, especially if they took their frustrations out on him when they returned. And so, seconds after Liofa’s departure, Cutha ran down the hill to his own people and freedom.

  THE BATTLE – DAY TWO

  When dawn came, Guertepir and a small entourage rode from the protection of Aquae Sulis. Standing amongst the smoldering aftermath of Dominic’s raid while they assessed the damage were Hrodgar, Wigstan, Cenhelm and Osbeorn.

  ‘Ah, the fat bastard’s here at last,’ said Hrodgar as he strode out towards Guertepir. When he reached him, he jabbed his finger at the burnt out tents. ‘See … this is what happens when you sit and wait,’ he stormed. ‘I lost thirty men last night—yes, it could have been worse, but it should never have happened.’ He pointed up the hill. ‘It’s time we dealt with them and the only way to do it is to get up there and fight.’

  Guertepir signalled to one of his retainers, and the man went down on his hands and knees offering his back as a stool. Grunting as he removed himself from his saddle, Guertepir climbed down, via the man’s back, to stand beside Hrodgar and the others. He looked towards the charred tents and sighed … as much at Hrodgar’s persistence as at the sight before him. ‘Yes, they pricked our arses last night,’ he conceded, ‘but if that’s the best they can do then we’ve little to worry about. I’ve spoken to Cunedda and Diarmait and they still think it better to wait for the Britons to come to us.’

  ‘They may have pricked our arses this time but who knows what they have planned for tonight,’ said Hrodgar, who was having none of it. ‘Surely, it’s madness to wait here and let them keep sending down raids. I say we get our men up that hill and meet them.’

  ‘There’s absolutely no need to be so reckless, and our wait will be short, anyway,’ said Guertepir. ‘How long do you think Arthur will hang around. That his people in the west are vulnerable to any chancing war band heading their way must be driving him mad. Last night was merely his attempt to draw us up towards him. And listen to you man—he’s nearly succeeded in his aim. I tell you we’ve no need to be hasty, we are sitting pretty here … besides; things have changed since we took the captive.’

  ‘Oh, the Briton … oh, him,’ said Hrodgar, his mind still on outright attack and his interest only mildly evoked. ‘What difference will he make? He’s but one man. Arthur will not give concessions for the life of one man, you should know that.’

  ‘Yes, I do know, but do not be surprised what a bit of provocation will achieve.’

  ‘And how will you provoke him?’

  ’By demanding something I’m sure he will not give, and then killing his man before his eyes because he refuses me.’

  ‘More likely you’ll provoke your wife by killing him. I hear he’s a handsome, athletic man; exactly the type she desires for her bedchamber.’

  ‘I think not; he was unable to perform for her; gave him to her last night but she flew into a fury over his soft dick. Like the other, he was immune to her charms; can’t imagine why.’

  ‘Then kill him by all means,’ said Hrodgar, in no mood for levity. ‘Better still, torture him. Have it done now before me; it would please the men and give an edge to my appetite; why must you kill him in front of Arthur? What will that achieve?’

  ‘Who can tell,’ shrugged Guertepir. ‘Maybe he’ll fly into a rage and come down off that hill of his and get on with it if he sees his man slaughtered before him.’

  Hrodgar was skeptical. ‘You’ve already tried shocking him with the heads in the sack, and that didn’t work.’

  Osbeorn, the brother of Bealdwine (a fierce warrior scout killed by Dominic in the eastern forests two years earlier), had suddenly become interested. Like his late brother, Osbeorn was a hook-nosed, narrow-eyed, viscous killer. ‘This Briton?’ he asked. ‘Would he be from the eastern lands or from Arthur’s province?’

  Guertepir chuckled and wagged a finger at Osbeorn. ‘Ah … I see what you’re heading towards,’ he said. ‘Why do you not just come right out with it and ask if the man might be a cohort of this Dominic you so obviously hate.’

  ‘As you would hate him if he had killed your brother?’ bristled Osbeorn.

  ‘My brother—no, definitely not. I killed the bastard myself. Greedy turd he was … wanted half of my kingdom. But the answer to your question is this: yes, he is an associate of Dominic, I know because this is the second time the man has been under my lock and key. The last time was at my fort; there I held him as surety while Dominic went to Hibernia and settled an old score for me.’

  Osbeorn, eyes flashing, suddenly gripped Guertepir’s tunic. ‘Then I must be the one to kill him,’ he said. ‘When it comes time, Guertepir, I must be the one to do it.’

  ‘Look, this is getting us nowhere and the morning draws on,’ snapped Hrodgar as Guertepir pulled Osbeorn grip away. ‘I’m sure you will be the one to do it, Osbeorn. Now get the prisoner, Guertepir, for pity’s sake, so we can move on this.’

  Guertepir gave Osbeorn an unpleasant look then turned and nodded to one of his men. Soon, the man returned, pushing a bruised and bloody Murdoc before him.

  Dominic feared for Murdoc. After returning from the night raid it had soon become clear that something was wrong. The pulsating excitement of the raiding party (all of whom were back and safe) had soon given way to anxiety when Murdoc’s absence became noted. Dominic then paced the ridge, straining to look beyond the blackness towards the far glow of the fields before the city. Having waited long enough, he and ten of his men had stormed down the hill, prepared to travel even into the very midst of the enemy camp to find their man.

  The discovery of his bow at the edge of the Saxon encampment, along with the telltale signs on the ground, had left Dominic in no doubt that Murdoc had been taken. Withred had come to him then. Sent by Arthur, he eventually persuaded Dominic to return to camp, reasoning that to continue the chase would only lead to his own capture or death.

  A sleepless night passed, and th
e dawn found Dominic hollow-eyed and frantic as he scanned the tent-strewn valley below.

  ‘Something will happen today, Dom, believe me. This will move on.’

  Dominic, his face a mask of worry, turned to find Arthur. ‘He wanted nothing more than to live his life in peace as a farmer,’ said Dominic. ‘I found him in the forest with his little girl after those bastards had wrecked his life and now they finally have him in their grasp.’

  ‘He may still be alive,’ said Arthur with scant conviction. ‘He may even get away; after all we lost two prisoners overnight.’

  Dominic had turned his attention back to the valley. ‘Yes, I know, but that was a set up,’ he said distractedly. ‘I doubt Murdoc will get a chance like that … that’s if he’s still alive.’

  Troubled, both walked a distance down the hill as they strained to make out the distant walls of Aquae Sulis. After a moment, Arthur put an arm around Dominic’s shoulder and pointed to the open gates of the city. ‘Can you see it; something’s stirred them,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to tell at this distance, but’—he turned and shouted up the slope—‘can somebody up there get Flint and his good eyes down here!’

  ‘Yes, something seems to be happening,’ said Dominic. ‘Maybe Flint will tell us more.’

  Flint arrived, breathless and keen to help.

  ‘How’re the men faring?’ asked Arthur?’

  ‘Anxious but ready to go,’ said Flint. ‘Gus’s with them now, making them laugh as usual. Knows what he’s doing does Gus; knows the value of keeping them in good spirits.’

  ‘And you’ve kept them off the ale?’

  ‘Gave them their usual rations; though some might need a boost before they go into the shieldwall; but that seems a distant prospect at the moment.’