"I was not seen," Attor said in a hushed voice.
"Wardens?" asked Beobrand.
"Only one at the door of the hall. He died silently. We should go now, before his body is found."
So the die had been cast. There was no more time for dwelling on the past, or what might be. The time had come to act.
Beobrand grasped Attor's shoulder.
"You have done well," Beobrand said, drawing Hrunting in a smooth motion from its fleece-lined scabbard. "Lead the way."
CHAPTER 32
The seven men crept through the settlement towards the hulking shadow of the long hall. The houses brooded silent and dark in the night. After the darkness of the forest path, the moonlight seemed bright. They followed Attor, who had led them off the path to cross the stream where the banks were shallower, avoiding the wooden bridge and the noise they would make by crossing it.
Beobrand scanned the shadowy bulk of the buildings they passed for any sign of movement. But all was still. To his left he spied the glimmer of light from the fire pot. It glowed weakly on Aethelwulf's face, which was a mask of concentration as he carried the pot, careful not to let it drop.
They reached the hall. Its black shape blotted out the moonlight. They gathered in the moon shadow of the building and Beobrand touched Aethelwulf's shoulder gently. Aethelwulf set down the pot, took a cloth so as not to burn his fingers and lifted the lid. A dim red glow lit his face. He quickly dropped some more wood into the earthenware vessel. Within moments, flames crackled and yellow light flickered.
Aethelwulf stepped back and as one the warriors dipped their fish oil-soaked torches into the pot's fire. The light dimmed, smothered by the torches. They were all suddenly blind again after losing their night sight from staring at the flames.
Beobrand's heart hammered in his chest. To be discovered now would bring disaster. He turned his back on the fire pot and the torches, looking out instead into the night.
The flames were evidently catching behind him, as the light expanded and cast his shadow, black and dancing before him. Still there was no movement from any of the buildings. Beobrand offered up silent thanks to Woden. Perhaps it was his wyrd to be victorious this night. He spun back to his gesithas. Their faces, lit by the guttering torches, were all ruddy cheeks, shadows and glinting eyes. These were his men. His gesithas. They had followed him here. They trusted him and he believed in them. They would fight for him. Kill for him. Even die for him.
But they would not die this night. These men were eager for battle. To hear of the abuse of Sunniva had dismayed them. They still felt guilty for their part in it, Beobrand was sure. The death of Anhaga had shaken them. And now they had lost one of their own. Tobrytan was liked by all, and had been murdered in a cowardly attack by Torran, son of Nathair.
Beobrand could feel his own battle fury threatening to blank everything else out, and he knew in that instant, with the clarity of the searing flames on the torches, that his men felt the same way. They had come to this place to rescue Reaghan. Yes. But more than that, they had come to satisfy their need for blood. They brought flame and sword in the night and they all now looked to him to give the command. To unleash their vengeance.
Beobrand nodded at Acennan. For a moment, he merely frowned back and Beobrand thought he would not respond. Then Acennan signalled to Elmer and Garr, and like hounds released to the scent of a stag, they ran off, disappearing round the side of the hall. Propped at the edge of the porch, Beobrand noticed in the torchlight a slumped shape. The door warden's corpse. Attor was sly. The guard could have been asleep.
Acennan indicated for Attor and Ceawlin to watch the village huts, protecting their backs. Then, ramming his burning brand into the soil, he joined Beobrand and Aethelwulf to form a small shieldwall before the doors of the hall.
Beobrand hefted his shield, tightened his grip on Hrunting. It would not be long now.
He could hear the crackle and hiss of larger flames from the rear of the building. Elmer and Garr had brought flasks of fish oil to aid the fire and the night was dry. A red glow crowned the hall's roof as the flames began to feed hungrily off the wood and thatch. Beobrand looked up at the moon. Did the gods look down from there? He knew not, but if they gazed upon him, he would give them a night to remember. A night of fire, battle and death. A night worthy of the songs of scops. He hoped Leofwine was seated in Woden's corpse hall watching. The scop would revel in the telling of this night's tale. What a song he would sing.
And then Beobrand's attention was pulled back down to the hall.
Because the doors burst open.
The dark hush of the night exploded into light and cacophony. Flames leapt high from the hall, sending sparks flying towards the bright moon. Behind their meagre shieldwall, Beobrand heard screams. Shouts of fear. Cries of pain. The high-pitched wailing of children shaken from their slumber by frightened parents. He sensed Ceawlin and Attor readying themselves for any attacks from brave or foolhardy villagers.
The hall doors had been flung wide and smoke billowed forth as men tumbled into the night. The first man was large and clumsy with sleep. He was shouting over his shoulder, evidently to those yet to escape the burning building. He was close to Beobrand when he turned and saw the warriors, flame-licked helms and weapons gleaming. His face took on a comic look of surprise, his mouth a black circle. Beobrand recognised his grey-streaked hair and unruly beard, remembered how his toe had ached when the weather turned cold ever since kicking this same man in the teeth. The man had no time to recognise Beobrand, who took two steps forward and smashed his shield boss into the shocked face. The man went down hard.
The second man was fractionally more alert. He saw his friend drop from the shield-blow to the face and managed to arrest his forward motion. But before he could take stock, Acennan leapt forward and swung his sword. The blade sank deep into the man's shoulder. He looked down in absolute horror at the iron jutting from his body. He began to keen, an ululating shriek the like of which none had heard before. His hands flailed up, flapping like injured bats at the cold blade that had pierced him. Acennan twisted the blade savagely and pulled it free of the sucking flesh. A great gout of blood spewed forth. The man's keening turned into a grunting groan and he collapsed, face first onto the earth.
The other men who had begun to leave the hall retreated back inside. Behind them, flames and smoke were engulfing the wooden structure. They would not stay long within the hall. The heat would force them out soon enough.
Beobrand glanced back to where Attor and Ceawlin stood. As he looked, a man dressed in nothing more than a kirtle, bare legs pale in the night, ran at them. He was armed with a small axe. Attor let the man come. The hatchet rose high and the man screamed his defiance. At the last moment, Attor dropped his shoulder, slid harmlessly beneath the man's flailing attack, and lifted him with one fluid motion over him. The man crashed into the hard earth. Attor picked up the man's axe and turned away from him. It was only then that Beobrand saw that Attor must have driven his seax into the man at the same moment as catapulting him into the air. He lay there, mouth gaping and hand gripping at the bubbling hole in his stomach. His kirtle was stained red.
Beobrand turned his focus back to the man at his feet. The man was dazed, his eyes groggy. Blood and spittle flecked his lips and beard. His teeth were a jagged ruin of broken grave markers. Beobrand dropped to the ground beside him. He put Hrunting down beside the man and slapped him hard.
"Where is she?" he bellowed.
The man's eyes tried to focus. Flames and sparks reflected in the large pupils.
Beobrand took hold of his throat and shook him.
"Where is she?" he repeated. The fire was raging now. If Reaghan was in the hall as he suspected, she would die if they did not get her out soon.
"Who... what?" The man's voice was slurred.
"The girl? The girl you took, where is she?"
Recognition came then. He looked up at Beobrand and found his courage. He smiled through his
bloodied mouth and broken teeth.
"She's inside. She was a tasty morsel. We all had her," he started to laugh. "She was a fighter. Made it more fun."
The words turned to burbling choking. Beobrand had taken up Hrunting and drawn its blade across the man's throat. It sliced deeply, through sinew and flesh, until metal rasped against bone, such was Beobrand's ire and Hrunting's sharpness.
Beobrand stood. Acennan and Aethelwulf shuffled close on either side.
"She's inside," said Beobrand. The rear part of the hall's roof was now a conflagration worthy of a king's funeral pyre. They could see the shapes of figures in the doorway, dark against the flames. The heat was increasing. It was getting painful to stand this close to the hall. Gods knew how long those inside could hold out.
From behind them came more sounds of combat. Another glance told him Attor and Ceawlin were still standing. More corpses had joined the axeman at their feet. Attor was mad with the blood-lust. He grinned widely and screamed at the gathered villagers.
"Run now, or die! I have the taste for blood and I would have more! I will rip your guts from your bellies. I will fuck your women. Eat your babies!"
Beobrand turned away from the disturbing sight. Attor was like an animal. A wolf worrying defenceless lambs in a field.
The searing heat pushed Beobrand and the others back a pace.
"She'll die in there," Acennan shouted over the tumult of the fire and battle-clash.
Beobrand ground his teeth. It was true. If they did not come out, there would be none who could survive in that inferno much longer.
"Sons of Nathair!" he roared. "Come from your father's hall and fight me! You have killed my people for the last time. Come out and face your doom!"
He did not truly expect the men inside to react to his words. But his voice carried the force of his frustrations. His rage at the gods. All his sorrow. And his loss.
As if at his signal, the moment the words left his lips men rushed from the doors. They had used their time to prepare themselves for they now bore war gear. Blades flashed. Helms glimmered. Three men leapt from the doors and sprang forward, shields raised high before them.
The force and speed of the attack gave Beobrand pause for a heartbeat. It was all he could do to raise his shield against the sword thrust that whistled towards his chest. Then the man was upon him. Beobrand attempted to sidestep the careening run of his adversary, but he was not fast enough. The Pict collided with him and they fell to the ground in a tangle.
To Beobrand's left, he was dimly aware of the massive form of Broden, son of Nathair, smashing into Acennan. The huge man swung a deadly two-handed axe as if it was a child's plaything. Acennan was forced back by the onslaught.
On the right, a scrawny, wild-haired man spat and shouted in his native Pictish tongue, all the while trying to gut Aethelwulf with a short slashing blade.
Beobrand rolled away from his opponent, distancing himself from him and again stopping a blow on his linden board. He scrabbled to his feet, breathing hard now. Death was in the flame-filled night and Beobrand could feel its breath on the nape of his neck. He faced the man, allowing the battle-anger to fully take hold.
The man feinted towards his face. Beobrand didn't even deign to parry or block the blow. He merely swayed back allowing the feint and the follow up slash to his groin to miss him. Beobrand watched the Pict carefully. His eyes widened the instant before he lunged and Beobrand pushed the blow away with his shield boss. The blow was powerful, sending a jarring shock up his arm. He lost his grip on the boss for a moment, but the straps Sunniva had fashioned for him held firm. Another blow came swinging down towards his head. Beobrand batted it away with Hrunting's blade. Sparks flew. The Pict was tiring now, aware that he was outclassed by this tall thegn of Bernicia. Sweat poured from him, his eyes wild.
Around them the night was chaos. Aethelwulf still fought the slight warrior. There were more sounds of battle from behind, where Attor and Ceawlin stood. And Acennan was backing away from the power of the axe blows raining down on him from the hands of Broden. As he watched, Acennan's foot caught on the torch he had planted in the ground. His ankle turned and he fell. Broden loomed above him, axe raised.
"No!" shouted Beobrand, but his voice was lost in the madness of the night. He could not allow Acennan to die. But he was too far away. And there was another enemy before him.
Beobrand dragged his gaze away from Acennan's plight. He would be no help to him if he allowed this clumsy Pict to stick him with his blade. Time to finish this. He lowered his shield and took a step back away from the sweating, panting man. Just as Beobrand had anticipated, the Pict took a step forward and raised his sword. At the same instant, Beobrand changed his direction and sprang forward, Hrunting beating against the outstretched blade. Then, turning his back momentarily on his adversary, he spun on the balls of his feet. He felt Hrunting meet with resistance, then carry on through its arc. The man's head toppled from his body, even as his legs still carried him forward. Spouts of hot blood spurted into the smoke-hazed night. The knees buckled and the headless corpse flopped to the earth.
Beobrand did not falter. He used the momentum from his spin to send him flying towards Broden.
The night was ablaze, the hall fire adding its roar to the screams of the dying. Heat, acrid smoke, and the ring of iron on iron filled the night. But for Beobrand, that hellish night receded, pushed away by the intense focus he now brought to bear on a single point of conflict.
On a single foe.
Broden stood astride Acennan's prostrate form. As Beobrand rushed to his friend's aid, he saw the heavy axehead rise and fall. It chopped deeply into Acennan's shield, splitting it. The next strike from Broden would slay Acennan. There was no doubt. Beobrand would never reach them in time to prevent it.
"Broden!" Beobrand shouted, willing himself to move faster.
But the burly son of Nathair did not hear him, or was not so easily distracted, for he smashed the axe down. Acennan twisted and writhed, throwing his shield boss desperately into the path of the blade. Deflected, the axe slammed into his left shoulder.
"No!" screamed Beobrand. His shield boss caught Broden in the side. Beobrand's weight and speed shoved him clear of Acennan. Beobrand followed the shield charge with a slashing cut to the face and was surprised at Broden's speed. Broden regained his balance instantly and deflected Hrunting's serpent-like blade with the haft of his axe.
Beobrand took a deep breath and steadied himself. This man was a master of the axe. That was clear. He swung the weapon now in a flurry of intricate patterns. He wove a deadly thread with the axe, constantly moving. High and then low. Left then right. The haft slapped against his meaty palms and all the while the iron head of the axe glinted red in the light of the hall's death throes. It would take a brave man to confront that wall of death. Or a foolhardy one. Beobrand's lips peeled back from his teeth in a grin. Men had said he was brave. He did not know whether that was so. But he was sure he was foolhardy. The hair on his right arm shrivelled in the heat from the hall. This man had watched Tobrytan die. And taken Reaghan. Now she must surely be dead within that fire. Beobrand had warned him what would happen.
Without more thought, Beobrand stepped into the axe's dancing death whir. Broden's eyes betrayed his surprise at Beobrand's actions. Beobrand had gauged his moment well. The axe was on a downward arc. He raised his shield, catching the axehead on the wood. Pain surged up his left arm, his fingers numbed by the blow. The axe broke through leather and linden, cutting deeply into his forearm. But Beobrand did not slow his advance. Even as the axe sliced into shield and flesh, Beobrand's right arm darted forward, a viper striking a rat. Hrunting buried itself deep in Broden's left underarm. Beobrand stepped in closer, lifting Hrunting's hilt and angling the sword downward. He pushed savagely. The blade vanished into Broden's flesh. A tremor ran through him as the steel point found his heart, and the huge Pict collapsed to the earth, an expression of shock on his dead face.
Beobran
d stepped back. His arm throbbed with each heartbeat. He couldn't feel the fingers on his mutilated hand, but he clenched them into a fist and raised the ruined shield. It was so heavy. He struggled to lift it. For a moment he feared he had lost the strength in his arm, then he noticed the axe. Its head was still embedded in the board, its blade sawing into his arm with each movement. He lowered the shield so that the trailing axe shaft touched the earth, then, with a grunt of pain he pulled backward, levering the axe out of board and flesh. Hot, fresh pain rippled into his fingers as the blade came free and the axe fell, heavy and still, next to its wielder.
He felt his blood flowing freely now. He would need to bind the wound. He shrugged his arms free of the straps and allowed the shield to drop to the ground.
Turning, he hurried to where Acennan lay. He squirmed and cursed, looking up at Beobrand.
"The Pictish bastard has broken my shoulder," spat Acennan.
Some of the rings of his byrnie had broken, but the metal shirt was well-made; the axe had not cut deeply. However, Broden was strong and the axe was heavy. Acennan's left collarbone had shattered.
"Thank the gods your byrnie rings are well-wrought," said Beobrand, shifting his sword to his blood-slick left hand and offering Acennan his right.
"Thank the smith," answered Acennan, grimacing. "The gods care naught for whether I live or die." He took the offered hand.
"But I care," said Beobrand, heaving him to his feet. Both men groaned with the strain on their injuries.
Their eyes met.
"I know," said Acennan. Then, his gaze flickered to something behind Beobrand. "Look out!" he shouted.
With no time to think, Beobrand took Hrunting in his right hand and spun to defend himself.
A dark figure flew out of the smoke-filled darkness. Screaming wildly, it came at him, red metal gleamed. A wicked knife shimmered in the night.
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 38