Killer of Kings

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Killer of Kings Page 23

by Matthew Harffy


  “Ride away from here, Scrydan,” Beobrand said, his voice low and yet still carrying easily over the sounds of the horsemen and the horses’ hooves. “I did not come back to Hithe for this. I came to see my uncle and that I have now done. I do not want to fight, but do not provoke me. I warn you, as we were once friends. I will not warn you again.”

  “Perhaps you will kill me as you killed your father?” Scrydan sneered.

  Beobrand went very still.

  “Grimgundi was never a father to me. He beat his woman and children too.” He fixed Scrydan with his ice-blue stare. “Perhaps it is the way such men end their lives. Consumed alive by flames with nobody to care whether they live or die.”

  “You heard that, men. He admits to murder. Seize him and we shall take him before the moot.”

  On hearing those words, Beobrand moved. The flames of his ire burst into savage, searing life and he grinned with the joy of action. Without seeming to look at any of the riders, Beobrand took three quick steps towards the nearest as he passed. The horse shied away and the man made to kick out at Beobrand. Beobrand grabbed the man’s foot in both his hands and twisted. The man yelped as the bones and sinews of his ankle ground together. Beobrand pulled hard and the man tumbled to the earth, his horse leaping away, keen to be away from the commotion. The man, one of the heavyset bullies, made an attempt to rise, but Beobrand moved in rapidly and drove his knee into his face. There was a sickening crunch as his nose was crushed. Blood and snot splattered his lips and chin and the man fell back, eyes glazed.

  Over by the hornbeam, Acennan had also snapped into action.

  Belying his short height and brawny shoulders, Acennan moved with the easy speed of a wolf chasing down a stag. The sun winked with a flash from the blade of a small knife he had drawn from somewhere. The closest horseman’s eyes widened in fright. He was ready to fight with fists or even a cudgel, but blade-work was the thing of tales, he was no killer of men. But he saw death coming for him then. Acennan grinned as he leapt towards the man.

  But Acennan did not mean to kill him. As fast as a striking adder, he grabbed a handful of the man’s kirtle and without pause, jabbed his knife savagely into the horse’s rump. It was nothing more than a flesh wound, but the beast screamed and reared, it hooves raking the air. Acennan tugged against the horse’s motion and yanked the man from the saddle. The man fell onto his back upon the packed dirt. He fell hard and before he could rise, Acennan followed up with a kick to the man’s jaw. They all heard the crack as bone broke. The man mewled like a newborn babe, clutching his face in his hands.

  Beobrand left Acennan to deal with the last of the reeve’s men. He turned back to Scrydan. Now the bastard would see what happened to those who stole from him. To those who betrayed his friendship and threatened him. To those who raised their fists to womenfolk.

  But before he could reach Scrydan, the reeve, wild-eyed at the chaos that had descended so suddenly on the hitherto still morning, tugged his steed’s head around and kicked hard at its flanks. The animal bunched its muscles and launched itself back down the path, speeding Scrydan away from the two warriors who had so easily defeated the men tasked to protect him.

  The man was as much of a coward as Beobrand had feared. It was perhaps easy to strike a woman, a child or a greybeard. It was quite different to stand toe-to-toe against a killer who had made the ravens fat with his slaughter.

  For a moment, Beobrand watched Scrydan gallop away. A small voice within him cried out. There was no reason to pursue him. They should be gone from Hithe, from Cantware. To linger now would only bring further trouble. But the fire raged within him now, drowning out the voice of reason. The flames roared in his mind and his ire bellowed. He could not allow Scrydan to flee.

  The man he had unseated from his horse was groaning, making an effort to rise. Some way beyond him stood the horse, eyes white-rimmed, ears pressed against its head. The reins had fallen over the animal’s head and now dangled to the dusty earth. Beobrand looked at Scrydan’s retreating form, gauging the distance. He had grown up on this land; knew every tree and each rock. With luck, he could catch him.

  Beobrand stepped quickly towards the horse. He did not run, for the beast was likely to bolt with fear. He glanced quickly at the blood-smeared face of the man he had felled. He considered delivering another blow to the man, even though he didn’t look like he would be giving Acennan any trouble, but Beobrand was concerned that he would frighten the horse even more. So he left him spitting and gagging into the dust and closed on the horse.

  “Easy. Easy,” he said, using the voice he had so often employed to calm frightened beasts. He had his hands out, showing the horse they were empty. He was close now. He reached out to take hold of the swinging reins when Acennan and the third man clashed with a grunt and a yell. The horse shied away from the noise, blowing hard and trembling, jerking the reins out of Beobrand’s reach. In his mind’s eye, he could picture Scrydan galloping along the path to the house. But he would not stop there. He would ride on to find help, to raise the alarm that the reeve and his men were under attack. If he was to have any chance of catching him before he did so, Beobrand needed to capture this gods’ accursed horse.

  “Easy there, girl,” he said, in that soothing voice, struggling to keep the edge of anger from his tone. “Easy there.”

  And he lunged.

  The horse tried to flee, but Beobrand’s fingers brushed the reins and he gripped the leather tight. The steed panicked, pulling away. But rather than try to wrestle with the brute, Beobrand ran after it. He matched its pace, grasped for the saddle and leapt, swinging his leg up and over. The instant he was astride the horse, it tensed, ceasing its onward rush, instead turning in a quick circle. Beobrand thrust his hands into the animal’s coarse mane, gripping that as well as the reins. He felt the muscles bunch beneath him and the horse bucked, trying to throw him from the saddle, to be rid of this cumbersome rider. Beobrand clung on, but as the creature bucked again, he could feel his balance slipping. He had no time for this, it might already be too late to reach Scrydan.

  Before the horse could buck a third time, Beobrand kicked its ribs. Hard. With a whinny of anger, the mare chose not to fight this large man any longer. The horse galloped forward and Beobrand tugged at the reins to follow Scrydan down the path.

  The dust thrown up by Scrydan’s horse hung in a haze over the path, stinging Beobrand’s eyes and throat. He blinked away the tears, looking for something as they careened down the track. There it was. The old elm that had been split in a storm long ago. There was nothing but a jagged stump now, but it was a clear enough marker. Beobrand yanked on the mare’s reins, turning the animal’s head towards the bracken growing on the slope just past the elm stump. The bank was steep and verdant with thick vegetation. Bushes and trees grew in a seemingly impassable tangle. The mare snorted, terrified at what she was being asked to do. But Beobrand dug his heels in harder and urged the beast on.

  He hoped he had not made a mistake. There should be a track that ran over the hill, a shortcut between the two sides of the loop in the path. He remembered it well, had often run along it as dusk descended, glad to be able to reduce his journey home by a few moments, knowing that if he was late, Grimgundi, the man he had thought was his father, would make his disapproval known to him as only he could. But as the mare’s hooves hit the steep incline and her pace slowed, he could see no sign of a path. Had he misremembered? Could it be that his mind had tricked him? If so, they would never be able to push through the foliage on this hill. But then he saw other trees – a holly, leaves shining darkly; a birch with a strangely twisted trunk – that told him where the track had passed. It seemed nobody used it now, and it was overgrown, but if the gods smiled on him, there would be nothing to block their progress. The steed wished to slow down. It could not see a clear path and the ground was strewn with a thick carpet of bracken. But they could not spare the time finding a safe route, Beobrand slapped the horse’s rump and kicked its s
ides savagely. Rolling its eyes, the steed clambered up the hill. Through dappled flashes of sunlight, they crested the rise and skittered and skidded down the other side.

  Beobrand could hear the beat of Scrydan’s horse’s hooves approaching someway off to the right, but he could not see him, the branches and leaves of the trees were too thick. Praying to Woden that no saplings now blocked their path, Beobrand gave the mare a final slap. The horse sped down the hill in a welter of ripped leaves and churned loam. Beobrand lowered himself behind the animal’s neck. Branches whipped his face. He could see nothing. Scrydan’s horse’s hooves were thunder now, loud and close.

  And then they were out of the woodland, into eye-watering bright sunlight.

  Scrydan cried out as Beobrand and the mare crashed into his horse. Both mounts went down, Beobrand and Scrydan with them, in a thrashing of hooves and screams.

  Chapter 32

  Beobrand landed hard in the dust. The air was driven from his lungs and he could not draw breath. All around him was chaos. The mare whinnied and kicked, trying to right itself. Scrydan’s steed screamed pitifully. Hooves thrashed close to Beobrand’s face, threatening to crush his skull, so he rolled away quickly. A searing pain engulfed his left leg as the mare’s frantic kicking landed a glancing blow on his shin.

  Grimacing against the pain, Beobrand, clear from the carnage now, staggered to his feet. His vision was darkening, he could still not breathe. Then, just as panic swelled up to smother him, air rushed into his lungs in a shuddering gulp. He tested his leg. It was agony, but it held. Thank Woden it was not broken.

  The mare was upright now, and it gave him a reproachful look before cantering away down the path. Scrydan’s mount still whinnied and screamed. One of its forelegs was snapped, bent at an impossible angle, and every time the creature tried to rise, it caused itself more pain. Beobrand felt a pang of regret that the horse would need to be killed. That voice again attempted to be heard, to tell him that this had been foolhardy; he could have been killed.

  But the voice of his rage was louder. His blood coursed hot in his veins, as Scrydan rose to his feet and faced him.

  “You mad fool,” Scrydan shouted over the horse’s din. He was dust-covered, and his face flushed. “What will you do now? Slay me?”

  And Beobrand thought on this for an eye-blink. Perhaps death would not be so bad for this man who had once been his friend. This man who now bullied others for his own gain and terrified his wife and child.

  Beobrand stepped towards him and he saw fear in Scrydan’s eyes.

  “Do not dare to raise a hand against me,” Scrydan said, trying to make his voice firm. “I will take you before a moot of freemen and there you will be found guilty of the murder of your father, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi.”

  “Grimgundi was not my father,” Beobrand shouted, his fury ripping at his dust-choked throat.

  And with that shout, the quiet voice of reason within him was silenced. Beobrand leapt forward, swinging his right fist at Scrydan’s face.

  Scrydan was not a small man, and they had wrestled and fought many times over the years as they grew up. Scrydan had never been a natural fighter, but he was fast and strong. And clever. He had surely known where this would end. He had seen Beobrand bring down his man moments before; knew that violence came easily to him. And so, he had scraped up grit and dust in his hand even as he had climbed to his feet, in readiness of the attack he was certain would come. Now he flung the contents of his fist into Beobrand’s face and, not waiting to see the results of his action, Scrydan fled along the path.

  Beobrand had not expected Scrydan’s guile and the gravel and grit spattered against his face. But the sand did not enter his eyes as Scrydan had hoped. Beobrand was faster than most men, and the instincts that had kept him alive in so many battles now served to snap his eyes shut. His punch missed Scrydan, but the reeve had only run a few paces when Beobrand sprang after him with a bellow.

  Beobrand was taller and faster and he quickly reached Scrydan, barging into him with his shoulder and sending him sprawling to the ground.

  “Get up,” snarled Beobrand. Behind them, the injured horse still writhed and whinnied piteously. “Stand and fight me like a man.”

  Scrydan climbed unsteadily to his feet. He opened his mouth to speak, but Beobrand had no desire for words now. He hammered a punch into Scrydan’s jaw that sent him flailing onto the earth again. Scrydan shook his head. Drops of blood spattered the dry earth.

  “Get up,” Beobrand repeated.

  Scrydan, on all fours, spat, but made no move to stand.

  Beobrand reached for him then. He took hold of Scrydan’s belt and the cloth of his kirtle and he lifted him bodily, standing him before him. Beobrand shifted his grip, moving both his hands to the front of Scrydan’s kirtle. Blood dribbled from Scrydan’s lip, painting a scarlet line down his chin. The reeve’s eyes were dazed. He was defeated, barely able to stand without Beobrand’s support. And yet Beobrand could no longer contain the fire he had unleashed. The flames burnt within him, searing away thought and reason. He pulled Scrydan toward him and snapped his head forward at the same moment. His forehead smacked into Scrydan’s nose. The shock of the collision sent a jolt of pain into Beobrand’s head where he had walked into the beam at Alwin’s hut. But if it was painful to Beobrand, it was devastating to Scrydan. Blood gushed from his nose and his eyes rolled back. Scrydan was suddenly heavy in Beobrand’s grasp, and he let him slide to the ground.

  Looking down, there was no doubt that Scrydan would not rise. Blood drenched his kirtle and ran from his nose and mouth in dark rivulets to soak into the dust. Somebody was adding their shrieks to the injured horse’s, but the voice sounded very far away. Scrydan was no longer a threat, but Beobrand reached for him once more. This bully thought he could drag him before Lord Folca and a moot? The idea that this man would question Beobrand’s involvement in Grimgundi’s death filled him with an incandescent rage he could no longer control. Scrydan, who so easily raised his own hands to his woman, would never understand. Grimgundi had been a monster. A rabid dog must be killed. That was justice.

  Beobrand grabbed Scrydan’s collar in his half-hand, pulling him up into a sitting position. Scrydan’s head lolled, blood dribbling from his slack mouth. Beobrand’s forehead throbbed. He pulled back his hand and slapped Scrydan hard. Scrydan’s head snapped to the side, but he did not rouse. The screaming was louder now, but still Beobrand ignored it. He would show this miserable dog what justice was. He slapped him again. Blood, spit and snot slicked Scrydan’s face, chin and neck. Hot droplets fell onto Beobrand hand and forearm. He looked as if he had butchered an animal at Blotmonath. The reeve’s eyes were blank. Gods, but the man was pathetic.

  Beobrand swung his hand back again, but someone grasped at his arm, preventing him from hitting Scrydan. The screaming continued. Beobrand released the reeve, who slumped motionless to the earth. Then, face twisted with ire, Beobrand stood quickly, twisting his arm from the grip of his unknown assailant. He spun around, lashing out with a backhanded blow that caught this new enemy and sent them tumbling to the ground. He stepped over the prostrate form, fists clenched menacingly. Whoever this was, they would regret intervening.

  But there was something about the figure on the dusty path. He recalled the hair. The curve of the hip. The dress. His stomach clenched. He staggered backward, dropping his hands to his sides. By all the gods, what had he done?

  “Mother!” The thin scream pierced the fog in his mind. He turned, suddenly terribly ashamed. Ardith was running towards the scene of carnage, her fair braids bouncing, her eyes wide with uncertain fear.

  Beobrand looked down at his blood-spattered hands. What had he become? On the ground, Udela was pushing herself upright, brushing dust from her dress. There were no tears in her eyes. She reached up gingerly to touch her face and then glanced at her hand. She was checking for blood, but there was none. She shot Beobrand a hate-filled glower, and then quickly moved to intercept her daug
hter so that she would be spared from seeing the worst of what had befallen her father.

  Udela stooped and swept the child up in her arms, turning to face Beobrand so that the girl’s back was to the struggling horse and Scrydan’s unmoving form.

  “I am alright, dear one,” Udela said, her voice falsely full of cheer.

  “But father—” sobbed Ardith.

  “Your father has taken a fall from his horse.”

  “Is the horse hurt?” she asked, twisting in her mother’s grasp to better catch a glimpse of the animal that was still crying out in pain.

  “Yes, Ardith,” Udela said. “It is hurt. Now, I need you to be a big girl for me. Can you do that?”

  Ardith sniffed, but nodded, her face serious.

  “We will need to clean and tend to your father’s wounds, so I need you to run back home and place the large pot over the fire, and then fill it with water. Do not fill it first, or you will not be able to lift it. Understand?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “Good girl,” said Udela and placed the girl on the ground. Ardith looked back pale-faced at the horse and her father. “Run now, Ardith,” said Udela, “and we will be home presently.”

  Ardith gave Beobrand a fearful glance, and then turned and ran as fast as she was able back towards the house.

  When she was gone beyond the bend in the path, Beobrand took a hesitant step towards Udela. She recoiled from him.

  “I am so sorry, Udela,” he said, aghast at the look in her eyes. She was not scared of him, she was disappointed.

  “For what, Beobrand?” she asked, her tone curt and angry. “For beating my husband senseless? Or for killing his favourite horse? Or for terrifying my daughter? Or,” she reached up, wincing as her fingers caressed her cheek, “for striking me?” He stared at the earth. All of the anger had gone now. It had burnt through him leaving behind only the bitter ash of regret and remorse.

 

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