Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand did not stop to think.

  “Wybert, you shit-eating whoreson,” he bellowed. “Now you die!”

  Wybert, eyes wide and mouth agape, spun to face Beobrand as he stumbled down the path towards him.

  Acennan rushed the other Mercian, pushing him back. The hunter pulled a langseax from a scabbard at his belt. There was a loud clang of metal on metal as the Mercian parried Acennan’s wild sword thrust, and then the two moved out of Beobrand’s sight and he focused fully upon Wybert.

  Dully, as if from a great distance, he was aware that his head yet ached and his leg still burnt with pain. But these were worries for another time. Now, all that mattered was that finally the object of his bloodfeud stood before him. Beobrand no longer cared whether he would live to return to his hall. All that was important was that Wybert was before him.

  And Wybert must die.

  Wybert raised his spear, lunging at Beobrand. Wybert had learnt much battle-skill and the steel point flicked out at Beobrand’s eyes. He was strong and fast, but Beobrand had reached that state of battle-ire where he no longer thought as a man. The beast that strained within him was truly free now, snarling and savage, lusting for blood and vengeance. Beobrand saw the spear-point moving as if it were travelling through honey. He did not stop his forward motion. Lifting his shield, he halted the spear, allowing the point to strike and bury itself in the hide-covered wood. For the briefest of moments the spear was lodged in the wood, but that eye-blink of time was all Beobrand needed. He levered the point away from him and stepped inside the spear’s reach. Before Wybert could free the weapon or think to pull his sword from its scabbard, Beobrand swung Hrunting across his body and into Wybert’s right forearm. The blade was partly deflected by the spear haft, so the arm was not severed. But blood blossomed, red and bright in the shade of the trees and the spear clattered to the gnarled roots that grew in a tangle across the path.

  Wybert let out a pitiful scream and clutched his wounded arm. Blood flowed between his fingers, quickly covering his hand in gore.

  Beobrand’s heart swelled at the sight. Baring his teeth in a wolfish grin, he swung Hrunting back, pommel-first into Wybert’s face. Wybert sagged and fell to his knees.

  For a moment, Beobrand looked down at him. Wybert’s chest heaved from the exertion of the fight and blood dribbled from his arm, where his grip was unable to staunch the bleeding.

  Wybert gazed up at Beobrand. His eyes were white-rimmed in terror. Blood and spittle ran down his chin from split lips. Leaning forward, he hawked and spat blood into the earth.

  As quickly as Beobrand’s fury had come, so it vanished.

  “You are a nithing,” he said. “Less than a man.”

  Behind Wybert’s kneeling form he watched as Acennan parried the hunter’s langseax with his shield and then opened the man’s throat with a backhanded slice of his sword. Blood spurted in a great arc. The man looked surprised. He did not yet believe death was upon him and he vainly attempted to press his attack. But Acennan took a step back and smashed the rim of his shield into the dying man’s wrist. The Mercian dropped the blade and tried to scream at the pain in his shattered arm. All that came was a gurgling groan. He reached up and placed his fingers into the gaping wound at his neck. Looking down at his blood-drenched hand he seemed to finally understand that the Wyrd sisters had already cut the thread of his tale. He crumpled forward and Beobrand was surprised to see Acennan pick up the man’s weapon and place it in his bloodied left hand. The Mercian gave a final convulsive moan and lay still.

  Acennan straightened and walked stiffly towards Beobrand and Wybert.

  “I thought you dead for sure,” said Beobrand.

  “Aye, and so I would have been, if not for Eadgyth’s cross and my good byrnie.” Acennan pulled the silver rood amulet from beneath his byrnie and held it up to the light. It was bent and twisted now; distorted. “I am sure the Christ followers will call it a miracle, but I still feel as if I have been used by Thunor to test the heft of his hammer.” He grimaced and rubbed his midriff where the spear had hit him. “So,” he looked down at Wybert, “this is the pig’s turd we have sought all this time? He hardly seems worth the effort.”

  Beobrand flushed. Perhaps Acennan was right. Had it truly been worth it? The blood soaking his breeches was growing cold, the pain returning with alarming intensity now that the fighting had ceased. Wybert had lowered his gaze, seeming to accept his fate.

  “Look at me,” said Beobrand.

  Wybert ignored him, unmoving.

  Beobrand shrugged off his shield straps, allowing the scarred board to fall to the earth. Then he delivered a vicious slap to Wybert’s face with the knuckles of his left half-hand.

  “Look at me!” he shouted, feeling the anger rekindling, like a fire that has been allowed to burn down overnight, only to have breath and new fuel added at dawn.

  Wybert raised his gaze.

  “Wybert, son of Alric, you are a disgrace to your father’s memory,” said Beobrand, his words as sharp and cold as Hrunting’s blade. “I am glad that Alric has not lived to see the man you have become.”

  Wybert said nothing, but a spark of defiance flared in his gaze.

  “You defiled what was mine,” continued Beobrand. “Because of you, my faithful servant, Anhaga, a better man than you, was slain. By my own hand.” Beobrand shuddered, remembering the anguish as he had driven his seax into Anhaga’s flesh. “I swore the bloodfeud against you then, and now you will pay with your blood and your life.” He could think of no more words. Nothing would bring Sunniva back to him. Anhaga was gone, as were so many others. Killing Wybert would accomplish nothing. He knew that. But perhaps it would bring some peace to his spirit. Mayhap Anhaga and Sunniva even now watched from the afterlife. He would give them what they desired. What they deserved.

  He raised Hrunting high above his head. The patterned blade caught the rays of sunlight that speared through the forest. And then, the instant before he brought the blade slicing down into his enemy’s neck, Wybert cried out.

  “You cannot kill me!” he screamed. “You cannot. We serve the same lord, you and I.”

  The words made no sense to Beobrand, but something in Wybert’s tone tugged at his interest. He stayed his hand and lowered the sword slowly to his side.

  “What do you mean? I am a thegn of Bernicia. My lord is Oswald. You are Grimbold’s man now. And he a Mercian who serves Penda. We share no lord.”

  “He just wishes to delay his death,” said Acennan. “He is even a craven now, when he is defeated. Kill him and be done with it. Then we can go home.”

  Beobrand made to raise Hrunting once more, but Wybert spoke out again.

  “It is true that I am Grimbold’s man,” he said, his voice breathless, quavering with pain and fear, “but he is not my lord.”

  Beobrand spat. His leg throbbed with each heartbeat. His head ached terribly.

  “Speak plainly, or I will take your life so as not to hear your voice again.”

  Wybert looked up at him for a long moment. The trees rustled. A magpie chattered loudly way off in the wood. After a long silence, Beobrand lifted his sword once again.

  “Enough of this. We need to be gone from here, and you need to die. I have no time for your games.”

  “I serve King Oswald of Bernicia, Lord of Northumbria,” Wybert blurted out.

  The words seemed nonsensical, and yet, there was something in Wybert’s voice. Did he believe what he said?

  Again, Beobrand lowered his weapon.

  “Explain your words. I will not tell you again. Tell us clearly your meaning, or die now.”

  He caught Acennan’s gaze. His stocky friend frowned and shook his head.

  “Before I left Bernicia, I was approached by one close to Oswald.” Wybert grimaced, clutching his bleeding arm closer to his chest. His fist was gloved in gore. “He offered me riches and land in the future, if I would inform Oswald of what occurred in Mercia. I have been faithful. I have done that whic
h has been asked of me. I have given tidings, and when asked to perform other tasks, I have done so.”

  “What other tasks?” asked Acennan.

  Wybert cast a glance at Beobrand’s trusted gesith, suddenly unsure of himself.

  “What other tasks?” Acennan repeated. “No time to be shy now, little man.”

  Wybert swallowed.

  “A secret message came for me. I was to travel to Frankia and seek out the athelings, Wuscfrea and Yffi.”

  “The son and nephew of Edwin?”

  “The same.”

  “And when you found them,” asked Beobrand, “what were you to do?” He had a sinking feeling that he already knew.

  Wybert looked furtively first at Acennan and then at Beobrand, but it was too late to halt his story now.

  “I was to slay them, that they could no longer lay claim to the throne of Northumbria.”

  “And,” asked Acennan, his brow creasing in consternation, “did you fulfil your… quest?”

  “Yes,” replied Wybert, “I told you, I have served our lord well.”

  Acennan suddenly stepped forward, grabbing Wybert’s dark hair in his grip, pulling his head back to expose his throat.

  “I will hear no more of this venom from this serpent’s tongue,” Acennan shouted, his fury shocking, “I will kill him myself.”

  He raised his blood-smeared sword.

  “No, Acennan,” shouted Beobrand. He could not bear the thought that he would not be the one to claim the blood-price after all this time. “He’s mine!”

  For an instant, they stood there, eyes locked. Then a new voice spoke from the forest, causing them all to start and look round.

  “No,” the voice said, “he is mine.”

  Chapter 41

  Beobrand stared in shocked silence at the ring of men who surrounded them. There must have been close to a score of them; warriors all, spear-men, sword-men. Byrnies glimmered dully in the sunlight that filtered through the branches of oak and beech. Gold and garnets glittered on many sword pommels. How such a warband had gathered about them without Acennan or him detecting their presence was a mystery.

  He shuddered. Could there be some magic here? Had these gesithas sprung from the wood itself; spirits come to take the lives of these hapless mortals within their domain?

  It was Wybert who broke the silence, shattering the strange feeling of being in the presence of something otherworldly.

  “Lord, thanks be to all the gods.”

  Instantly, Beobrand saw the man who Wybert addressed, and who had spoken moments before. Grimbold. Wybert’s hlaford. And Beobrand realised at the same moment that his luck had finally, truly, run out.

  The large man had his hands on his hips, feet apart. His grey-streaked beard jutted and his eyes flashed from beneath dark brows. These were his lands. Here, his voice was justice; life and death. For a long moment, he did not speak. He raked Wybert with his gaze before focusing on Beobrand.

  “Lord?” Wybert offered, uncertainty in his voice.

  “Silence,” Grimbold snapped, not looking at him. He took a step closer to Beobrand, looking him up and down, taking in his battle-harness, his weapons and his wounds. “So, you finally decided to seek the blood-price that had escaped you at Dor and at the great ditch.” He cast a glance at the corpses strewn on the path of the glade. He frowned, tensing when he saw the red-bearded giant sprawled in the dirt. “You are a dangerous one it seems.”

  It was not a question, so Beobrand said nothing.

  “Lord,” Wybert said, “these men have murdered your sworn-men. They would have slain me too, if you had not come to this place.”

  Grimbold turned back to Wybert.

  “I had bidden you be silent,” he said, his tone as cold as the Whale Road at Geola.

  “I am sorry, lord…” Wybert stammered.

  “You call me lord, but who do you serve, Wybert, son of Alric?” Grimbold’s gaze did not waver.

  Wybert, already pallid from the loss of blood oozing from his shattered forearm, grew paler still.

  “I serve you, lord. Grimbold, son of Grim, thegn of Mercia. You are the best of lords. I am sworn to you, have served you in battle, and I would give my life for you.”

  “Why do you lie, worm? Tell me who you serve.”

  Wybert swallowed hard.

  “You, lord. I serve you. You have my oath.”

  “Your oath!” shouted Grimbold. “Your oath is not worth a fart in a storm!”

  Wybert flinched in the face of his master’s fury.

  “You would surely not believe those things I said to Beobrand?” he said, looking about him in desperation for an ally. The warriors, his shield-brothers, men with whom he had oftentimes shared the Waes Hael cup, were grim-faced. It seemed they had all heard Wybert’s confession of service to an enemy king. “But lord, I merely spoke to save my life. They were going to kill me.”

  “So, you are a craven, or a nithing liar and a breaker of oaths,” spat Grimbold. “Which is it?”

  “Lord…”

  “Which is it?” screamed Grimbold. “Coward or oath-breaker?” A crow, startled at the noise, fluttered and flapped in the tree canopy far above their heads.

  Acennan edged closer to Beobrand.

  “I think Sunniva will be avenged this day,” he whispered. “But I do not think it will be you doing the killing.”

  Beobrand shot him a glance. His head throbbed and he was still trying to make sense of Wybert’s words. Grimbold’s sudden appearance had thrown all his plans into disarray, but given the man’s ire at discovering Wybert’s duplicity, he thought Acennan had the right of it. Wybert would surely die this day. Beobrand looked at the hard faces of Grimbold’s hearth-warriors. These were killers, men of many battles. Beobrand drew in a deep breath and clenched his fists against the trembling that always beset him as the rush of battle lust drained from his body. He would not wish these warriors to see him shake and to believe him scared at the prospect of his death. For surely, that would be his fate. And Acennan’s.

  “Well, worm?” said Grimbold, when Wybert failed to reply. “You seemed happy to tell all to these Northumbrians, why not speak to me?”

  Wybert glowered, but still did not speak.

  “Lord Grimbold,” said Beobrand.

  The large man turned to him.

  “We are on your land and have shed the blood of your men, and for this we will surrender to your justice. But I, Beobrand of Ubbanford, thegn of Bernicia, hearth-warrior of Oswald, King of Northumbria, would ask one thing of you.”

  Again the raised eyebrow.

  “And what would that be?”

  “That before we answer for the slaying of your men, you would allow me to watch as you take the life of this nithing, Wybert.”

  Grimbold appraised him for a long while.

  “You have sworn the bloodfeud with Wybert, isn’t that so? Some matter of honour regarding a woman.”

  “My wife,” Beobrand said, in clipped tones.

  Grimbold nodded slowly.

  “Your crippled man failed to kill him at Dor, and you clearly did not slay him at the great ditch. Perhaps it is not your wyrd to take Wybert’s life.”

  “It seems that may be. But the man is worse than a cur. He has betrayed you. You heard his words with your own ears. As a man of honour, I beseech you, let me see him die.”

  “You would watch me slay him?”

  “It would bring me some peace, I believe.” Beobrand thought of other men he had killed. For an instant he recalled Hengist as he lay on the earth before Bebbanburg, his lifeblood soaking into the mud. Had his death brought him peace? Beobrand clenched his half-hand more tightly and pressed his arm into his side. His vision blurred. They would not see him tremble.

  “I will do better than let you watch his death,” Grimbold said. “Revenge is a noble pursuit. You may slay the wretch yourself. He has forsaken his oath to me and his life is forfeit. Let his blood sate your thirst for vengeance.”

  Wybert c
ried out.

  “Lord! Do not do this! I am your servant. This man is your enemy…”

  His voice rose in pitch as he first begged and then, when he saw that Grimbold was unmoved, hurled abuse at his erstwhile lord.

  “Shut him up,” said Grimbold, turning away from Wybert’s ravings. Three of his men grabbed the doomed man. He struggled, but he was easily overpowered. Quickly and roughly, they tied his wrists, making Wybert cry out in agony as his wounded arm was handled. All the while he spat and screamed until his voice cracked.

  Beobrand stared in disbelief as the men ripped off Wybert’s belt and gagged him with it, pulling it so tight that it ripped into his mouth, causing more blood to run down his chin. Beobrand could scarcely understand what was happening. He looked to Acennan, who gave the slightest of shrugs as Wybert’s screams became muffled grunts and moans. One of the men gave Wybert a kick, and then they stepped back, leaving him huddled and trussed on the path before Beobrand.

  This must be some trick. Beobrand turned to Grimbold, but the old thegn simply nodded.

  “It is your wyrd to have your revenge this day,” he said. “Take it.”

  Beobrand held Grimbold’s gaze for a long time. The older man’s face bore no expression, but there was something there. Some secret thought behind his dark eyes. At last Beobrand nodded. He did not understand this lord of Mercia, why he was being granted his wish and more when by all rights Acennan and he should be tied and ready for slaughter alongside Wybert. But he would not question his luck. He might yet die this day, but by Woden and all the gods, he would see Wybert breathe his last before Grimbold changed his mind.

  Wybert had fallen onto his side when the warrior had kicked him. He lay there still, shaking and moaning from behind the gag.

  “Pull him to his knees, Acennan,” Beobrand said, hefting Hrunting. The sword felt at once light and heavy in his grip. It seemed to him that the blade thrummed with a life of its own, as if the serpent within the metal hungered for more blood.