The Mercian warband seemed to let out a sigh, as if whatever fight was left in them had fled, carried away with the spouting lifeblood of their comrade.
"Throw down your weapons," Beobrand shouted, stepping forward, shaking Halga's gore-dripping head to reinforce his words.
For a moment he thought that he might have misjudged them, that the Mercians would rally at the sight of their dead lord's face, but the instant passed and, one by one, the warriors flung their spears, swords and seaxes to the ground between the two shieldwalls.
Beobrand strode towards them, his leg screaming with each step. He met the gaze of each of the Mercians in turn. Some looked away, unable to meet the ferocity of his stare, others fixed him with murderous fury. Those men wished for his death and would not hesitate to avenge their lord. These were the men who had ridden to Ubbanford. The men who had put Sunniva's hall to the flame; destroyed his people's homes and stolen his treasure. These hard-faced killers had come in the dawn light and slaughtered his folk.
Beobrand threw Halga's head onto the pile of blades, spears and shields. It clattered on the wood and metal, rolling away from him to rest looking at the Mercian warriors accusingly. One of Halga's gesithas moaned in anguish.
"Bind them all," Beobrand said to Dreogan.
*
It did not take them long to tie the hands of the Mercians. They did not resist now, seemingly broken and resigned to their wyrd. They stood sombre and grave as their hands were bound tightly behind their backs. These were proud men. Beobrand once more gazed at each one in turn. Cynan had helped him to staunch the flow of blood from the wound in his leg, pulling the lips of the ragged cut together and binding a strip of cloth about it. Beobrand hoped that the wound had not been elf-shot. Perhaps Coenred would be able to work his leechcraft magic on it if he yet remained at Stagga. The thigh yet pained him, sending throbbing stabs of agony through his leg. But the bandage was good, and Beobrand could no longer feel blood running down his leg to fill his boot.
The eyes of the Mercians burnt with a hatred Beobrand understood well. These men lived to kill, to seek out battle-glory with their swords. To serve their lord and to protect him. In turn he would give them wealth and lead them to greater victories. Beobrand had taken all of that from them. Their lord was just another cooling corpse and the treasures they had stolen from Ubbanford had been lost.
Beobrand took in a deep breath, turning away from the line of proud, defeated warriors. Ulf was staring at him. The burly warrior did not speak, but Beobrand knew what he was thinking. One of those men had killed his son. Beobrand nodded to him and looked at the Great Wall.
Bearn barked orders at some of the men, directing them to round up the Mercian horses. They were setting up a makeshift corral against the Wall.
A harsh croak, loud as a splintering shield, drew Beobrand's attention upward. Atop the gatehouse perched two huge black birds.
Ravens.
One of the night-black birds rested to the east of the entrance, the other on the west tower. They each appeared to be watching him with their dark, emotionless eyes. The one to the west let out another rasping croak. Claws of unease scratched down Beobrand's back. The birds reminded him of Nelda and her curse. But Nelda was dead. These birds were surely sent by another.
Before engaging with the Mercians in battle Beobrand had promised Woden All-father great slaughter and the blood of many men.
The eastern raven squawked. A sudden chill breeze ruffled its sooty feathers and tugged at Beobrand's cloak. His blood-soaked breeches were cold and clammy against his skin.
Woden. Frenzy.
Beneath the ravens Bearn and the others were intent on the horses. Beobrand looked to the rest of his men. Cynan stood close by, watching him with a curious look on his face. Dreogan, flecks of blood streaking the black tattoos on his cheeks, was grim, awaiting his lord's command.
Beobrand looked back to the two onlooking birds with a shudder. Was he the only one who saw them? He wished to ask, to utter the question, but feared to hear the response from his men. With a pang he longed for Acennan and his words of calm. He could hear his friend's words in his mind. They're only birds, he would have said.
And yet Acennan was dead. His voice silent. From the crumbling ramparts of the Wall gate tower, one of the ravens croaked again. Woden's birds had spoken. Their voice was hard, imperative. It must be obeyed.
The ravens stared down at him implacably. You gave your word, they seemed to be saying. Woden heard your call and granted you victory. Now you must repay him the blood-price you promised.
Beobrand closed his eyes and rubbed his hand over his face. He winced when his palm glanced against his broken nose. He could feel the men watching him. Their gaze was heavy, pressing on him the way Halga's corpse had fallen upon his battered body.
In his mind's eye, he pictured the smouldering bones of Ubbanford's halls, the smoking ruins of the buildings, the fish-pale flesh of the dead who lay strewn upon the grass and earth that had been their home.
"Lord?" Cynan's voice shattered the dark memory. His tone held an edge of concern.
Beobrand opened his eyes and turned to the Waelisc warrior.
"Kill them all," he said, his voice empty and hollow.
From their perch on the Wall both ravens cawed as one.
Chapter 57
Beobrand did not wish to watch the slaughter. But he was lord here, and this was his command. He could not turn his face from that which he had ordered.
His gesithas were grim-faced and as efficient as ceorls killing sheep at Blotmonath. But these were no sheep. These were warriors. Shield-man. Spear-men. Bearers of many warrior rings. One of the Mercians rushed forward, screaming suddenly. Taken unawares, Fraomar was knocked sprawling to the ground. The Mercian ran several paces until Grindan tripped him with a spear. Grindan and Eadgard dragged the man. He spat and raved in anger and fear.
Beobrand remembered a distant yew tree when he had been little more than a boy. The Mercian's screams brought back the whimpering cries of Tondberct. Tondberct had been his friend, but that had not stopped Beobrand ordering him hanged from the tree for his crimes.
The Mercian spat and blubbered now. Eadgard hit him hard, pushing him to his knees.
Beobrand clenched his jaw. These Mercians were not his friends.
"Kill him first," he said, his voice as final as death itself.
The man's screams intensified before being quickly silenced by a vicious cut from Grindan's sword. The Mercian's headless corpse crumpled, the head rolling a few paces towards Beobrand.
Beobrand scanned the rest of the men with a gaze as cold as the North Sea at Geola. They were pale and one of them twitched as Beobrand stared at him, clearly unable to keep his nerves in check. But none of them begged for mercy or screamed and raved. These men were not his friends, but they were warriors and they had their pride.
"I could have you slain like nithings, like men of no honour and no value. But if you give me your word that you will go quietly to the afterlife, I will see you each have a weapon in your hand when you breathe your last. Maybe Woden will see you and remember your past deeds and offer you a place in his corpse-hall." Beobrand looked up to the Wall. The two huge ravens yet sat there, eyeing the proceedings below with great interest. "Though why," Beobrand continued, "the All-father would wish for company of the likes of you, child slayers and as soft as women, I cannot say."
None of the Mercians responded. They merely glowered at the Bernician lord. They knew no words would save them now.
"Well," Beobrand said, "do you give me your word, such as that's worth?"
The oldest warrior, a tall, broad-shouldered man with streaks of grey in his thick beard nodded.
Beobrand glared at him.
"Do I have your oath?"
"Aye," the greybeard said, his voice gruff, "you have my word, you Bernician bastard. Now stick a sword in my fist and have done with it."
Beobrand nodded to Grindan, who picked up a seax fr
om the pile and handed it to the man. The old Mercian held the weapon behind his back and, without a word, knelt awkwardly. Beobrand nodded again and Eadgard struck the man's head from his shoulders, stepping back too slowly to avoid being sprayed in the great fountain of blood that gushed from the old warrior's neck.
Beobrand felt sick at the spectacle. He balled his hands into fists at his side to stop the shaking that always came upon him after a fight.
"And the rest of you," he said, addressing the remaining Mercians, "do you give me your word?"
"Aye," they replied.
Beobrand waved forward more of his gesithas to carry out the sacrifice. Ulf had tears in his eyes, but his expression was keen, eager for vengeance for his son.
"Slay them all quickly," Beobrand said to Cynan, "and see that each one has a weapon in his hand."
Beobrand watched as the men knelt, but turned away before the blades chopped down. He had seen enough killing. He walked, stiff-legged and aching to the nearest waggon. The oxen yoked to the cart stared at him with their stupid, bovine eyes. He recognised the nearest animal as one of Rowena's plough oxen. He stroked the beast's neck as he walked past. The ox flinched at the sound of swords hacking into flesh. In quick succession several more blades chopped into the kneeling Mercian warriors. The butcher-sound of slaughter filled Beobrand's ears, but he did not turn. He knew what he would see. He continued to the rear of the waggon, nodding silently to himself.
There had been no other sound but that of blades cutting into meat. The Mercians had kept their word. He was glad. He had not wished to hear their tormented cries. Above him, flapped the two ravens, flying north into the low clouds that rolled there, heavy with the promise of more rain. They had seen the blood-price paid. He sighed, wondering what further mischief they were flying to see.
From the lack of noise, the killing was over now, and Beobrand turned to see his men dragging bodies to the side of the road and piling the heads together into an awful bleak mound of hair, staring eyes and gaping mouths.
"Kill one of those cows that were meant for Lord Merehwit," Beobrand said. "And light a fire. I would eat meat and be warm this night. In the morning we ride north. Back to Ubbanford." A couple of younger men, helping Bearn with the horses, let out a cheer at the prospect of meat, warmth and the return home. Those of Beobrand's gesithas who had dealt death to the kneeling Mercians did not smile.
Reaching the rear of the cart, Beobrand made to peer beneath the leather coverings that sheltered the cargo from the elements. But as he lifted the flap, a figure surged from the darkness within. The iron of a knife flashed, catching the dimming light of the sun. Beobrand was caught off guard, but he still had his speed. He leapt backwards, avoiding the blade. His feet slipped in the slick earth and he almost lost his footing. A stab of pain radiated from his thigh. The figure, long dark hair a tangled mass of madness, clambered from the cart and threw itself at Beobrand.
It was a woman, face distorted by fear and rage. She swung her knife at him in frantic, crazed ire-filled attacks. She was fast and erratic, but she was no warrior and Beobrand swatted away her knife easily. He pushed her backwards and she clattered against the wheel of the cart. The oxen lowed as the waggon rocked behind them.
"Enough woman!" Beobrand snapped. "Put down your knife."
But she did not heed his words. With a snarl, the woman launched herself at him again.
"You are a nithing," she shrieked, "a craven." She aimed a slicing blow at his face and he swayed out of reach of the gleaming blade. There was something familiar about this woman. Her savage anger reminded him of Nelda. That long-dead cunning woman had come at him with a knife in the darkness of her cavern on Muile. She had raved at him for the death of her son, spitting her fury and curses in the gloom.
And then he knew who this woman was. She was the Mercian thrall he had rescued from Fordraed's men. She too had lost her son. Lost everything. And it was she who had struck down Reaghan. Sweet Reaghan who had offered her kindness and received treachery in return.
Another wild swing almost opened his throat. He dodged her attack and once more shoved her back.
"Woman, put up your knife. I do not wish to kill you. Gods, I did not save you for this."
"Save me!" she screamed. "Save me! Your Waelisc whore tried to save me too. I cannot be saved, there is nothing to save."
Her eyes were full of madness and violence as she leapt towards him again.
Beobrand was done with this. He did not wish to kill the woman, but she deserved death. She had raised her hand against Reaghan and the gods alone knew if his woman yet lived. The image of Reaghan lying in the overcrowded hall of Stagga, sweat-drenched and trembling, came to him unbidden.
Beobrand could feel his own anger mounting, rising like water behind a beaver dam. Ready to burst forth in a torrent of violence.
Too often he had shown leniency to his enemies.
Anticipating the Mercian woman's downward swing with the knife, Beobrand blocked with his forearm and punched her full in the face. She was flung backward and sprawled in the mud beside the waggon.
Beobrand dragged Hrunting from its fur-lined scabbard.
"Perhaps death will save you," he said, his voice as sharp and cold as Hrunting's patterned blade.
He stepped towards her. A movement on the cart caught his attention and he was not surprised to see the ravens fluttering down to land atop the leather cover. One of the birds croaked. It seemed Woden wished for yet more blood. Would the god never be sated?
So be it, thought Beobrand. What difference the blood of this treacherous thrall? He raised Hrunting.
"Go on then," the woman spat from where she lay in the mud. "Show me what a strong man you are, you Waelisc-loving whoreson."
The muscles of Beobrand's jaw bunched. He could no longer hold back the wave of anger. Gods, he would silence the bitch. He lifted his blade. She would learn soon enough not to cross Beobrand or his kin.
Without warning Beobrand was pushed away from the prone woman. Strong hands shoved against his chest and he was forced backwards.
"You cannot kill her, Beobrand," said Cynan.
The Waelisc warrior had positioned himself between Beobrand and the slave woman.
"She is my thrall," Beobrand said. "I can do with her what I please. Perhaps the men would like a plaything while they feast tonight."
"No, lord."
"No?" replied Beobrand, his tone growing as frigid as a winter's night. "You dare defy me, boy?"
Cynan's face grew pale, but he did not step aside.
"This bitch stabbed Reaghan in my own hall," said Beobrand. His voice trembled as he fought to control his rage. "I gave her life, but she deserves nothing but death. Better if I had left her to Fordraed. Get out of my way."
Cynan did not move.
"Get out of my way!" bellowed Beobrand, suddenly full of such fury that he raised Hrunting above Cynan and was ready to slay him for his temerity.
For a terrible moment Beobrand knew that he would kill this fool who would dare stand before him. He was Cynan's lord. Gods, Cynan had been but a thrall when he had taken him into his gesithas. And this is how the sheep-swiving Waelisc repaid him? He was surrounded by treachery. Well, if he could not count on Cynan's obedience, the boy was of no worth to him.
Beobrand made to swing Hrunting down. Cynan flinched, but he did not defend himself, or move away.
The ravens croaked again and their voices sounded like the cackling of bitter laughter.
Beobrand stayed his hand. In that instant he recalled a lightning-flickered night when he had rained blows upon Acennan because his friend had dared defy him. With a flash of regret he remembered pummelling his fists into Anhaga's face. His steward had done nothing wrong, and for his loyalty all he received was violence and then death at Beobrand's hand.
He stared into Cynan's eyes and saw the fear there. Cynan knew that Beobrand would kill him in an instant. But something else flickered there in Cynan's hazel eyes.
Disappointment.
Shaking, Beobrand lowered his sword. His chest heaved as though he had run a great distance.
"You will not stand aside?" asked Beobrand in a quiet, unsteady voice.
"I cannot, lord," replied Cynan, who yet held Beobrand's gaze with his own.
"I have your oath and yet you would defy me?"
Cynan swallowed.
"If you wish to kill me, Beobrand, then so be it. But I will not stand aside and let you kill Sulis. She has suffered much and I fear her mind is broken and twisted. But to slay her would bring no good."
"She sought to kill Reaghan," Beobrand whispered, his anger yet pushing at its shackles. "Mayhap my woman is already dead and cold in the hall of Stagga." The thought of it made his voice crack. "This woman must be punished."
"She has lost her son and been made a thrall. Has she not been punished enough?"
"Her death is my weregild. My right by the dooms and laws of the kings of Bernicia."
"Do not do this thing, lord," said Cynan. "I am one of your Black Shields. Have I not always fought for you with honour? Do I not seek to serve and obey you? To protect you?"
Beobrand said nothing.
"You know what other men are capable of. When the battle-lust is upon them and the joy of victory flows in their blood. You have seen too often the horrors of war. But you have always commanded us not to harm women and children, lord. Even when others take their pleasure from the wives and daughters of the men they have slain in the shieldwall. You will never allow it of us. You think we would rather take our share of the spoils? No. We love you for your strength. You are a better lord than others and you have made us better men. Do not do this thing. You will forever regret it."
Warrior of Woden Page 35
