The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  Kill him! urged the Devil. Begin your vengeance!

  Saeric was surrounded by all manner of weapons from which to choose, but it was not a sword or knife that Saeric selected to strike his enemy. His weapon lay on the table right beside him. Saeric grabbed the ploughshare, and with a snarl, lunged at his mentor. Heremund managed to draw his sword in time to fend off Saeric’s first swipe, but the smith’s long-bladed weapon was a hindrance in the cramped and cluttered smithy. It tangled in one of the pot chains on the backswing, and the big Saxon found himself defenceless; wide open to Saeric’s attack. The Briton didn’t hesitate, turning on his heel as he had done on the roadside, and using the follow-through to increase his momentum, he lifted the ploughshare high and launched himself at his enemy.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  ‘No!’ Eanswith slapped her brother hard across his face, hissing at him like a cat. ‘I refuse to let Sugu go.’

  ‘Even after that almighty failure?’ Edward argued, his tone scathing as he rubbed his smarting cheek. ‘They were meant to kidnap him, but instead, your scortum killed every one of them with his bare hands. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.’

  ‘He had no idea I was there. And anyway, this is not my fault. They were your men. I should have known they’d be useless, just like you.’

  ‘They killed the woman,’ Edward said defensively.

  ‘They were meant to do it slowly, in front of Sugu, who was meant to be tied to a tree and forced to watch, helpless while his friend was raped then cut into little pieces, bit by excruciating bit.’ She pressed her hands to her heart in mock dismay, and then her face hardened into a sneer. ‘Instead, the idiot slashed the little bićće in half before nearly killing Sugu! What bit of “take her alive” did they not get?’

  ‘Yeah, well it serves me right for trusting that moron Hunlaf, but Sugu killed him too, so at least not everything turned out bad.’ He took a drink from his mug. ‘No one can blab and betray us now.’

  ‘Well, we’re going to have to try again.’

  ‘What?’ Edward blurted, slamming his mug on the table and sloshing ale onto his hand. ‘Don’t be stupid. We’ll be lucky to hide this disaster from father as it is. How are you going to explain Hunlaf’s death? We can hardly tell him the truth, and what if one of the men had survived and talked? You’d have brought all of Wessex down on us, and for what? We have a new boy now. We’re done with Sugu.’

  ‘You might be done with him, but I’m not,’ Eanswith muttered. She looked across the hall to her brother’s plaything, who, she noted, was barely clothed. The boy sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the opposite wall, his pretty face ruined by a scowl. Eanswith had been surprised to find him inside, tied to one of the posts by his collar, and she suspected she’d interrupted Edward at an inopportune moment. ‘You should have left that one to choke on his chain,’ she said. ‘He’s a disobedient little shit.’

  ‘Just as well he belongs to me then, isn’t it?’ Edward said testily. ‘And don’t you dare do that to him again. I’m trying to look after this one.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever I want, brother, and that includes getting my scortum back.’

  ‘Well, you’re on your own, sis. I’m not helping you anymore. It’s too dangerous, and he definitely isn’t worth it.’

  ‘Fine,’ she hissed. ‘I don’t need you. You’d only mess things up anyway. I can be patient. What is it they say: revenge is a dish best served cold? Very well, then. Let him have a pleasant winter to grow fat and contented. Then come next spring, I’ll pounce from the shadows when he least expects it and rip out his heart.’ She wrenched at the air with her clenched fist for emphasis.

  Her brother shook his head at her. ‘You’re a depraved bitch, you know that?’

  She looked back over at the dusky-skinned slave, wondering what singular pleasures Edward had planned for him today. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Next to you, I’m a saint.’

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  ‘Aneurin!’

  The shouted command came from somewhere behind Saeric: a firm voice that the Briton had heard somewhere before. It stopped him in his tracks. He knows my name!? Saeric stumbled sideways as he abandoned his attack, the heavy iron weapon glancing off the stone wall beside Heremund’s head with a dull clang. Saeric bumped against the tool bench and dropped the implement amongst the neatly rowed tongs and hammers, his right arm tangling in the same chains that had ensnared Heremund’s sword. His other arm was useless because it was bound in its sling, and the room swam in a sickening up and down motion as though the whole building was being rocked by the sea. Suddenly it was Saeric who stood exposed and unarmed, but Heremund didn’t move to take the advantage. Instead, he stared towards the entrance of the smithy. Saeric, too, squinted in the same direction to see who had barked his name.

  A tall, fit, middle-aged man with short-cropped hair greying at the temples and a face framed by a neat beard, stood at the smithy’s threshold. He was armed but had not drawn his blade. Saeric’s eyes fell upon the golden dragon of Wessex emblazoned on the soldier’s tabard. The true mark of the enemy; the standard of the Saxon king who had lent his strength to the Traitor to overthrow Aneurin’s father.

  ‘I really wouldn’t do that, Prince Aneurin,’ the man said, his continued use of the name sounding incongruous in the circumstances. ‘If you kill the King’s master-at-arms, I will have you executed, and you, in turn, will fail to keep your promise to your family and your people.’ He smiled in apology. ‘Which would be a travesty, given all that you have endured to survive this long.’

  Saeric stood rooted to the spot, speechless. He knows who I am, he thought again, his chest tightening with panic. How the Hell could he know who I am?

  ‘I am not who you think,’ Saeric said, his tone unconvincing as he tried to untangle his arm from the chains. He was aware of the sharp pain in his left shoulder as he wrenched his body in his effort to free himself, but he ignored it, his mind urgently considering his options for escape.

  We must flee, agreed the Devil, his voice carrying a hint of fear. You are right not to admit who you are to him.

  Fear? Saeric wondered. Since when are you afraid?

  The soldier opposite him smiled, his expression sceptical. ‘Is that so?’

  Saeric chose that moment escape. He sprang sideways and darted around the forge towards the open front of the smithy, but Eadwald was too quick for him. The Saxon grabbed Saeric by his injured arm, punched his injured shoulder and tripped him on his bad ankle. Saeric fell to the earthen floor of the smithy, croaking in agony.

  ‘For God’s sake, what are you doing?’ Heremund scolded, crouching down to check on his charge.

  ‘He was trying to bash your skull in a moment ago,’ Eadwald countered, amused. ‘You’re lucky I decided to come back for a second look.’ He crouched down opposite Heremund, Saeric lying between them. ‘Can he really be the lost ætheling?’ he wondered, tilting his head and considering his prisoner, who scowled back at him angrily.

  ‘I am no ætheling,’ Saeric gasped, struggling not to throw up. ‘And who are you, anyway?’ It didn’t sound very commanding from his position lying prone between the two seasoned soldiers, or was it three? There seemed to be two Saxon generals where before there had been one.

  Eadwald frowned at Saeric, assessing him as a buyer might a slave. ‘You don’t look very regal,’ he agreed.

  ‘Nor would you if you’d been a slave to Saxon murderers all your life,’ Saeric said bitterly, then realised what he’d said and shut his mouth. The two generals merged into one again.

  ‘Question is, what am I to do with you?’ Eadwald mused, tilting his head as he considered his options. ‘You present a fascinating dilemma, you know.’

  ‘I’m Heremund’s apprentice,’ Saeric said. ‘Just another Briton orphaned by your betrayal of our King.’

  Eadwald stood and rubbed a thoughtful hand on his chin. ‘I’m thinking some kind of crucifix,’ he decided, ignoring Saeric’s protests of innocence. ‘King Mael is
quite fond of them. Fix it upon a bullock wagon and parade you through the streets of Escanceaster; in fact the whole of the countryside. “Hear ye, hear ye, here be the lost prince of Dumnonia! Come look upon the thrall who would be king!”’ He paused, another thought occurring to him. ‘You’ll need a crown of course…’ He scanned the smithy, and then his eyes settled upon a small barrel hoop lying on one of the benches. He nodded with satisfaction. ‘Perfect,’ he muttered. He scooped up the iron ring and put it on Saeric’s head. ‘What better than a bit of rusty old iron for a decrepit slave; a washed-up member of the usurped royal line?’ He turned to Heremund, looking satisfied with himself. ‘What do you think, old friend? Would that be a fitting honour for your lost prince?’

  Heremund and Saeric scowled back at the Saxon soldier, both equally unimpressed. Eadwald burst out laughing. ‘If only you could see yourselves. Your faces mirror one another perfectly. I’m not sure who is the more outraged: Briton or Saxon!’ He turned to Saeric, suddenly serious. ‘A crown suits you, prince Aneurin, but a long road lies ahead should you wish to win your real one back.’

  It took Saeric a few breaths to understand what the soldier had just said. ‘Get it back?’ he asked, stunned.

  Eadwald ignored the question and instead picked up one of the unfinished swords from the curing rack. ‘What exactly is your plan?’

  Saeric frowned back at the Saxon Ealdorman, having no intention of revealing his plans to his enemy. ‘Go to Hell,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you: I’m not Aneurin.’

  ‘He wants to avenge his family,’ Heremund offered, earning himself a black look from his apprentice.

  ‘Yes, I know that, but how does he intend to do it? Especially in this state?’ Eadwald turned the blunt-edged blade over in his hand. He looked at Saeric. ‘Do you know how to use one of these?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Saeric said defensively, just as he had earlier with Heremund. Eadwald didn’t appear convinced.

  ‘You’re right-handed I hope,’ he said, glancing at Saeric’s left shoulder, which was now bleeding through the bandage and sling, thanks to Eadwald’s unprincipled attack. The Saxon swapped the unfinished blade into his left hand and drew his own sword with his right, deftly flipping it one-handed so that he offered its grip to Saeric. ‘Show me,’ he said.

  Saeric stared at the fine weapon as though it was a viper poised to strike. I can’t even stand up, you arsehole, he thought, let alone fight you.

  ‘Take it!’ Eadwald demanded.

  Pride won, and Saeric pulled himself to his feet and took the weapon. Eadwald attacked immediately with the unfinished blade in his wrong hand. Within moments he had disarmed the stunned Briton.

  ‘Again,’ Eadwald ordered, nodding down at the sword that Saeric had dropped.

  Three times the Saxon disarmed his British opponent, and on the third, Saeric found himself with the tips of both blades at his neck, pressed up against the forge, his pants singeing on the coals.

  ‘How long were you in captivity?’ Eadwald demanded.

  ‘I told you: my whole life.’

  ‘It shows.’ He looked Saeric up and down. ‘In all ways.’

  ‘Why don’t you just fuck off?’ Saeric snapped, using his bandaged arm to knock the swords away.

  ‘Watch him,’ Heremund warned. ‘He killed those men with a ploughshare, remember.’

  ‘And is that what he intends to use on King Mael? If he thinks he has even the slightest hope of tackling his uncle and his fyrd in this pitiful state, he is sorely mistaken.’ He locked eyes with Saeric. ‘You’ll be dead in an instant.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ Saeric hissed. ‘I’m injured right now. It’s hardly a fair fight.’

  ‘Do you think Mael is going to care about something like that?’ Eadwald said. He tossed his sword back to Saeric. ‘Go on then, prove me wrong, but I’ll make it fairer for you in consideration of your incapacity.’ He put the unfinished sword back on the rack and picked up a bent pewter ladle from Heremund’s discard pile. It was barely a foot long. Certainly not a weapon.

  Eadwald yelled an obscenity and launched himself at the Briton as though he held a ten-foot-long pike. To Saeric’s astonishment, Eadwald somehow managed to best him with a combination of noisy shouting, arm-waving, well-aimed punches and smacks with the ladle. Saeric had barely lifted his blade before he felt himself falling backwards onto the earthen floor.

  Eadwald flung the spoon at Saeric and shook his head in disgust. ‘Do you know what I think? I think I could disarm you with a toothpick. I was wrong before. You’ll be dead long before you take ten steps along this road, just as likely tripping over your own feet. Avenging prince? Pah!’

  ‘I’m not a prince!’ Saeric snapped, furious with himself for his glaring incompetence, and fearful for his future.

  Eadwald gave him a long, sceptical look, then he scooped up his sword from Saeric’s feet and rammed it back in its scabbard. He turned to his old friend. ‘What have you been teaching him all this time, Heremund?’

  ‘I didn’t know he was the ætheling,’ Heremund growled back, unconsciously placing a hand on Saeric’s good shoulder, ‘and a bellows boy doesn’t need to know swordcraft. And as for his current state, I am amazed he is here at all, let alone able to stand and talk. Saeric should be dead five times over.’ He paused, then looked at Saeric. ‘Of course, he could be telling the truth, you know. We could be wrong.’

  ‘Well,’ Eadwald said, tilting his head as he considered Saeric. ‘Prince or not, he has a lot of work to do before he sets out on his quest.’

  ‘I thought you were going to nail me to a cross,’ Saeric grumbled, still smarting at having been bested by the Saxon with nothing more than a spoon. He glanced over at the ploughshare lying amongst the scattered tools, wondering if it held some sort of enchantment. Could that have been the source of my strength yesterday? Perhaps I should find out…

  ‘Don’t bother, Aneurin,’ Eadwald said, following the Briton’s line of sight. ‘Those brigands were drunk, blind, asleep or all three. After what I’ve just seen, I am struggling to believe your master’s tales of heroic plough-wielding. You are worse than a beginner.’

  ‘Stop calling me that,’ Saeric said bitterly. ‘And what does it matter anyway? You’re an ealdorman to the King, Dumnonia’s enemy, so I’m as good as dead anyway.’

  ‘No, your grace,’ Eadwald said, using the correct honorific, ‘you shan’t escape your destiny that easily. I’m willing to help you replace this,’ and he tapped the iron band on Saeric’s head, ‘with the one your father wore.’

  Saeric blinked at him. ‘Why?’ he asked, perplexed.

  ‘Because your uncle is an arse,’ Eadwald replied. ‘He has given us nothing but trouble since he took the throne. He has failed to keep his promises and doesn’t pay all his dues, which my king is particularly unhappy about. So, if you truly are who you claim to be, perhaps we can help one another? You’ll have to swear fealty to my King of course and pay him a share of your land’s levies and taxes, but you will have your kingdom back, I can promise you that.’

  Don’t trust him, warned the Devil, speaking up at last, but again sounding uncertain, as though Eadwald’s presence had drained away a large part of his power and confidence.

  ‘Whilst I confess I’m struggling to understand what Heremund sees in you,’ Eadwald went on, ‘during my time as his deputy, I learned that he has an excellent eye for character.’ He smiled. ‘He chose me as his successor, after all. That said, I think that while you are in my tutelage, you will wear that iron band as a reminder of where you have come from; your thrall’s crown, if you like.’

  ‘It’s not very comfortable.’

  ‘Crowns aren’t,’ Eadwald said, ‘no matter what they’re made of. You’ll come to hate yours, I guarantee it.’

  ‘I’m not who you think I am,’ Saeric repeated. ‘And you still haven’t told me who you are.’

  Eadwald smiled. ‘I wanted to be sure you weren’t any danger to me first.’ He thrust out his g
loved hand.

  ‘Eadwald, master-at-arms to Ecgberht, King of Wessex and Bretwalda of all the English kingdoms. I am also a former deputy to Heremund, himself former master of the King’s armies, Lord of Scirburne and Totteness, and, coincidentally, overlord of Dumnonia on behalf of said King Ecgberht.’

  Saeric stared at Heremund. ‘You’re what?’ he spat, an even more horrifying realisation coming to him. ‘You’re the one they called the Iron Fist of Wessex!’ Saeric blinked in shock, stunned that he had somehow befriended the Saxon general who had masterminded the overthrow of his family and their kingdom. So that’s why the Devil led me here from Eanswith’s! My vengeance is to begin here!

  ‘Ah,’ Eadwald said, turning to his superior. ‘He didn’t know?’

  ‘Obviously not,’ Heremund growled. ‘We were just getting to that bit when you interrupted.’

  Eadwald threw his master a wry smile. ‘Humble apologies, my Lord,’ he said sarcastically.

  Saeric looked from one Saxon to the other, feeling utterly betrayed and outwitted.

  ‘I’ve a suspicion you’ve just been elevated to the top of his hit list,’ Eadwald continued.

  ‘Where does that put you then?’ Heremund countered.

  ‘Number three, I daresay, after Mael and you.’

  ‘Four,’ Saeric corrected. ‘There’s another man between you and my uncle I need to kill first.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Eadwald said in understanding. ‘Lord Talec, I presume? I think you would be doing the whole eight kingdoms a favour if you managed to put a sword through his heart.’

  ‘And then I will come after you,’ Saeric said coldly.

  Eadwald shook his head. ‘I’d recommend against that. You will need our help to reclaim your kingdom.’

  ‘I will never turn to a Saxon for help,’ Saeric said icily. ‘Especially you.’

  Eadwald considered him, amused. ‘You seem to have relied quite heavily on Heremund thus far, and he has a much greater Saxon stain than me!’

  ‘I have the people of Dumnonia,’ Saeric continued angrily. ‘They will rally to my call.’