Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand nodded.

  “Dreogan speaks sense, Cynan,” he said. “If you fall in, you’ll be drowned in an instant.”

  Cynan had finished wrestling his armour into place, cinching his belt tightly around his waist to take some of the weight of the byrnie.

  “Then I had better not fall in!” he laughed.

  Beobrand looked over to where his four remaining warriors stood. Attor, Bearn and Fraomar all looked ready, poised and alert, as if they had not just suffered through a storm of nightmare. Fraomar and Garr, he saw, had also both eschewed their war harness and Attor, as ever wore his light leather jack.

  The last of his gesith on board was Bearn. The warrior looked even more haggard than Beobrand felt. He leaned heavily on the ship’s wale, pale and trembling.

  “Will you be able to fight?” Beobrand asked. He didn’t wish to shame the man, but he needed to know he could count on him when the time came. By way of response Bearn raised his sword in the air and nodded. He did not open his mouth, as if he feared he would puke again if he did. Beobrand gave him a long, hard stare and then nodded. Bearn was a good man, who had stood by his side countless times in battle. If he said he was up to the task, Beobrand believed him.

  “Fetch me my shield, my helm and Hrunting,” Beobrand said to the youngest of his men. Fraomar nodded and quickly did his lord’s bidding.

  A wave hit the side of the ship, causing it to lurch and creak. Beobrand staggered, reaching out his left, half-hand to clutch Bassus’ shoulder.

  “By Tiw’s cock, Beobrand,” said Bassus in his booming voice, “you are as pale as lamb’s wool and you look about as strong.”

  Beobrand squared his shoulders. Maybe he looked as bad as Bearn, he thought. He reached down for a leather flask of water that lay near his feet. It had been tossed there along with other unsecured contents of the ship during the storm. He shook the flask, unstoppered it and took a swig. After swilling the water around his mouth he spat it over the side of the ship, finally washing away some of the bitter taste of acid from his throat. He took a long draught and forced himself to swallow, despite his stomach clenching at the thought. He offered the skin to Bassus, who took it after a moment’s hesitation.

  “I’m sick to the stomach, old man,” Beobrand said. “I cannot recall ever having felt worse.” For a fleeting moment he recalled the terrible fever that had racked his body after the battle of Gefrin’s ford. He had lost two of his fingers from his left hand and had become elf-shot. The wound rot had almost killed him then, but that was long ago, ten years in the past, and seemed like a distant dream. “I may still be weak from all that puking, but by Woden, I can still kill me a few mangy sailors.”

  The old man who was working on the steerboard looked askance at Beobrand, as did a couple of the closer seamen. Beobrand scowled back at them as he took his belt and scabbard from Fraomar. He fumbled briefly with the buckle, but he had long since ceased to struggle with the mutilated left hand, and the belt was quickly fastened. The sailors watched as he placed his great helm upon his head and rested his infamous black shield against the ship’s strakes. Their eyes quickly flicked over his arm rings and the bone-handled seax that hung from a finely tooled leather sheath at his belt and their gaze came to rest on the golden, intricately wrought hilt of his sword, Hrunting. Perhaps his words had angered them, but they swallowed whatever retorts they had in their mouths and turned back to their tasks. They might yet survive this day, but they were not sure they would live if they crossed the warlord who stood before them now.

  Suddenly the ship lurched again, this time as the sail was hauled aloft and the brisk wind caught it with a snap. Beobrand staggered and his mouth filled with spit as he felt his gorge threatening to rise again. He spat and took a deep, open-mouthed breath. The foremost of the three approaching ships was almost upon them now. Its crimson sail was rounded and tight, gravid with the wind, propelling it through the waves as straight as a spear throw.

  A sudden movement on the ship drew his attention and for an instant Beobrand thought he had seen a sea bird wheeling in the sky, but an instant later he understood what his eyes had noticed. An arrow flickered upwards from the raider’s vessel and arced towards them.

  “Arrow!” was all he had time to shout before the projectile reached them. Bassus had been grabbing for a shield, but the arrow thudded into the deck, two paces from his feet.

  “I’m done catching arrows in my flesh,” he said, kicking the shaft and snapping it from where it quivered. He had lost his left arm following an arrow wound from the bow of Torran mac Nathair. Beobrand had avenged his friend, and Coenred and the monks of Lindisfarena had saved Bassus’ life. But nothing could save his arm. Such an injury might be the end of a lesser man, but Bassus had seemed to grow in confidence as the years went by. The giant warrior lifted the shield and held it before him.

  “Protect the oarsmen,” yelled Beobrand and his men raised their shields and made their way down the ship to hold them as cover for the men pulling on the oars. The sail was unfurled and the oars were in the water, but still the ship floundered.

  “Come on, damn your eyes,” roared the skipper at the old man who was frantically looping and tying rope in an attempt to fix the steerboard once more in place in its timber frame.

  The lead ship loomed ever nearer. More arrows darted into the sky.

  “Shields,” screamed Beobrand, rushing clumsily along the deck to offer some protection to the man who yet worked at the steerboard. A handful of arrows sliced down into the ship. One clattered against Bassus’ shield boss before skittering away. Beobrand surveyed the crew, the holy men and his gesithas. None were injured, but that would not last long if these arrows kept falling. The monks and the priests cowered low behind the ship’s sheer strakes. As Beobrand watched, a white fletched arrow thumped into the oak boards of the deck a mere hand’s breadth from young Dalston. The slender monk’s eyes grew wide and he let out a whimpering sob.

  The lead raider ship was less than a spear’s throw away now. At the prow stood a huge figure, broad and strange. His great head was tusked and grey-skinned. What manner of creature was this? Beobrand’s skin prickled. The raider ship ploughed into a wave, sending up a huge sheet of foam. The water splashed the creature at the prow of the oncoming ship and it reached up a hand to wipe its eyes. In that moment, the illusion was shattered. This was no creature, but a man, wearing the skull and hide of some beast the like of which Beobrand had never seen before.

  Beobrand fixed the man with a glare and a sudden calm came over him. These were but men, who breathed and bled like any other. He was Beobrand, thegn of Bernicia, lord of Ubbanford, and with half a dozen of his black-shielded warriors by his side, he would wreak havoc on these pirates.

  “Come on then,” he bellowed over the waves. “Come and face us if you dare.”

  He thought he saw the beast-man leader grin from beneath his skull helm.

  More arrows flashed through the wind-riven sky, but again, none struck flesh.

  The slap of sudden footfalls on the deck made Beobrand turn. Garr, slender and almost willow-like in his grace, took a few quick steps forward and launched a short throwing spear into the air. Everyone watched the javelin as it flexed on its upward flight before plunging down towards their pursuers’ ship. Garr was a fine spear-man and could throw further and more accurately than any man Beobrand knew, and it seemed that even when throwing from a rolling ship on uneven seas, his aim was unerring, for the spear lanced down and struck the pirate steersman in the shoulder. The man fell and immediately their attackers’ ship veered away and began to lose speed.

  At the same instant, the old man who had been furiously tying ropes and wrestling their damaged steerboard back into place, let out a cry. Beobrand did not understand the man’s words, but it seemed clear to the master of the ship, who shouldered the old man out of the way. The grizzled captain grabbed the rudder in his meaty hands and yelled at the crew.

  The men pulled at the oars wit
h renewed vigour and the sail cracked and bellied, once more full of the brisk wind. The hull trembled beneath Beobrand like a stallion being given its head. As he watched, Beobrand could see that they were pulling away from the three ships that had descended upon them like wolves in the dawn.

  Beobrand grinned at Garr. The tall spear-man nodded soberly in response.

  The ship’s master cast a glance over his shoulder.

  “Looks like your man has killed one of them. They’ll slay us all for certain, if they board us now.” He was ashen-faced and sombre.

  “Not if we kill them first,” said Beobrand.

  The prow sliced through a white-tipped wave, sending up a great wash of spray as the ship cleaved through the water, heading westward, away from the open sea and the rising sun.

  “Besides, it seems the gods are smiling on us this morning,” shouted Beobrand. “Keep this up and we will outrun them yet.”

  And with that, as if the gods themselves responded to his words with their displeasure, one of the ropes securing the sail snapped.

  Chapter 2

  The sail luffed and billowed like a battle banner. With the bottom corner unsecured, the wind was lost and the ship lost its speed instantly. A judder ran through its boards as a wave crashed against its beam, threatening to capsize her. With the sail gone, Háligsteorra floundered once more. The few sailors who were at the oars pulled valiantly, but it was instantly clear to Beobrand that they would never be able to produce enough power to escape their pursuers.

  He watched as the lead pirate ship regained control. Another man took the rudder and once more the ship sliced through the waves towards them. The other two ships seemed content to allow their leader to attack alone, but there was no doubt now that the attack was coming. Beobrand staggered. The deck lurched beneath his feet as Háligsteorra wallowed, at the mercy of the waves. The pirate ship was bearing down on them quickly. In a matter of moments, it would be upon them.

  “To me, my brave gesithas,” Beobrand bellowed.

  His warriors drew their weapons, raised their shields and moved into position beside their lord to form a small shieldwall at the stern of the ship, facing the oncoming attackers. It seemed the enemy ship would seek to close with them on the steerboard side and this is where Beobrand and his men waited.

  “Get to the prow,” Beobrand yelled at Utta and the priests who had been huddled in the rear of the ship. “Give us room to kill these whoresons.”

  The holy men scuttled towards the front of the ship. The captain too, seeing the pirate ship coming in fast towards them, leapt up from the steering oar and fled away from Beobrand and his warriors.

  “Raise the oars,” he screamed as he rushed down the ship, but his sailors did not understand the danger and were still attempting to heave the ship to safety. The long oars were yet in the water when the pirate ship smashed into the side of the ship and scraped along its length, splintering the oars like kindling. One man was thrown from his sea chest with a screech as his oar smacked into his ribs with terrible force.

  The early morning air was filled with the crash and crack of the colliding hulls. The raiders added their roaring cries of doom to the cacophony. They held axes, seaxes and wicked knives and leaned over the edge of their ship, leering and eager to be upon their prey. They screamed words of hatred and horror in several tongues, most of which Beobrand could not comprehend. But their purpose was clear. These men came for death and plunder and with their screams they hoped to weaken their foe with fear. Beobrand scanned the ire-filled faces of the men. They snarled and spat and he knew that other men might be unmanned by their terrifying display. But Beobrand had stood in shieldwalls where the earth had turned to a quagmire with the blood of foe-men and friend alike, where the ravens had been fed so well on the torn flesh of the corpses that they could no longer fly. He had seen the slaughter of friends and enemies and had witnessed the savage killing of lords and kings. Neither he nor his gesithas would be cowed by the ravings of these seafaring brigands.

  The pirates might not be armoured hearth warriors and thegns bedecked in fine war harness, but there was no denying their mettle. Without pause, several of the pirates leapt from their ship onto the Northumbrian vessel. A few carried ropes which Beobrand assumed they would use to lash the two ships together. Blood fountained as the first of the oarsman was slain. Pinned by his shattered oar, he was unable to escape the first wild axe swings from the marauders.

  More attackers swarmed over the side of the ship. The master, crew and holy men moved backwards towards the bow. All the focus of the attackers was on the midships and the prow. Beobrand realised he had positioned his men poorly. They had not been able to fend off the raiders. But now they would make them pay for boarding the Háligsteorra.

  “Bassus,” Beobrand snapped, “lead the men and kill those bastards.”

  Bassus grinned.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I’ll join you shortly.” He turned to Cynan. “Follow me, and,” he glanced quickly at Cynan’s iron-knit byrnie, “don’t fall in.”

  Bassus, huge and shieldless, was surrounded by the black linden boards of Beobrand’s gesithas. The giant warrior bellowed and raised his sword above his head.

  “Death!” he shouted, and the small shieldwall stamped forward towards the invaders, who turned to meet the threat.

  Beobrand did not wait to see the outcome of Bassus’ attack, or whether Cynan would follow him. Gone was the sickness and fear of the storm. The night had been full of uncertainty and angry gods. Now, in the watery light of a new day Beobrand could see his enemies and he welcomed the certainty of death-dealing. He was born to the battle-play and he allowed the joy of bloodletting to flood through him like a spring tide, washing away his doubts and sadness. He had known so much death. So many of those close to him had died, it was as if death was ever in his shadow. He had discovered long ago that killing did not bring him happiness, but he had decided that if he was to always walk near to death, he would make it dance to his sword’s song.

  Beobrand stepped up onto the wale of the ship. The cold wind tugged at his sodden kirtle. For a moment, he teetered there. The two ships pulled away from each other, rising and falling on the choppy sea. The water between them was churned and dark. If he should fall, he would be crushed between the two hulls and drowned in the sea’s bottomless depths. Suppressing a shudder at the thought, Beobrand fixed his gaze on the pirate ship. Taking a deep breath, he hesitated for a heartbeat, allowing the deck to rise towards him, and then he flung himself across the gap.

  He landed hard, stumbling and cracking his shins against a thwart. But he remained on his feet. A moment later, something crashed into his back and he staggered.

  “Sorry, lord,” Cynan said, laughter in his voice. “I didn’t want to fall in.”

  Beobrand grinned at the Waelisc warrior, but he did not speak. There was no need now for words. Now was the time for screams.

  On the far side of the ship lay the injured steersman, Garr’s spear yet jutting from his shoulder. The newly appointed helmsman stared wide-eyed at the two Northumbrian warriors. He released the rudder and tugged a long seax from his belt. Beobrand dashed across the deck. The sailor swung his seax wildly, but Beobrand caught the attack effortlessly on his shield and hacked Hrunting into the man’s neck. Dark gore gushed in a great arc, painting the oak beams of the deck crimson.

  The man that Garr’s spear had pierced cried out from where he lay on the deck.

  “Spare me!” he whimpered, blood bubbling on his lips.

  Cynan plunged his sword into the prone figure, silencing his pleading.

  Beobrand and Cynan turned, and side by side they strode quickly towards the amassed men who crowded amidships.

  Sensing the approaching danger, some of the pirates turned to face them. Cynan and Beobrand did not hesitate. They threw themselves forward, easily deflecting the sailors’ clumsy attacks on their black-painted shields. With practised efficacy, the two warriors
lashed out with their blades and hot blood once again splashed the deck. These seamen were savage and brave, but they were no match for Beobrand and his finest gesith.

  Beobrand and Cynan stepped forward on the slick boards, again hammering their blades into the soft, unarmoured flesh of their adversaries. The sailors were trying to run now, to break away from the two implacable killers who bore down on them from the stern of their own ship. But the belly of the boat was thronged with men, and there was no escape. Men stumbled and fell before the two Northumbrians, only to be sent to the afterlife where they lay with rapid downward thrusts of the warriors’ blades.

  From the Northumbrian ship came the sound of more screams. More death was being dealt there, and Beobrand’s heart swelled. These were his men, and their exploits were sung of the length of Albion. Here, despite their small number, on the wind-tossed waves of the Whale Road, his gesithas were once again proving themselves worthy of song.

  The sailors before them retreated, shying away from their gore-slick blades. Beobrand scanned the horizon. The two other pirate ships were close by, but did not seem to be doing anything to enter the fray. And what was that? There, in the west. Yes, there was no doubt. They were yet distant, but there, coming from landward, were the two ships that bore Wynhelm and Fordraed, and with them, many more seasoned fighting men.

  “Death!” Beobrand bellowed in his battle-voice. “We will win this day, for behold, our countrymen have found us and sail to our aid.”

  Was that a ragged cheer from his men aboard Háligsteorra? He could not tell, but suddenly another voice rose above the chaos of the fighting, cutting through the tumult.

  “Halt!” the oddly accented voice shouted. “Put up your weapons!”

  Beobrand strained to see the owner of the voice. The men before him shuffled further out of Hrunting’s reach. A few of them glanced towards the Northumbrian vessel and Beobrand followed their gaze. There, at Háligsteorra’s prow stood the huge pirate leader, the man Beobrand had seen standing at the bow of the raiders’ bark. He was tall and broad and still wore the strange helm that seemed to be fashioned from the skull of some tusked creature from legend. Before him, held tightly in an iron grasp, was Dalston. The young monk’s face was the colour of whey. The brigand leader pressed a vicious-looking seax to the monk’s throat. In his slender hands, clamped to his slim chest, Dalston gripped the bejewelled casket that carried the precious gifts they were bearing to Cantware.