Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  Coenred was as surprised as Attor and the priest when he yanked the man backwards. Hard.

  The priest staggered and fell sprawling to the earthen floor at Coenred’s feet.

  “Why you…” he spluttered.

  Coenred blinked, looking down at him in confusion. What had he done?

  The priest struggled to regain his footing, but Attor fell on him as quickly as a gannet spears into the surf in search of prey. One of his wicked-looking seaxes was in his right hand, and his left grasped the priest’s hair, pulling his head back, exposing his throat. The sharp blade of the long knife pressed against the flesh. A bead of blood trickled down to soak into his robe.

  “You’ll not be wanting to add your blood to that spilt for this relic now, would you?” Attor hissed.

  The priest’s eyes were as wide and white as duck eggs. He did not move.

  Shocked, Coenred looked on. What had he done? Oh sweet mother of God, what had he done?

  “Pick up that casket, Coenred,” said Attor, his voice as calm as if he had been asking him to pass a jug of ale during a feast.

  “But… but…”

  The priest wriggled, but Attor shook him roughly, pressing the blade against his throat so tightly that the man whimpered. Fresh blood ran down his neck.

  “Stay still,” Attor whispered. The priest stopped moving and made no further sound.

  Outside, the sound of a chisel chipping away at sandstone continued.

  “You said yourself, Coenred,” insisted Attor, once again in his matter of fact tone, “this relic was destined for King Oswiu’s bride, not to line the pouch of this priest and his lord with pilgrims’ silver.”

  Coenred closed the casket and picked it up. It felt very heavy in his grasp.

  “Not a sound,” hissed Attor, releasing his grip on the priest. Without warning Attor pierced the man’s robe with the point of his sharp seax. The priest whimpered. Attor held up a finger for silence. Using his blade, he tore strips of cloth from the robe. All the while the priest watched him with white-rimmed eyes, but made no sound.

  Coenred stared in amazement as Attor quickly bound the priest’s limbs and mouth with the woollen rags. The warrior then dragged the man into the shadows behind the table. He whispered something to him in the darkness that Coenred could not hear. The priest shook his head furiously. Attor sheathed his seax and slapped the man on the cheek a few times, almost affectionately.

  “Ready?” Attor asked Coenred.

  Coenred just stared at him. What had he done? The box in his hands rattled with his trembling.

  “We’ll just walk back down to the ships now,” Attor said. “Walk as if you belong here.”

  Coenred could barely breathe. He did not belong here. The stolen casket shook before him. What had become of him?

  “As if you belong,” repeated Attor and stepped out into the daylight.

  With a last glance at the cowering form of the bound priest, Coenred drew in a ragged breath and followed Attor.

  Chapter 29

  Beobrand slowly began to relax. Anxiety had gnawed at him as he’d watched Coenred and Attor trudge up the beach, their feet crunching deep into the shingle. He’d followed them with his gaze until they’d reached the small timber church overlooking the sea. The building stood out starkly against the blue morning sky and the silhouettes of Attor and Coenred had been small in the distance.

  The rest of the men seemed oblivious of his worries. Wada passed around the good mead and soon Beobrand’s gesithas were sitting by the fires, apparently as at ease with these men as if they had grown up with them. Cynan had found one of his people, a swarthy-skinned man from the craggy coast of Gwynedd and now the two of them were sprawled on a blanket, exchanging bawdy riddles in their sing-song, lilting tongue. Beobrand understood little enough of their words, but their laughter grated. Bearn and Fraomar had quickly joined a game of knucklebones. Dreogan and Garr were more subdued, but they too sat and drank the mead when it was passed to them, each giving the semblance of resting while their master was absent.

  They were doing better at the deception than Beobrand. He glanced back at Brimblæd. Ferenbald’s crewmen had built their own fire, the smoke wreathing the beached ship as if it rode on a swirling sea of mist. Brimblæd’s sailors lounged around the fire, no doubt taking advantage of being ashore to prepare some hot food. Beobrand had warned Ferenbald to be ready to leave quickly. The gods alone knew how this encounter with the crews of Brimwulf and Waegmearh would end.

  “Gods, you’re a jumpy one,” Wada said. “Your priest will be fine. If you were so worried about him, you should have gone with him.”

  Beobrand smiled thinly. Wada was right. He should never have let Coenred go to the chapel. Still, he had Attor for protection and there was no braver or deadlier warrior.

  “He is prone to get himself in trouble,” Beobrand said.

  “Well, be thankful he left you down here with us then.” Wada grinned and passed him the mead. “What else did you say you were after? We have many fine things. From the fens of East Angeln, the great halls of Frankia, the green hills of Hibernia…”

  And so Beobrand nodded and talked, but said little, as Wada and Thurcytel had their men pull out chests and sacks of goods. Beobrand wondered how much of it was stolen. And how many innocents had been killed in its taking. He looked up from a fabulous silver drinking horn. It was a thing of great beauty, with a horned beast clutching the point of the vessel in its metal talons. Through the woodsmoke he saw the weasel-faced man glowering at him. As he watched, the man once again whacked the flat of his axe head into his palm. Beobrand held his gaze for a moment. The man did not blink. Beobrand turned away. Let the man have his petty victory, he was not here to prove he could outstare these pirates.

  “The quality of this is fine,” he said, turning the drinking horn in his hand so that the sun caught it. With a shake of his head, he handed the piece back to Thurcytel. “But it is not what my master seeks.”

  “We don’t have any more objects of Christ magic,” replied the stocky skipper. The sun glinted from the clasp at his shoulder, the red of his cloak was as dark and warm as blood.

  “The relics are for my master’s bishop. He wishes to furnish his Christ house,” said Beobrand. “My master’s tastes are less holy and more of the flesh,” he said with what he hoped was a knowing grin. Thurcytel looked bemused and Beobrand silently cursed himself. Gods, he was not one for this subterfuge. His skin prickled with his unease, but the ships’ masters were both now staring at him. He had to speak. “My master seeks something warmer and softer than a golden cup or rood, if you take my meaning.”

  Thurcytel lifted the edge of his hat and scratched beneath the fur. He shared a look with Wada and said, “If it be slaves you are seeking, we have none.”

  “Pity,” said Beobrand, taking a swig of mead and handing the flask to Thurcytel. “My master pays very well. Especially for young ones.”

  “It seems once again your master is just a couple of days late,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “We had a girl with us until we parted company with Grimr and Saeslaga. She was fair-haired, like you, and as ripe and unsullied as you like. Couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen summers. I prefer them older and fatter myself. Something to hold on to. A woman who knows what she wants from a man,” he winked. “But some like them young and tight.”

  Beobrand clenched his jaw. His hand gripped Hrunting’s pommel so hard that his knuckles popped.

  “She sounds just the sort of thing my master likes,” he said. The words were sour in his mouth. He wanted to spit, to vomit. He longed to drag Hrunting from its scabbard and lay about him with the sword’s patterned blade. These men deserved nothing more than death.

  “She’ll be half the way to Frankia by now,” said Thurcytel.

  “Frankia? That is where they are heading?”

  But before Thurcytel could answer, the man with the weasel face sprang up with a roar.

&nb
sp; “I know you,” he shouted.

  Swinging both his hand axes menacingly, the slender seaman advanced on Beobrand through the drifting smoke.

  All around the fires, faces turned to see what was the cause of the commotion. Beobrand swallowed. If he could convince the man he was mistaken, perhaps he could avoid bloodshed. Much as the idea of slaying all of them sang to him, victory would be no certain thing. Besides, Coenred and Attor were still up at the chapel. If Beobrand and his gesithas had to retreat, they would need to leave the monk and Attor behind. That he would not do.

  “I don’t think so, friend,” Beobrand said, standing quickly.

  “I am no friend of yours, you Northumbrian bastard,” said the axeman.

  “What is the meaning of this, Stanmear?” asked Wada. Beobrand noted that he had laid aside the flask of mead and his hand now rested on the handle of his seax.

  The weasel-faced Stanmear hesitated.

  “I knew I’d seen this big one before. When I saw his half-hand, it came back to me. He slew Gerold. He was aboard that Northumbrian ship. He wore a great helm and had a black shield, but I noted that hand as we pulled away from them after the fight.”

  Wada and Thurcytel were staring at Beobrand, searching for something in him that would spark recognition. He could sense the eyes of the men around the campfires on him. Some of the sailors were rising. He flicked a glance at Cynan. Their eyes met and the Waelisc warrior gave an almost imperceptible nod. Turning back to the two captains, Beobrand saw their memories bringing back the skirmish where Beobrand and Cynan had stridden down the pirates’ ship, hacking and hewing a path through them as easily as their wave-steeds cut through the cold waters of the North Sea.

  Recognition dawned on Wada’s face first. At the same instant one of the other sailors cried out in anger. The time for talk was through. Sensing his leaders’ approval, Stanmear came at Beobrand, his two vicious axes spinning and wheeling before him. Behind him the camp was a sudden mass of confusion as Beobrand’s gesithas leapt up, springing to defend their lord.

  But there was no time to wait for them. The danger was too near, those sharp axe blades too deadly. Beobrand ignored the tumult of the camp, the shouts and grunts as men grabbed for the Northumbrians and were pushed or kicked aside. Instead he focused all of his attention on Stanmear. The man’s eyes were dark and filled with hatred. His mouth twisted in a savage snarl and before him, his axes were a blur. Beobrand’s iron byrnie was strong, its links well-forged, and he believed it would hold against a blow from the small axes. But his head and neck were exposed and he did not want to leave it to chance that Stanmear would not strike his flesh. The man’s skill with those axes was obvious.

  Beobrand fixed his attacker with a piercing cool stare, allowing the calm of battle to fill him. Now was not the time to unfetter the beast within him, but his fury and focus were what set him apart from other warriors. So he loosened the chains of his animal rage just enough to deal with this threat.

  He hoped.

  Stanmear must have been expecting Beobrand to draw his sword or seax, for his eyes widened in surprise as the tall, fair-haired warrior sprang to meet him without a weapon in his hands. Beobrand saw the shock in Stanmear’s face, and he noted the slightest hesitation in his attack.

  Beobrand needed no more than this momentary lapse. Closing the gap to Stanmear in a heartbeat, his hands flashed out and caught the seaman’s wrists. The man was wiry and strong, and Beobrand’s left half-hand grip would not be strong enough to hold him for long. But he did not need long. He carried on his forward momentum, at the same time yanking Stanmear towards him. With gritted teeth, Beobrand snapped his head into Stanmear’s nose. Through his skull, Beobrand heard a sickening crunch of cartilage and Stanmear became as limp as a doll in his grasp. A spike of pain drilled into Beobrand’s head from the blow, reminding him of his dazed retreat from the battle at the great ditch. His stomach churned and his vision blurred as he stepped back, allowing Stanmear’s inert body to slump to the sand.

  He swallowed back bitter bile, shaking his head to clear it. He instantly regretted doing so as fresh agony lanced behind his eyes.

  Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Beobrand smiled grimly, despite his pain. On his right stood Cynan, and beside him, Fraomar and Garr. To Beobrand’s left were Dreogan and Bearn. Somehow, they had all reached him and even without shields they were a formidable sight in their iron shirts, their deadly blades catching the morning sun.

  Around the campfires, the sailors had been slower to react, but now they were all on their feet and forming some semblance of a line. Beobrand spied swords, axes and seaxes, and a handful of the men had found shields from somewhere. There were many more of them than the small Northumbrian band.

  “With me, brothers,” Beobrand snapped. His vision had cleared, but his head throbbed. Looking down, he saw Stanmear’s face was awash with blood that streamed from his smashed nose. He grinned and took a step forward. His gesithas moved with him, their training clear in the fluid movement. Beobrand kicked Stanmear in the face for good measure. The sinewy seaman did not react.

  Pulling Hrunting from its scabbard, Beobrand halted. His band of warriors stopped as if they thought with one mind. Before them, Thurcytel and Wada had fled back to join the unruly ranks of their men. The sailors were still arraying themselves. They glowered at Beobrand and the Northumbrians with a mixture of fear and loathing.

  “I am Beobrand of Ubbanford,” Beobrand bellowed. “My Black Shields will spill your guts and feed you to the ravens.” His battle-voice sliced though the noise of the preparing sailors as easily as a seax blade pierces an eyeball. “Do you think you can stand against us?”

  The seamen fidgeted and shifted, but none moved to answer or to attack.

  “Forward,” Beobrand yelled, and as one the Bernicians took another step.

  “Do you wish to die?” he shouted. “Hrunting is thirsty for blood.” He raised his fine sword high above his head. The serpent skin markings of the blade seemed to ripple. “I can offer you all death, if that is what you seek. But you do not need to die this day.”

  “What do you want?” asked Wada, and Beobrand knew in that moment there would be no further fighting. These were not warriors they faced. Killers, yes, but not men of honour who would face armed foe-men with bravery. Perhaps Stanmear was the bravest of them. Or the most foolhardy.

  “I seek the girl. Where is she?”

  Wada blinked and swallowed.

  “Grimr took her. If you seek her, you must follow him.” Wada spat into the sand before him.

  “And where is he bound?”

  “Frankia. To the hall of Lord Vulmar.”

  Beobrand’s head pounded as if a smith were using it for an anvil.

  “How can I trust you?” he asked. “Too easily have you given up your friend, this Grimr.”

  Wada spat again and sheathed his seax. Evidently he too believed a fight had been avoided.

  “I cannot make you trust me, Beobrand Half-hand, but Grimr is no friend of ours. If you find him, I hope you kill the whoreson. I told him not to take that girl. Womenfolk are nothing but trouble.”

  “So why did he take her?”

  Wada shook his head.

  “He was certain she would be a tasty enough prize to make Vulmar take him back into his service.”

  “Who is this Vulmar? And why would he want the service of a nithing like Grimr?”

  “Vulmar is a lord of Rodomo. A nasty one, with a vicious streak, but he is a generous gift giver. His gesithas want for nothing. Grimr was once his man. I don’t know what he had done, but he was always talking about returning to Rodomo and repaying his debt.”

  Beobrand’s stomach twisted and his head ached. He took a deep breath of the cool sea air and prayed silently to Woden that he would not disgrace himself by puking in front of these men.

  “And he thought to do this with the girl? Surely this Vulmar could find his share of thralls in Frankia. Why take one from Cantware?”
/>   Wada frowned, perhaps sensing that his words could reignite Beobrand’s anger.

  “He likes them young and unspoilt. He has large appetites and it is ever more difficult for him to find ones to his liking. Grimr was sure this one would have pleased him.”

  Beobrand’s mouth filled with spit and bile. He hawked and spat. Gods, his head felt ready to crack open.

  “So you say we will find them at Rodomo. If you are lying to me, I will hunt you down and I will find you and I will kill you.”

  “I do not doubt it, lord,” replied Wada, his face pale. “All I can tell you is that Grimr was heading to Frankia, to Rodomo. You will find him at the hall of Vulmar. But if I were you I would hurry. Vulmar is not gentle with his bed thralls.”

  Through the pain and queasiness Beobrand felt his ire straining at its chains. These men had slain Dalston and taken Ardith from Hithe. They were no innocents. Beobrand’s grip on Hrunting tightened. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but the fresh air only seemed to fan the flames of his fury. He knew he should retreat with his men back to Brimblæd, but a voice within him screamed out for blood. He recognised the voice, it was low and mellifluous. It tempted him with frenzy and release. But before he could shout out the command which would unleash his warband, a cry came from the hill. And the church.

  Coenred and Attor were sprinting down the incline. Coenred’s robes flapped about his thin, pale legs and Beobrand thought he looked set to trip and fall. But sure-footed Attor reached out to the monk and hauled him forward. Behind them came several figures, men brandishing hammers, axes and chisels. The men were shouting.

  Beobrand chanced a look down the beach and offered up a silent thanks to Woden for Ferenbald. The skipper knew what he was about. The men around Brimblæd were rushing about like ants whose nest has been kicked. Already they were heaving the ship back down towards the surf.

  “It seems it is time for us to be going,” Beobrand said.

  Thurcytel gave a lop-sided grin.

  “Thank you for the mead,” he said.