Fortress of Fury (The Bernicia Chronicles) Read online

  The second opponent had been quicker to regain his wits and it was all Beobrand could do to parry the scything blow that flashed out of the darkness to his right. Sparks flew and the man grunted. Beobrand shoved him away and took several rapid steps back, past the body of the dying man, moving so that the church was now to his rear and all four remaining enemies were facing him.

  The four men drew closer together, unconsciously looking for protection and safety in their numbers.

  “Are you all ready to die tonight?” Beobrand asked. His tone was even, as though he were asking them about the state of the weather, but the rattling cough of their dying comrade lent the words a deadly seriousness.

  None of the men responded. Instead, as if they had realised the error of their positioning, they began to put space between themselves, spreading out. Beobrand knew they would attack soon. And, if he stayed in the open, in all likelihood he would die. They had the numbers to surround him again and no matter how skilled, he would eventually succumb to a cut from behind. He would not be able to watch all of them at once. Before they had time to organise themselves, Beobrand jogged backward towards the church. They chased after him, clearly not ready to allow him to escape so easily. A moment later, the cold stone of the church loomed behind him and Beobrand offered them another grin. If he could keep his back to the building, he could only be attacked from the front and flanks. That was something, and all the edge he could find.

  No sooner had he reached the church than the man whose sword he had parried jumped forward, feinting at Beobrand’s head. Beobrand anticipated the man’s next move, shifting his weight to one side. The man’s sword slid harmlessly past Beobrand’s chest, leaving his arm exposed. Beobrand flicked out with the seax, drawing a long, deep cut along his attacker’s forearm. Blood welled black in the night and the man’s sword clattered to the earth.

  Beobrand snatched up the weapon, transferring his seax to his left hand. His grip was weak on that side, where he had lost the last two fingers years before. But he was still glad of the seax nestling in his half-hand. His left hand might be weaker than his right, but it was still strong enough to hold a weapon; to cut, and to kill.

  The injured man clutched his arm, blood oozing between his fingers. He withdrew from the fight, swearing underneath his breath in a tongue Beobrand did not understand.

  Beobrand turned his attention to the remaining three assailants. The largest of the three, a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head that shone in the moonlight, stood directly in front of him. The other two, each smaller and lither, moved to either side.

  Beobrand tested the heft of the unfamiliar sword in his hand. It was heavier than his fine blade, Nægling, and less well-balanced. But it would suffice. He watched the three men slowly sidling closer, leading with one foot and then sliding the trailing foot to meet the first. They held their blades high and steady. These were not ruffians looking to rob a stranger’s purse. These were sword-men. Killers.

  And there were three of them. If they attacked at once, Beobrand knew he would struggle to fend them off. They had him, if they fought as a unit. All he could hope for was that they were not well-trained, that each man would attack as he summoned up the nerve to do so.

  “Come on then, you bald bastard,” Beobrand hissed. “Aren’t you going to try your luck?”

  For a heartbeat, he met the dark eyes of the large man before him. Beobrand willed him to throw away his caution, to leap forward to be skewered on his blades. But an instant later, without warning, as if they had one mind between them, the three attackers bounded forward together and Beobrand knew he might not live to see the dawn.

  Sparks flickered again in the dark as Beobrand’s borrowed blade clashed against the bald man’s sword. For an eye-blink Beobrand held the central man’s sword against his own and flicked his attention to the assailant on his left, as he was half a step closer than the attacker on the right.

  The man was swinging his blade in a great downward arc which would surely have slain Beobrand, if it had connected. Beobrand watched the blur of the blade as it descended towards him. Unbidden, his mouth twisted in a vicious grimace. He was born for this. Thoughts of love and the warmth of a woman had fled like spit on a forge. Now there was nothing but the night, cold steel and the hot blood of his enemies. This was the dance of death, and Beobrand knew every step.

  Raising his seax, he deflected the huge sword-blow with an almost casual nonchalance. He kicked at the man’s bent knee and, off-balance, the sword-man stumbled back with a groan.

  The bald man was putting his weight and strength behind his blade, attempting to overpower Beobrand. The man was strong. But Beobrand was known as one of the greatest swordsmen in Albion and it took more than strength to defeat him. Twisting his wrist, Beobrand sent the man’s sword away and down and in the same motion, he delivered a back-handed cut across his wide chest. There was not a great amount of force in the blow, and the sword he had retrieved was not as sharp as Nægling, yet still the blade did its work. The man’s kirtle parted and blood blossomed, soaking the wool dark in the gloom.

  As he turned to the third enemy, Beobrand knew he was too late. He was faster and more skilled than most men, but he was still mortal. While he had fought off the first two attackers, the third had closed and even now his sword was whistling towards Beobrand’s midriff. There was no time to bring a blade to bear, so Beobrand threw himself to the side. He hit the rough stone of the church hard. An instant later, the man’s sword clattered against the building and a burning pain engulfed Beobrand’s chest. Some of the force of the blow had been absorbed by the limestone, but Beobrand had been cut enough times to know the wound was bad. His right side was hot and wet. He swung his sword instinctively, sending the man back a pace. Beobrand staggered, then righted himself, planting his feet firmly on the damp ground and resting his back on the cold stone of the church.

  The three men rallied. None had received a killing blow. They were wary, but they knew they had him now. They did not taunt or jeer as some men did in combat, either to unnerve their opponent or to give themselves courage. They closed with him in silence, the only sounds their panting breaths that steamed in the night.

  Beobrand smiled thinly. To think that after all the battles and skirmishes, fighting in shieldwalls alongside ealdormen and kings, he would meet his end here, alone in the dark, slain by enemies he did not know. He shuddered, recalling a screeched curse in a cavern far off in his memories. The cunning woman, Nelda, was long gone, but she had cursed him to die alone. It seemed in the end her magic may have lasted beyond her death.

  Gods, all he had wanted was to see the woman he desired alone again. To think that in seeking love he had found a lonely death.

  He spat.

  Lifting the sword and seax before him, he beckoned to the men.

  “Come on, then. Don’t be shy now. Finish what you’ve started, you craven whoresons.”

  Beobrand tried to see their eyes in the darkness, for to see a man’s eyes was to read his intentions. But the night was too dark, and the men’s faces were inscrutable. Even so, he watched them. His blood trickled down his side. He saw the minute tensing of their stances the instant before they attacked and he moved to meet them.

  The bald man came first. He sprang forward with a probing lunge of his blade. Beobrand swayed to his left, meaning to strike the man’s extended arm. He would slay at least one more of them before the end. But the man faltered, his steps suddenly slow and leaden. He looked down at his chest, mouth agape, eyes blinking stupidly. It was as though he had succumbed to Beobrand’s earlier cut, but surely that had been a mere flesh wound.

  And then he saw it.

  Moonlight glimmered from a blood-smeared spear-point that protruded from the bald man’s sternum.

  The other attackers looked on in shock at their comrade’s sudden death. They peered into the darkness, searching for this new unseen threat.

  Beobrand did not hesitate. With a bellow of rage, he leaped t
o his left, his sword cleaving the skull of the distracted swordsman. Brains and bone splattered in the night and he was dead before hitting the earth.

  Swinging back to his right, Beobrand saw a shadow spring from the darkness. There was a brief flurry of blows, a clangour of blades and then a wheezing exhalation. The third attacker slid to the ground, a gaping gash pumping his life into the mud.

  A strongly built, dark-bearded man wearing nothing but a plain kirtle stepped into the moonlight. His legs were pale and his bare feet splashed in mud. He grasped a sword in his right hand. Its blade was dark with blood. His teeth gleamed.

  “Lord Beobrand,” he said, “you are out late this night. I thought you might like some company.”

  “Lord Wulfstan.” Despite the agony in his side, Beobrand could not help grinning at the Deiran thegn. “I thank you for your hospitality, but I was enjoying a pleasant chat with some old friends.”

  Wulfstan chuckled. Beobrand did not know the man well, but they had shared the mead benches in their lords’ halls on several occasions. Wulfstan served Oswine of Deira, whereas Beobrand was oath-sworn to Oswiu of Bernicia. The two kings were allies, so those in the kings’ retinues often feasted together. It seemed that much of the life of a king was spent in feasting. Beobrand snorted at the thought.

  “Well, I am sorry if I interrupted,” Wulfstan said. “I merely thought that as you are a guest in Eoferwic, I should offer my services.”

  Beobrand allowed himself to slump against the church wall as a wave of giddiness hit him.

  “I thank you. Let it not be said that Beobrand of Ubbanford cannot hold his own in a conversation, but I must admit that the debate was getting somewhat heated.”

  Wulfstan stepped closer, concern on his face now.

  “Who were they?”

  Beobrand shook his head.

  “I know not. But wait,” a chill gripped him, “there were five of them. There are only four corpses. I wounded a fifth man. Where is he?”

  Both alert again, they scanned the darkened mouths of the roads that led to the church. There was no sign of the fifth attacker.

  “Your other friend seems to have tired of you,” Wulfstan said, tugging his spear unceremoniously from the bald man’s back. It was lodged hard, trapped between muscle and bone so that Wulfstan had to hold the body still with his foot while he pulled at the ash haft. Finally, Wulfstan grunted and the spear came free with a sucking sound like a kiss.

  Beobrand’s head was swimming. He must have looked close to collapse, for Wulfstan handed him the spear.

  “Lean on that,” he said. “And on me, if you need to. I will send my men to deal with the bodies. Perhaps the morning will shed some light on who they were.”

  His chest was a screaming agony now, but Beobrand gritted his teeth, using the spear-haft for support, and followed Wulfstan away from the church.

  “What were you doing out alone?” Wulfstan asked.

  “I could ask you the same,” Beobrand replied with a smirk. “At least I am dressed.”

  Wulfstan looked down at his kirtle and white, muck-spattered bare feet and legs.

  “Ah, yes. Perhaps the less said about that, the better. My wife is back at my hall, but the nights are still long and cold at this time of year, if you take my meaning. Gossip travels faster than a bird flies, and it would not do my goodwife, or me, any good if she should hear of how I sought warmth.”

  Beobrand smiled ruefully. It would seem Wulfstan’s night had been more pleasant than his.

  “I would not dream of uttering a word,” he said. “But I am glad you decided this moment to go for a stroll.”

  Wulfstan laughed.

  “Indeed. I have had more than enough exercise and excitement for one night. It is a wonder I can still stand.” He winked. “Now, let’s get you to a fire and someone who knows more than I do about tending wounds. I fear that you and I are both only skilled at the taking of life, not the preserving of it.”

  They trudged slowly towards the road that would lead them to the hall in which Beobrand and his gesithas were staying. Beobrand finally accepted that he might fall without Wulfstan’s help and so he clasped a hand on the Deiran thegn’s shoulder.

  “I am in your debt, Wulfstan,” Beobrand said, between teeth gritted against the throbbing that radiated from his wounds. “If you are ever in need of my aid, I will not forget this.”

  “Let us not talk about debts,” replied Wulfstan. “We are just friends enjoying an evening stroll.”

  Beobrand shook his head in the darkness, smiling despite the pain.

  “Very well,” he said. “Let us speak no more of this, but know that you have my word. Should you have need of a friend—” He hesitated. “A friend with a sharp blade. Call, and I will come.”

  In the depths of the town, several dogs began to bark, answering each other’s angry calls one after the other. Running steps echoed in the night. Wulfstan drew his sword again, and with a wince, Beobrand readied himself for whatever further assault the night had in store.

  A moment later, Beobrand let out a long breath.

  “Put aside your blade, Wulfstan,” he whispered. “These are my men.”

  Attor, the fleetest of foot, reached them first, his two long seaxes already in his hands, ever prepared for battle. He was followed by Cynan and the grim-faced Dreogan, the soot-stained lines on his cheeks making him sinister and otherworldly in the darkness. The brothers, Eadgard and Grindan, were close behind and Beobrand was comforted to see that Eadgard carried his huge axe slung over his shoulder as he strode towards them. The last of the group were Fraomar, Halinard the Frank and Coenred. Young Fraomar was fast. Beobrand knew he must have held himself back to keep the young monk safe. Beobrand frowned at Coenred.

  “Forgive me, Beo,” the monk said. “Your men were worried about you.” He took in the dark stain on Beobrand’s kirtle. His eyes widened. “It seems they were right to be concerned.”

  Attor and Cynan both began to speak, their tone anxious at the sight of his injury. Beobrand cut them off.

  “There will be time enough to talk later. Coenred, I have need of your healing skills, even if I cannot count on your silence.” He sighed and offered the monk a nod to soften the harshness of his words. He could not truly be angry with Coenred when his fears had been proven not to be baseless.

  “The rest of you,” he continued, “if you would like to make yourselves useful, bring back the bodies of the men we killed by the church. And make sure you pick up all of their possessions. Perhaps in the light we will recognise them. I would know who means to slay me.”

  “Pardon me,” said Halinard, his words strongly accented.

  “Yes, Halinard,” snapped Beobrand, anxious now to be back inside in the warm. Already his hands were shaking terribly and it was all he could do to keep them still by gripping the spear-haft. Halinard was a good man, but he spoke slowly at times. When he had come back with them from Rodomo a couple of years previously, he could not speak a word of the Anglisc tongue, but he was an intelligent man and had picked it up quickly. Still, he stumbled over some words and Beobrand was in no mood for patience.

  “Pardon me, lord,” Halinard repeated.

  Beobrand sighed.

  “Out with it, man.”

  “It is just that I ask you if you take that sword from one of the men who want kill you?”

  Beobrand looked at the sword he had retrieved from one of his attackers. It was not a fine sword, but its pommel was an unusual shape, set with garnets and bearing two rings. Runes were carved on the hilt. Beobrand nodded, watching Halinard intently.

  “Then you not need to question who was it who send these men for you to kill,” Halinard said.

  “You know this blade?” asked Beobrand. It was not a great weapon, but it was as distinctive as a face. A warrior would never forget it.

  “Yes, lord,” replied Halinard. “It is the sword of a man called Bavo.”

  “And who is this Bavo?”

  Beobrand fe
lt suddenly cold. There could be only one reason for Halinard to recognise this weapon and to know its owner. He thought of the evil web that had ensnared them in Frankia. They had almost lost everything in that faraway city, and they had left behind a brooding and powerful enemy.

  Halinard’s features were grave, as if he too were remembering his life in Rodomo. Beobrand and the Frankish warrior had a connection they never spoke of. Both of them had daughters who had become the playthings of monsters.

  Halinard spat into the earth, as if clearing the taste of evil from his mouth.

  “Bavo is a man of Vulmar.”

  ANNO DOMINI NOSTRI IESU CHRISTI

  IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST

  647

  PART ONE

  DANGEROUS DECEITS

  Chapter 1

  They chased the raiders westward as the sun slid down through a crimson sky towards the desolate hills and moors of western Bernicia. Far beyond the horizon, before the land dipped into the sea that separated Albion from Hibernia, Beobrand knew there rose great snow-capped mountains. But that land was days’ ride away and they would run their quarry to ground long before they saw the craggy bluffs and peaks of Rheged. He glanced over his shoulder at the score of warriors that rode hard behind him. Given their pace and the freshness of their steeds, they might well catch the men they pursued before sunset. He hoped so. He did not wish to lose them in the night. They had burnt a steading, killing folk whom Beobrand had sworn to defend. And they had injured one of Beobrand’s gesithas. These Mercians must pay.