Kin of Cain Page 3

  “Perhaps now is the time to make camp, eh?” he said. “Here in this puddle looks like a good spot. What say you, wise Bassus?”

  Bassus glared at the older thegn.

  “Let us try to reach the dwelling that lies to the south. Look, the smoke still rises above the mist. It does not look so far. We shall find shelter there.”

  Unferth let out a barking laugh which turned into a cough.

  “Ever one to grasp at the thinnest of chances,” he said. “Very well, lead on, wise one.”

  They trudged onwards towards the smoke that must have risen from a hearth fire. The promise of warmth and shelter, and perhaps fresh ale, drove them forward until the light became too faint for them to make out where they were going.

  The marsh was redolent of decay; dark and hidden scents, as of death. The warriors’ feet and the hooves of the horses churned the quagmire. Stagnant pools bubbled at their passing. All around them the swamp sighed and whispered like a living thing.

  Octa sniffed the air. He could not detect woodsmoke.

  “It is too dark to continue,” he said. None of the others refuted his words. “We have already lost the creature’s trail. Now we will have to make camp as best we can and wait till morning.”

  They found a tiny mound that was barely large enough for them and their horses. They tried to make themselves as comfortable as possible. They ate bread and chewed on strips of salted-beef they had brought with them. They huddled together and did not even attempt to light a fire. There was no wood to be found and everything they carried was soaked through.

  As night drew its cloak about them, Wiglaf grumbled.

  “Our byrnies will be eaten by the iron-rot after a day and night in this accursed place.”

  From the gloom, which was now so dark that Octa could scarcely discern the shape of his comrades, came the rasping voice of Unferth.

  “I would not worry about your iron-knit shirt being eaten.” His words lingered for a moment in the chill air. One of the horses snorted and stamped in the darkness. “I would worry more about camping at night in the domain of the shadow-stalker. We know he has a taste for man-flesh. We should worry more about not becoming his next meal.”

  Six

  Octa awoke in the deepest part of the night. He had not thought it possible that he would be able to sleep. But as he had wrapped himself in his cloak, his muscles ached and his body trembled as much from exhaustion as from the cold.

  Why had he woken? Was it his turn to keep watch? There was nobody shaking him awake. None of his companions were speaking.

  All was still.

  But something had woken him.

  Without rising from where he lay, Octa opened his eyes. He was not surrounded by the total darkness he had expected. The moon was up. It was full and its cool glow washed middle earth in silver. The mist was thicker now, but the moonlight spread through it. Octa could see no further than a few paces from where he lay, but the world was wreathed in a glowing fog. The dark bulk of Bassus was nearby. His huge friend had his back to him. As he looked, Bassus moved his head, peering into the mists. It must be Bassus’ watch.

  So what had caused Octa to waken?

  A piercing shriek ululated from the marsh. Octa started, but remained where he was. It was impossible to make out where the noise had come from. It seemed to echo in the fog.

  Silence once more.

  Then a howl, long and plaintive, rolled over the moonlit land. A scream followed. Was that the voice of a woman?

  Octa shuddered and rose. The night was alive with mischief. He would not face it lying down.

  Gram, Unferth and Wiglaf did not seem to have heard the noises. They remained huddled in their blankets and cloaks. The horses whickered and snorted, unsettled by the disturbances somewhere out there in the marsh. Octa picked his way carefully to the beasts and soothed them with a gentle touch. The night was again silent and still. The fog hung unmoving and thick all about them.

  What lurked out there in the mists? Was the nihtgenga even now stalking the night, sniffing out its man-prey? Or had the screams been more of its victims? Perhaps its appetite would be sated?

  Careful not to disturb the sleeping men, Octa walked to where Bassus sat. Just as he was about to touch his friend’s shoulder to alert him of his presence, the giant thegn leapt to his feet, spun around and dragged his sword from its scabbard.

  “Bassus, it is I, Octa.” His whispered warning sounded loud and harsh in the stillness of the night. For an instant, Octa feared that Bassus would not heed his words and strike him down. After a long moment, where the only movement was their breath clouding before them, Bassus lowered his blade.

  “By Woden’s balls,” panted Bassus, “I thought you were the shadow-goer. I almost spit you like a boar.”

  “I give thanks that you did not,” replied Octa, moving closer to stand beside his friend and placing a hand on his shoulder. “I was awoken by the sounds. The screams and howls.”

  “They were close. Do you think that was the beast?”

  “What else?” asked Octa. “Though I think I heard the cry of a woman too.”

  “Aye, I heard it.” For a long while, they were both silent. Octa listened to the night, straining to hear further evidence of the night-stalker.

  “Do you think we heard it killing again?” Octa said. “While we rested here, lost in the marsh?”

  Bassus did not reply.

  Octa quickly continued, “I did not mean to cast the blame on you, Bassus. I am sorry.”

  “There is nothing for it now. We cannot go back and change what we have done, we can only learn and move forward. All I hope now is that we find this beast tomorrow while the sun shines in the skies. We can never hope to fight it in the dark and mists of this gods-forsaken swamp.”

  “Can it truly be a son of this Cain that Paulinus spoke of? A giant monster, cursed by Paulinus’ god?”

  “Who can say?” replied Bassus, sheathing once more his sword. “Gram followed the thing’s trail easily enough. He said it walked like a man, on two feet. And we know it eats meat, the way any creature does. I care not what it is, as long as we can slay it. There are many things that we cannot explain in this world, Octa. The priests say they can speak to the gods and can change the way of things with sacrifice and ceremonies, and that may be. I have never seen a god, or an elf, or a goblin. But if we can find this night-thing, I would wager my horse, my sword and all my wealth that it can be cut with sharp steel. I have never come across any foe that could not be made to bleed. And if it can bleed, we can kill it.”

  They fell silent. The horses again began to stamp and snort. The squelching sound of a footfall in the mire. A whimpering moan from the moonlit misty gloom.

  As one, Octa and Bassus drew their blades.

  Another groan. A splash. Snuffling. Something large was out there in the night. Something stealthy. Deadly.

  “Show yourself,” Octa said. His voice was loud and clear. To his surprise, he sounded confident to his own ears. Behind him, he heard the others rising rapidly, woken by his words.

  “Is it out there?” Wiglaf called in a breathless voice.

  “Quiet,” said Bassus.

  Wiglaf, Gram and Unferth joined them at the edge of the small knoll. They all stared into the moon-tinged fog, searching, listening.

  Was that a shadow in the mist that Octa saw? One of the horses whinnied. There was another splash, very near this time. A guttural grunting.

  Sweat prickled Octa’s brow despite the cold night air. At any moment, the creature would burst from the mist and rip them apart, byrnies and weapons and all. Nothing could protect them from the beast that stalked them in the night.

  “Show yourself,” Bassus said, repeating Octa’s words. “Come on, you bastard. Come and fight some real men. There are no shepherds and boys here. We are warriors of King Edwin and we are your doom. Step out from where you cower and face us.”

  The warriors tightened their grips on their weapons and girded
themselves for the attack that was sure to follow their leader’s goading words.

  But no attack came. No creature, all fangs and claws, came leaping for them from the gloom. Instead a rumbling sound came to them. At first, Octa was unsure what he was hearing, and then he remembered Banstan’s words in the hall. What he heard now was the boulder-rub chuckle of the nihtgenga.

  The monster was laughing.

  Seven

  They slept no more that night. They stood for a long while, each straining to see something in the mist, but nothing came. The laughter had ceased and no further sounds came from the marsh, save for the hoot of an owl way off to the north. After a time, the men sat, back to back, on the crest of the small mound.

  “Do you think it has gone?” asked Wiglaf.

  “Quiet, boy,” rasped Unferth. “If you prattle, we will not hear it should it return.”

  And so they had sat in chilled silence, each lost in his own thoughts and fears. It would soon be Geola, midwinter, so the night was long. The darkness dragged on until Octa wondered if it would ever be light. Geola was not a time to be huddled in a swamp. It was a time for warm fires. Hot food and good company. Was it this cold in Cantware, he mused? He could picture his sisters preparing the Geola honey cakes with their mother. Beobrand carrying logs in from outside and placing them on the roaring blaze on the hearthstone. Their father, Grimgundi would be sitting on his fine polished seat, as he often did, dark, brooding and drunk, emanating violence the way the fire gave off heat. In his mind’s eye, Octa could clearly see their faces, red and shadowy from the flames. He missed them.

  All except for Grimgundi. He hoped he would never see his father again.

  He shivered, pushing thoughts of his father from his mind. Octa felt the usual stab of guilt at having left his brother and sisters behind with the brute, but he could not dwell upon the past. All he could think of was finding some respite from the chill. Seldom had he been so cold. The water seeped from the very earth they sat upon, further soaking already wet breeches. His teeth chattered and he wrapped his arms around his chest, with each hand wedged under an arm for warmth. He had placed his seax on the wet ground before him. Iron-rot be damned. He wanted the blade close to hand should the creature come back.

  At last a pale red light began to tinge the fog, mottling the dawn air like the skin of a salmon, all pinks and greys. Octa could imagine the sun rising over the sea to the east, but here, in the swamp, its rays hardly penetrated. Slowly, the warriors rose stiffly, stretching muscles that had grown taut with cold and inactivity. The mists swirled and eddied like smoke as they moved about the knoll, preparing the horses to leave.

  “I hope this fog lifts,” said Wiglaf, voicing the worry of all of them.

  “The sun will surely burn it away by midmorning,” said Bassus, his voice self-assured and firm. Octa wished he shared his confidence.

  No warmth came from the sun. They hobbled and coughed like old greybeards as they readied themselves. Soon the horses were ready, and they looked to Bassus once more to lead them. Unferth’s expression was sour. Bassus was not young, but Unferth was older than the rest. The cold long night must have made his bones ache. Octa expected some reproach from the old warrior, but Unferth kept his mouth firmly shut.

  Bassus looked about them. Enough light filtered through the mists for them to travel, but they could not see beyond a dozen paces in any direction.

  “Let us try to find those dwellings,” said Bassus. “We saw their smoke and we cannot be that far from them. They were southward and the sun helps us to mark our path in that direction.”

  Nobody replied, but they set off into the pools and channels of the marsh, with the sun’s ruddy glow to their left. It was hard going. The water was gelid, with films of ice on many of the puddles and ponds. Octa wondered absently why some were frozen but not others. But he was too chilled to care.

  They had travelled only a very short way when Gram, who led them, let out a cry of alarm.

  “By Woden, Tiw and Thunor!”

  In a splashing chaos they all rushed forward to aid him. Without thinking, Octa dragged his seax from its scabbard and, letting go of his horse’s reins, he half waded and half ran to Gram’s side.

  Eight

  “What is it?” cried Wiglaf. “Is the beast here?”

  Gram did not answer immediately. They gathered about him, their panting breath steaming.

  Octa shouldered his way past Unferth and Wiglaf. A moment later, he wished he had not done so.

  There was no creature here to attack them, but it was now clear what they had heard in the night.

  For looming out of the fog was the face of a young man. Breca, Octa assumed. The severed head of the boy had been set atop a wooden shaft which had been driven into the soft earth of a knoll, very like the one where they had camped.

  The face was hideous, the eyes bulged, the tongue lolled from the blue-lipped mouth. Shreds of gore dangled from the neck, as if the head had been torn from Breca’s shoulders.

  Octa was the first to break the silence.

  “Is the night-walker toying with us?” Was there a hint of despair in his tone?

  “Perhaps,” answered Gram. “Or mayhap this is a warning. Come no further into my domain…”

  “Who can say?” Bassus’ gravelly voice was strong and as obdurate as granite. “I think it is mocking us. Now there is only one thing we can be certain of.”

  “What,” asked Wiglaf.

  “This night-crawling bastard beast is as good as dead. Nobody and nothing makes a jest of me and lives to tell the tale.”

  Nine

  They continued south.

  “We should take it… the head… Take it back and bury it with the rest of the boy,” Wiglaf had said before they had left.

  Unferth had snorted.

  “You can carry that head if you wish. I’ll not be touching it. The boy’s dead. Leave him be now.”

  “But… he is not whole…” Wiglaf’s voice had trailed off. None of the others had made a move towards the pitiful-looking head. At last, Wiglaf had turned to follow them, leaving the grisly totem behind.

  Octa shuddered, only partly from the cold. The sightless eyes of the boy had unnerved him. They should have done as Wiglaf said. Perhaps Breca’s spirit would never find its way to the afterlife now. Would he forever wander this mist-shrouded marsh in search of his body? But it was too late now. They had splashed and waded quite some way and the fog had not lifted. They could not have returned to the stake and the head even if they had wanted to. They were lost. None of them had said the words, but Octa was sure they all thought it. He was on the verge of speaking up, proposing that they head west towards the hills and dry land, and out of this dismal swamp, when a sobbing cry came to them on the still air.

  They loosened weapons in their scabbards and reached for amulets. Unferth spat.

  Wiglaf’s horse skidded, its hooves slipping in the greasy mire. The animal slid into the young warrior, knocking him forward. Wiglaf cursed and shook the beast’s reins.

  “Quiet,” hissed Bassus.

  They stood still and listened.

  “There,” whispered Octa, “Did you hear it?”

  None of them said a word, but their drawn faces spoke for them. They all heard the crying whimper from the mist-murk.

  Bassus slowly pulled his sword from its scabbard. Octa, trusting their leader’s instinct, drew his own blade. The seax felt very small in his hand. He wished he owned a sword like that of the older thegns. One day, he hoped, but for now, the sharp, single-edged dagger would need to do.

  Slowly, making as little noise as possible, they moved towards the sounds of distress.

  “Wait,” whispered Gram, reaching out his hand to halt Bassus.

  The huge thegn frowned.

  “What?”

  “Listen.”

  Again they stood and strained to make sense of what they heard.

  “I can hear nothing,” said Unferth, spitting again.

>   “Your ears are old, Unferth,” said Bassus. “Let the young lads tell us what they hear.”

  Unferth glowered at Bassus, but said nothing.

  “It is a woman’s weeping,” said Wiglaf at last.

  “You are certain?” asked Bassus.

  Wiglaf cocked his head and held his breath for a moment. He nodded.

  “Aye.”

  Octa could hear it too now. The plaintive sobs of a woman’s sorrow.

  “Come,” said Bassus, “let us see who this woman is and what she weeps for.”

  They sloshed and squelched on once more, the cold fingers of the mud pulling at their feet and legs, as if the very swamp did not wish to see them leave.

  Octa noticed that Bassus did not sheathe his blade.

  After a time, the ground began to rise. The sounds of crying were clear now. There were other voices too. Now and again they could make out words. As they stumbled out of the chill waters of the marsh, a voice came clear and loud to them. A man’s voice, calling out.

  “Wealhtheow!” the voice bellowed. “Wealhtheow!”

  For a moment, the warriors stood shivering. There was no reply to the man’s calls. The weeping grew more intense.

  “Hail!” Bassus spoke into the mists. “Hail there.”

  Silence for a heartbeat.

  “Who is it that comes from the marsh? Show yourself.”

  “I am Bassus, son of Nechten, thegn of Edwin, who is king of these lands. My companions and I mean you no harm, but we are wet and cold and would ask for your hospitality. Somewhere to dry ourselves, perhaps something to eat.”

  No reply.

  “We will pay,” said Bassus.

  The sobbing had ceased.

  “Come here where I can see you then,” said the man.

  They climbed the slight slope. The mist thinned and Octa felt sunlight on his cheek.

  Before them huddled a small group of huts. Roofed with sods, walls daubed in earth. They seemed to be growing from the ground itself. Woodsmoke drifted from the largest building, mingling with the mist.