Kin of Cain Read online

  The man who had spoken stood brandishing a large axe. He was massive, easily a head taller than Bassus and Octa, who were the tallest warriors of Edwin’s retinue. The man’s face was hidden by a thick thatch of dark beard, and his hair was shaggy and long. Around his shoulders he wore a thick bear pelt. For a moment, it seemed to Octa that they were approaching a huge, axe-wielding bear. He was glad he yet held his seax in his hand. But what good would such a small blade do against this brute with the giant axe?

  The man’s eyes widened when he took in their numbers, their horses and their fine weapons. Behind the man cowered a woman, she whimpered and whined as she peeked past his bulk.

  Bassus sheathed his sword, signalling for the others to do the same. Octa felt a pang of worry as he slid his seax back into its wood-and-leather scabbard.

  “I have told you my name,” said Bassus, “now tell me yours.”

  “I am Hrothgar,” he spoke as one who needed no introduction, like a lord in his hall. “This is my wife, Modthrith.” He nodded towards the woman.

  The woman was plain of face. Tears had streaked the grime on her cheeks. Her red-rimmed eyes flicked from one thegn to the next, missing nothing. There was a hard cunning in those eyes that made Octa wonder what could cause one such as this to sob and weep like a maid.

  “You spoke of payment,” said Hrothgar, his eyes glinting in the sunlight that was pushing its way through the mist.

  “We have coin,” said Bassus.

  “Coin?” Hrothgar hawked and spat. “What use do I have for a sliver of metal here?”

  Octa glanced around them at the collection of hovels that squatted on this small mound in the marsh. Hrothgar had a point.

  “I will give you coin, Hrothgar, in exchange for shelter and food,” replied Bassus in a tone that would broach no argument. His hand fell to his sword’s pommel and he leaned forward. “We are cold and hungry and a clever man would invite his king’s men into his home before haggling over payment for the hospitality that is theirs by right.”

  For a moment, Octa thought that Hrothgar would refuse them. His gnarled hands clenched on his axe haft, the knuckles whitening under the dark hair that bristled there.

  “And,” Bassus continued, his voice softer now, “a wise man would know that he could trade coin for other things of more use to him. A knife perhaps. Good cloth. A jewel for his goodwife.”

  Hrothgar’s brows pulled down into a scowl. Eventually he nodded, but he did not move.

  “What are you doing in the marsh?” he asked. “Why have you come to this place? Have you come from the sea?”

  “No. We are come from the great hall of Gefrin. A creature came there in the night and slew a shepherd boy. We have tracked it back to this swamp.”

  Hrothgar looked sharply at Modthrith, who let out a whimper. Octa thought she might swoon.

  “You know of this creature?” Octa asked. “This nihtgenga?”

  Modthrith’s tears began to flow once more. Hrothgar absently patted her head in comfort. He lowered his axe, resting its great iron head on the ground at his feet, as if deciding that these thegns were not his enemies.

  “Aye,” Hrothgar said, “we know of it.” His voice was as a wasteland where nothing lived. “It has stalked the marsh for many nights now. Of course we know of it.”

  Modthrith’s crying grew stronger, her sobbing louder.

  “Aye, we know it,” the great bear of a man continued. “It came here last night and stole away our daughter.”

  Ten

  Octa grunted with pleasure as he emptied his full bladder. The hot stream of piss splashed and splattered into the brackish waters of the marsh. They had drunk Hrothgar’s ale for much of the afternoon. It was sour and weak, and had a faint taste of fish about it, but after the first cup the flavour seemed to matter little. They had questioned Hrothgar, Modthrith and their two sons, Heorogar and Hondscio, but had learnt little of use. They were all tight-lipped, barely talking unless pressed. It seemed they eked out their living here catching eels and birds. A hard life, but few could choose how they lived. It was Hrothgar’s wyrd and that of his family to dwell in a swamp fishing for eels with wicker baskets and trapping the ducks and sandpipers with cunningly rigged nets.

  But despite their mean existence and sour ale, Hrothgar had been as good as his word. Modthrith had fed them a thin stew of fish and their small hut was warm enough. After the long cold night in the marsh, it felt wonderful to feel the warmth of a fire thaw the limbs.

  Octa finished pissing and pulled up his breeches. The mists had thinned in the afternoon, but the warriors had not felt ready to head out once more into the marsh. Besides, they had no idea where the creature could be found. Bassus had asked Hrothgar where the nihtgenga came from, but the man had shrugged, and said nothing.

  “We will seek out this beast at first light,” Bassus had said. Hrothgar had taken a swig of his fishy ale, remaining silent. “If your daughter, Wealhtheow, yet lives, we will bring her back to you.”

  Modthrith had drawn in a ragged breath.

  Octa had seen Bassus’ eyes then in the smoky hut. Neither of them believed they would find the girl alive. From Modthrith’s sobbing, it seemed neither did she.

  Octa looked now to the west. The last rays of the dying sun yet tinted the sky with red. It would be dark soon. In Gefrin they would be pulling shutters closed, preparing for the evening meal. He wondered what Elda was doing. He missed her quick smile and swaying hips. He was sure she watched him too, but he had seen her talking to Hengist. What of it? They were not betrothed. He resolved to approach her when he returned. He pulled his cloak about his shoulders. He wished Elda was here to keep him warm. The wool of his cloak was still damp, not yet fully-dried by the warmth of Hrothgar’s hut. He turned, meaning to return to where he could hear the voices of the men.

  A hulking shape barred his way.

  Jumping back, Octa scrabbled for his seax. How could he have been so stupid? The ale had fogged his mind.

  “Easy now, Octa,” said the deep voice of Bassus. “I would rather you did not gut me like one of Hrothgar’s eels.”

  Octa let out a long breath that steamed in the cool evening.

  Chuckling, Bassus stepped past Octa and began to relieve himself.

  Octa’s heart hammered. He took a slow, calming breath. The stink of piss mingled with the marsh’s rank redolence of decay. Octa’s stomach churned.

  “We should set watches tonight,” he said, glad that his voice did not waver.

  “Aye,” said Bassus. “And we need to stop drinking Hrothgar’s fish-piss ale. The beast could come upon us now and take our heads and we would not notice.”

  They trudged slowly back to the hut.

  “Do you trust him?” Octa asked in a whisper.

  “Hrothgar? No. He’d kill us just as surely as any night creature. I saw the way he coveted our horses and weapons. Which is why we will watch in pairs tonight. First Gram and you, then Unferth and Wiglaf, then me and Hrothgar.”

  “You think he’ll agree to take a watch?”

  “I’d like to see him refuse me,” answered Bassus.

  They were almost at the door now. From inside came the sound of Wiglaf’s voice, high and clear as he told a tale to Hrothgar’s young sons.

  “What of Heorogar and Hondscio?”

  “They are mere pups. Best they stay inside with their mother.”

  Octa paused before opening the door.

  “Do you think the creature will return tonight?” he asked.

  Bassus rubbed a hand over his beard. His eyes were grim in the gathering darkness.

  “I do not know, lad,” he said. “But I hope so.”

  “You do?”

  “Aye. We know we will have to kill it in the end. Just as well we could do it without having to spend another day traipsing through this accursed swamp.”

  Bassus swung the door open, letting out a waft of hot, fishy air into the cold evening.

  Octa shuddered. Placing his h
and on the antler handle of his seax he peered out into the mists for a long while, before turning away from the chill gloom and stepping through the threshold of Hrothgar’s home.

  Eleven

  Screams.

  And a clashing chaos of sounds.

  Octa leapt up from where he had lain beside the warm embers of the hearth. He had hardly slept. It felt as though he had barely closed his eyes after his long, chill watch. His mind was dull, leaden from tiredness and the rancid ale he had consumed the night before. His hand already gripped his seax. He had not sheathed it to sleep.

  Around him all was frenzy. Too many men for the small hut were struggling from their slumber all at once. Curses and cries from within the darkness of the hovel were added to the cacophony outside.

  Another scream ripped the night air.

  Octa leapt for the door and flung it open. The cold fog of the night roiled into the hut. Standing in the doorway was a shadowy figure. For a moment, Octa was poised to strike. But the cold air brought him to his senses like a slap. This was no night creature.

  “Unferth,” Octa said, “what’s happened?”

  “To arms!” yelled Unferth, at last finding his voice. “To arms! The creature is abroad and Wiglaf is fallen.”

  Bassus, Hrothgar and Gram shoved their way past Octa and into the night.

  “Where?” snapped Bassus.

  Unferth did not reply, but he pointed to the west. The moon was high and the mist-draped land was alight with a silvery glow.

  The men rushed off.

  “Come, show us,” said Octa, urging Unferth forward with a push.

  But Unferth would not return into the fog. His face was white in the darkness. White streaked with black. Blood. Octa pushed him once more. Unferth was garbed in a battle-knit shirt, and bore a fine sword.

  “Come, we need your strength, Unferth.”

  But the old thegn shook his head.

  Seeing it was pointless to insist, Octa grabbed Unferth’s right wrist and with his other hand wrenched the sword from his grasp. Best that the blade be put to use, rather than left in the hut where Modthrith and her children cowered.

  Shoving Unferth away, Octa sprinted after the others. The heft of the sword felt strange but welcome in his hand.

  A terrible roar of anger and sounds of struggle in the fog. Octa ran on.

  And then he saw them. Bassus, Gram and Hrothgar brandished their weapons. Moonlight flickered on the blades. Before them crouched a huge beast. Shaggy fur covered its massive bulk. It was hunkered over a body.

  A corpse. Wiglaf.

  The young warrior’s shocked face dangled from the nihtgenga’s paw. Like Breca, the head had been ripped from the corpse’s body. Wiglaf had been Octa’s friend. He was quick and clever, with thoughts as fast as flashes of lightning from a brooding, still sky. But now he was slain; taken by this beast. Wiglaf’s eyes stared out from the gore-slathered face.

  Without pause to think, Octa raised Unferth’s sword and launched himself at the foul creature. He bellowed, releasing his own beast from within. The animal rage that he kept locked deep within himself. That fury had now broken its chains and nothing would calm it, save for blood.

  The night-stalker, with a speed that belied its size, flung the head to one side and brought itself up to its full height. It towered over Octa now, who flew at the beast and was unable to alter his attack. The sword-blow that he had hoped would take the monster’s head now hammered into its chest.

  It was like hitting rock. A flash of sparks briefly lit the gloom. The thrum of the blade rang up Octa’s arm. His wrist went numb from the impact. Such a strike should have buried itself deep within the beast’s flesh. Maybe even cleaved it in two. But the nihtgenga scarcely stumbled. It let out a grunt and then clubbed Octa with a fist like iron. Octa fell back into the mud, his lip split. He tasted blood. His head was once more clouded. Lights flashed before his eyes. He struggled to rise. Everything was blurred. Sounds were louder than they should be.

  Bassus let out a roar and rushed towards the creature, Gram a heartbeat behind him. Octa shook his head to clear it. He must help his friends. He pushed himself to his knees, spitting blood into the mud. His hand found the hilt of the sword that he had dropped. Shakily, he stood.

  Bassus and Gram yet battled with the beast. Hrothgar, almost as tall as the shadow-walker, was still, hanging back from the fray. Without warning, Gram hurtled back into Hrothgar and they both fell in a tangle of limbs. Bassus faced the monster alone. Octa shook his head once more. He was still dizzy, but he could not leave his friend to fight this thing unaided.

  Gripping the sword tightly, he stepped forward.

  “Hey!” Octa shouted. “I haven’t finished with you yet, you ugly whoreson.”

  For an instant, the creature’s head swung towards the sound. Bassus seized his chance and thrust his blade low. He must have hit his mark, for the beast let out a wailing howl, almost like that of a child. Bassus made to press home his attack. But the creature, even injured, was as fast as thought. It leapt away and was swallowed by the fog. They heard splashing, retreating into the distance. And then, the night was still once more.

  Octa reached out a hand and helped Gram to his feet. They ignored Hrothgar, who seemed dazed, sitting in the muck.

  They approached Bassus, who was staring at the body at his feet.

  For a time they stood, panting from the fight.

  “Poor Wiglaf,” said Octa. “We will bury him whole.” He bent to the corpse and removed the cloak. Then, gently, with trembling hands he placed Wiglaf’s head on the wool. He wrapped the head with care. He was glad when he could no longer see those shocked eyes.

  “Aye,” said Bassus, “poor Wiglaf that he should stand as warden with one who is craven.” Neither Octa nor Gram replied. Ire washed off Bassus like the stench of rotting plants from the swamp.

  “You injured it,” said Gram.

  Bassus looked down at the sword in his hand. The blade was slick with dark blood.

  His teeth flashed white in the darkness.

  “It bleeds like a man,” he said.

  “That was no man,” said Octa, recalling the jolting pain in his wrist as his sword struck.

  “Whatever it is,” said Bassus, “it bleeds and it will die. I swear my oath to Woden, All-Father. We will follow this shadow-stalker to its lair when the sun rises and I will slay it.”

  Behind them, Hrothgar finally snapped out of his daze and moaned.

  Twelve

  They were ready to leave as the sun rose. A cold wind blew from the east, shredding the mist. From the slight elevation of Hrothgar’s steading, they could see far into the marsh. In the distance, the land rose again before reaching the coast. Without the vale of fog, they would be able to pick their way through the fens and pools.

  From the edge of the marsh Gram smiled grimly and nodded to Bassus. The beast’s tracks were clear and dark spatters of blood from his wound showed where it had passed.

  “You can follow it?” Bassus asked.

  “Aye. With clear skies, we should be able to run it to ground today.”

  Bassus turned to Hrothgar, who seemed somehow smaller in the grey dawn light. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes downcast.

  “We will leave the horses here,” Bassus said. “They are in your care. If anything should happen to them, it will be you who will pay. They are from the king’s stables and he is not a forgiving man. See that nothing befalls them.”

  Hrothgar nodded, but did not speak. Ever since the fight in the darkness, he had changed. Gone was the belligerent, gruff man who demanded payment for his hospitality. Instead he was meek and nervous, like a hound that has been kicked too many times. His wife and sons seemed to have also been shocked into silence. Modthrith had served them some chewy bread and salted eels with more fishy ale without uttering a sound. But all the while her eyes moved, taking in everything. She unnerved Octa.

  “Ready?” said Bassus, in a loud voice.

  Octa no
dded.

  Bassus clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Good,” said Bassus. “Let us find this bastard creature and slay it. It has brought too much death and misery. Gram, lead on.”

  He did not pause to look at Unferth.

  When they had returned to the hovel in the night, Bassus had taken one of their shovels and thrust it savagely into Unferth’s chest. The old thegn had seemed bemused at first, but after a moment he had grasped the wooden haft.

  “Bury Wiglaf whole,” Bassus had said. “And bury him deep.”

  Unferth had not spoken. With lowered head he had left the hut.

  Octa waited for him now. Unferth walked stiffly from the grave he had dug. His face was drawn, the sickly grey of a trout’s belly.

  “Come, Unferth,” said Octa. “Do not blame yourself. Wiglaf’s death was not your doing.”

  He placed a hand on Unferth’s arm, but the older man shrugged it off and brushed past him without a word.

  They made good progress through the marsh. Gram was able to follow the beast’s trail easily. The breeze in their faces brought tears to their eyes and Octa’s swollen, scabbed lip throbbed in the cold. But the lack of fog made the going so much easier than the previous days. They did not slip and slide blindly into frigid pools and foul-smelling quagmires, instead they carefully chose their steps, moving from one tussock of marsh grass to the next. In this way, they managed to keep quite dry. Octa could scarcely believe they had been lost for so long in such a small expanse of land. The sun was still far from its zenith when the earth underfoot became drier, more solid.

  As the ground rose, they paused. Looking back, Octa could see the thin trail of smoke from Hrothgar’s hearth.

  “Did we really wander lost in that marsh?” he said, more to himself than the others.

  Bassus frowned.

  “It must be cursed,” he said. “We could walk from one end to the other in the time it takes to give a woman a good ploughing.”

  “I fear we would not get far in the time it takes you to swive a wench,” said Gram.

  Bassus snorted, but did not respond to the taunt. The attempt to lift their spirits had failed. None of them laughed.