The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (53 page)

"Run now, or die! I have the taste for blood and I would have more! I will rip your guts from your bellies. I will fuck your women. Eat your babies!"

Beobrand turned away from the disturbing sight. Attor was like an animal. A wolf worrying defenceless lambs in a field.

The searing heat pushed Beobrand and the others back a pace.

"She'll die in there," Acennan shouted over the tumult of the fire and battle-clash.

Beobrand ground his teeth. It was true. If they did not come out, there would be none who could survive in that inferno much longer.

"Sons of Nathair!" he roared. "Come from your father's hall and fight me! You have killed my people for the last time. Come out and face your doom!"

He did not truly expect the men inside to react to his words. But his voice carried the force of his frustrations. His rage at the gods. All his sorrow. And his loss.

As if at his signal, the moment the words left his lips men rushed from the doors. They had used their time to prepare themselves for they now bore war gear. Blades flashed. Helms glimmered. Three men leapt from the doors and sprang forward, shields raised high before them.

The force and speed of the attack gave Beobrand pause for a heartbeat. It was all he could do to raise his shield against the sword thrust that whistled towards his chest. Then the man was upon him. Beobrand attempted to sidestep the careening run of his adversary, but he was not fast enough. The Pict collided with him and they fell to the ground in a tangle.

To Beobrand's left, he was dimly aware of the massive form of Broden, son of Nathair, smashing into Acennan. The huge man swung a deadly two-handed axe as if it was a child's plaything. Acennan was forced back by the onslaught.

On the right, a scrawny, wild-haired man spat and shouted in his native Pictish tongue, all the while trying to gut Aethelwulf with a short slashing blade.

Beobrand rolled away from his opponent, distancing himself from him and again stopping a blow on his linden board. He scrabbled to his feet, breathing hard now. Death was in the flame-filled night and Beobrand could feel its breath on the nape of his neck. He faced the man, allowing the battle-anger to fully take hold.

The man feinted towards his face. Beobrand didn't even deign to parry or block the blow. He merely swayed back allowing the feint and the follow up slash to his groin to miss him. Beobrand watched the Pict carefully. His eyes widened the instant before he lunged and Beobrand pushed the blow away with his shield boss. The blow was powerful, sending a jarring shock up his arm. He lost his grip on the boss for a moment, but the straps Sunniva had fashioned for him held firm. Another blow came swinging down towards his head. Beobrand batted it away with Hrunting's blade. Sparks flew. The Pict was tiring now, aware that he was outclassed by this tall thegn of Bernicia. Sweat poured from him, his eyes wild.

Around them the night was chaos. Aethelwulf still fought the slight warrior. There were more sounds of battle from behind, where Attor and Ceawlin stood. And Acennan was backing away from the power of the axe blows raining down on him from the hands of Broden. As he watched, Acennan's foot caught on the torch he had planted in the ground. His ankle turned and he fell. Broden loomed above him, axe raised.

"No!" shouted Beobrand, but his voice was lost in the madness of the night. He could not allow Acennan to die. But he was too far away. And there was another enemy before him.

Beobrand dragged his gaze away from Acennan's plight. He would be no help to him if he allowed this clumsy Pict to stick him with his blade. Time to finish this. He lowered his shield and took a step back away from the sweating, panting man. Just as Beobrand had anticipated, the Pict took a step forward and raised his sword. At the same instant, Beobrand changed his direction and sprang forward, Hrunting beating against the outstretched blade. Then, turning his back momentarily on his adversary, he spun on the balls of his feet. He felt Hrunting meet with resistance, then carry on through its arc. The man's head toppled from his body, even as his legs still carried him forward. Spouts of hot blood spurted into the smoke-hazed night. The knees buckled and the headless corpse flopped to the earth.

Beobrand did not falter. He used the momentum from his spin to send him flying towards Broden.

The night was ablaze, the hall fire adding its roar to the screams of the dying. Heat, acrid smoke, and the ring of iron on iron filled the night. But for Beobrand, that hellish night receded, pushed away by the intense focus he now brought to bear on a single point of conflict.

On a single foe.

Broden stood astride Acennan's prostrate form. As Beobrand rushed to his friend's aid, he saw the heavy axehead rise and fall. It chopped deeply into Acennan's shield, splitting it. The next strike from Broden would slay Acennan. There was no doubt. Beobrand would never reach them in time to prevent it.

"Broden!" Beobrand shouted, willing himself to move faster.

But the burly son of Nathair did not hear him, or was not so easily distracted, for he smashed the axe down. Acennan twisted and writhed, throwing his shield boss desperately into the path of the blade. Deflected, the axe slammed into his left shoulder.

"No!" screamed Beobrand. His shield boss caught Broden in the side. Beobrand's weight and speed shoved him clear of Acennan. Beobrand followed the shield charge with a slashing cut to the face and was surprised at Broden's speed. Broden regained his balance instantly and deflected Hrunting's serpent-like blade with the haft of his axe.

Beobrand took a deep breath and steadied himself. This man was a master of the axe. That was clear. He swung the weapon now in a flurry of intricate patterns. He wove a deadly thread with the axe, constantly moving. High and then low. Left then right. The haft slapped against his meaty palms and all the while the iron head of the axe glinted red in the light of the hall's death throes. It would take a brave man to confront that wall of death. Or a foolhardy one. Beobrand's lips peeled back from his teeth in a grin. Men had said he was brave. He did not know whether that was so. But he was sure he was foolhardy. The hair on his right arm shrivelled in the heat from the hall. This man had watched Tobrytan die. And taken Reaghan. Now she must surely be dead within that fire. Beobrand had warned him what would happen.

Without more thought, Beobrand stepped into the axe's dancing death whir. Broden's eyes betrayed his surprise at Beobrand's actions. Beobrand had gauged his moment well. The axe was on a downward arc. He raised his shield, catching the axehead on the wood. Pain surged up his left arm, his fingers numbed by the blow. The axe broke through leather and linden, cutting deeply into his forearm. But Beobrand did not slow his advance. Even as the axe sliced into shield and flesh, Beobrand's right arm darted forward, a viper striking a rat. Hrunting buried itself deep in Broden's left underarm. Beobrand stepped in closer, lifting Hrunting's hilt and angling the sword downward. He pushed savagely. The blade vanished into Broden's flesh. A tremor ran through him as the steel point found his heart, and the huge Pict collapsed to the earth, an expression of shock on his dead face.

Beobrand stepped back. His arm throbbed with each heartbeat. He couldn't feel the fingers on his mutilated hand, but he clenched them into a fist and raised the ruined shield. It was so heavy. He struggled to lift it. For a moment he feared he had lost the strength in his arm, then he noticed the axe. Its head was still embedded in the board, its blade sawing into his arm with each movement. He lowered the shield so that the trailing axe shaft touched the earth, then, with a grunt of pain he pulled backward, levering the axe out of board and flesh. Hot, fresh pain rippled into his fingers as the blade came free and the axe fell, heavy and still, next to its wielder.

He felt his blood flowing freely now. He would need to bind the wound. He shrugged his arms free of the straps and allowed the shield to drop to the ground.

Turning, he hurried to where Acennan lay. He squirmed and cursed, looking up at Beobrand.

"The Pictish bastard has broken my shoulder," spat Acennan.

Some of the rings of his byrnie had broken, but the metal shirt was well-made; the axe had not cut deeply. However, Broden was strong and the axe was heavy. Acennan's left collarbone had shattered.

"Thank the gods your byrnie rings are well-wrought," said Beobrand, shifting his sword to his blood-slick left hand and offering Acennan his right.

"Thank the smith," answered Acennan, grimacing. "The gods care naught for whether I live or die." He took the offered hand.

"But I care," said Beobrand, heaving him to his feet. Both men groaned with the strain on their injuries.

Their eyes met.

"I know," said Acennan. Then, his gaze flickered to something behind Beobrand. "Look out!" he shouted.

With no time to think, Beobrand took Hrunting in his right hand and spun to defend himself.

A dark figure flew out of the smoke-filled darkness. Screaming wildly, it came at him, red metal gleamed. A wicked knife shimmered in the night.

Beobrand stepped quickly to his right, at the same time swinging Hrunting in a deadly arc to the left. The blade connected with the attacker's face, cleaving through jaw and nose. Bone smashed. Blood and brains splattered. The knife skittered harmlessly over the rings of Beobrand's byrnie. He hardly felt the glancing blow.

He looked down at the twitching corpse and the ruined face. It was a small figure, but with rounded hips and breasts that were all too evident under the night dress. It was a young woman who lay at his feet.

Another woman dead.

How many more would he see perish in his lifetime. He had already seen more than his share. His gorge rose. She had only been protecting her home. Perhaps Broden was her man.

What had he become? All he had wanted was to bring back Reaghan.

Reaghan!

He ran towards the hall. Oblivious of everything else. The flames were a yellow and red wall that reached the dome of the sky itself. He could not get close to the blaze. His eyebrows and hair began to singe.

A creaking, groan emanated from the structure. Was that a scream he could hear? Could there still be someone living inside that bonfire? Then, with an almost animal roar, the roof beams collapsed. Flames and sparks sprayed into the sky like a message to the gods. The heat intensified. His face began to blister. Nobody could survive in that.

He staggered back. Away from the flames and the burning pain of his failure.

Tears burnt from his cheeks as they fell. He had lost Reaghan as he had lost all the others. Edita. Rheda. His mother. Cathryn. And Sunniva. Sweet, beautiful, brave, Sunniva.

If he could just have saved the Waelisc girl. Just one. But it seemed his wyrd was to always fail. He could kill, but he could not prevent those he loved from dying.

A sudden searing agony in his right leg brought his thoughts screaming back from where they wandered. He looked down but for a moment he was unable to understand what he was seeing. Something bright white was protruding from his right calf. A feather. The fletchings of an arrow. He had been shot and the arrow had passed clean though the large muscle below the knee.

Looking in the direction the arrow had come from he saw Torran, thin face twisted with fury, lit by the flames of his destroyed home. He was placing another arrow on the string of his bow, but he had no time to draw and loose. For Attor had seen him too and was rushing at him spitting a cascade of insults as he ran.

Torran stared at Beobrand for a moment, his baleful eyes full of loathing. He hesitated. Attor would be upon him in moments.

"I will kill you, Beobrand of Ubbanford," Torran screamed, before turning and fleeing into the darkness that shrouded the land to the north. Attor sped after him and both were swallowed by the night.

The flames still raged in the hall and some of the other buildings had begun to burn, whether from stray sparks or put to the torch by his gesithas, Beobrand did not know. All about him lay corpses and destruction. Those villagers who yet lived had fled. All this death and he had not saved her. How the gods must be laughing. His eyes were drawn to the woman he had slain. He shuddered as he recalled the destruction of her face. The image was etched into his mind and he would never forget it. So it was as he had feared. He had become just such a killer as Hengist.

Acennan came to Beobrand's side. Ceawlin joined them. They stared into the crackling, roaring doom of Nathair's hall in silence for a time.

"Lean on me," Acennan said, then winced as Beobrand put pressure on his broken bone. "But take a care."

"I have failed," said Beobrand, his voice as desolate as a winter wind.

"I don't know," Acennan said, a smile playing at his lips, "you seem to have done a good job of destroying this place."

Beobrand frowned. He was in no mood for Acennan's humour.

"I preferred it when you were not speaking to me."

In answer, Acennan merely pointed. From behind the hall came Elmer and Garr. Beobrand's heart surged to see them both alive. It must count for something that all of his gesithas had lived through the night. He had not led them here to their deaths. Then he noticed that Elmer was carrying something. At first, in the flickering light of the flames he thought it might be a child, but then, as they drew closer, he recognised the long unruly hair and the slender curve of the neck.