Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (2 page)

It was mid-afternoon when he saw a thicker bank of trees ahead. They were not water-loving alders, so he knew the marshes were ending. He soon reached dry ground and continued as in the valley by walking alongside the river. Huge-girthed oaks, swathed with deeply etched and gnarled bark, now crowded in around him.

He moved slowly, his eyes straining to see into the gloom. Woodland noises occasionally caused him to stop and squint into the green murkiness beside the river. Soon, he came to an area where the trees grew sparsely. Here, the light flooded in to reveal the track
and
the ruin he had travelled days to find. Looking up and down, he was satisfied that nothing stirred. He now realised he had gained his present position the hard way by approaching from the broken, marshy land to the south. He examined the ground and saw no human trace upon it. Turning his attention to the ruin, he noticed that its walls seemed to be overgrown, craggy, continuations of the forest floor.

The Romans had long abandoned the building but its basic construction was still intact. The main structure of the storehouse was above ground and built to house two guards. Not such a ruin after all, realised Dominic, and less work to do than anticipated.
Roman built, so well built
, he thought. Apart from the wooden roof, which had collapsed into its interior, the building was sound. A slow trickle of water wormed its way down a small bluff to the side of the hut, before running across the ground to join a small ditch nearby. Dominic walked over to the flow, placed his hand under the cool shower and tasted the stony but drinkable water. He felt pleased with himself. The site could be made habitable in no time at all. If he worked long and hard, he would be comfortable within days.

He entered the building and removed old rotted sections of roof, throwing them outside for later use as firewood. A soggy rope-pull attached to a rotting door was uncovered on the floor, and he guessed he had found the entrance to the storage cellar. He knew he must enter it. It would give him shelter until he had fixed the roof of the upper building.

The cellar door opened with stiff reluctance, revealing dusty stone steps. As Dominic descended, the steps wound into utter blackness. He walked cautiously with his bow held outright before him as a makeshift probe. He continued down a short passage before the bow hit a flat surface. He groped in the dark until his hand touched rough timber. His hand explored until finding an iron ring. He realised he had found a door.

With both hands and with little optimism, he twisted the ring, and was surprised when both ring
and
door moved
.
Not knowing what to expect, he peered through the widening crack between door and frame. Nothing, neither sound nor movement could he detect. All was still; all was black. He pushed the door further until he could squeeze through sideways. He entered a level passageway, and that was when they hit him.

The quiet air exploded into a fit of whirling, rushing madness. He lashed about him in the darkness, impotent now with only an empty bow in his hand. He expected a deathblow to follow the whirling blasts of air that seemed to alight all over his body. In desperation, he managed to stumble into the door. He placed both of his hands against its rough edge and heaved it open.

He fell to his knees in the passage, his heart hammering as he watched the last of the bats leave. He was furious with himself. He didn’t deserve to live. What a ham head. What a fool. Ambushed by flying rats and brandishing a weapon that could not hurt a child. He regained his feet, still cursing to himself. Then he placed his bow over his shoulder and drew his sword.

A line of faint light at floor level caught his eye. He edged toward it, again using his sword as a probe until he struck wood.
He had found another door
. At his feet, daylight spilled from a gap between door and stone floor. Another iron ring, and again success as it turned and the door moved. He knew he must enter, but now he was equipped and ready. He slid through the ingress and adopted a crouching, defensive stance, his sword held in both hands before him.

Immediately, he saw the source of the light. The cellar was huge and its domed and fluted roof had several slits built into it which were open to the leafy woodland floor above, and which allowed shafts of diffused light to illuminate a huge area below. Used for storage, a wide, stone square (now completely empty) formed the centre of the cellar. Nothing now remained except leaf litter and a number of weightless bird skeletons. Dominic’s entry evoked an air change, causing some of the dry leaves and bones to skitter across the floor. Looking around, he could see stone vaults recessed into the sides of the cellar.

He observed no movement as he shimmied, crouched and ready, around the cellar, approaching the vaults and turning quickly and purposefully into them. This he did until he was sure he was alone. He now saw that the cellar would offer good shelter and with its one entrance would be easy to defend. He had found his new home.

CHAPTER TWO

Simon left his dwelling just before dawn and strolled up to an outcrop on the far side of the fields. Here, he began to sort stones, putting them in piles according to their shape and size, ready for their use as a walling material later in the year. As a man of sixty-eight years, his contribution to the village workload was now undemanding, but tasks such as the one he was now undertaking, engendered within him a feeling of usefulness and satisfaction. He assessed the job at hand. If he worked smartly until midday, it would give him an appetite for his sister’s delicious stew. Then he could spend his afternoon at leisure, teasing the children and joking with his older friends as they chewed the fat outside the huts.

He enjoyed the intricate dawn chorus as he worked, adding his own cheery whistle to it, until the rumbling of thunder had him look to the sky. As the noise grew louder, he realised it was the sound of approaching riders. Chilled now in spite of the sunshine, his thoughts went to the tales of brutal folk from beyond the Grey Wash; tales that had circulated around the night fires and seriously unsettled him. Although he considered the tales to be exaggerated, they had still delayed his slumber on many a night. He had hoped that the dangers of the world would somehow avoid his village, but as he heard the sound of approaching hooves, he could not help but think of the brutal Saxon folk.

He knew the riders could only approach the village along the track which lay below a nearby knoll. Dropping to his belly, he inched slowly up the rise to sneak a glance at the riders as they passed below. Upon seeing them, Simon knew that his old way of life had ended forever.

The dawn was blood red as the war band (which numbered fifty men) rode into the village. The fat, bearded man who led the group, harshly jabbed the heels of his leather boots into his pony’s belly and removed a single-bladed war ax from beneath the secured sheepskin that served as his saddle. Raising the ax, he shouted over his shoulder. ‘No mercy! Kill all except any women or children who will fetch gold at the markets!’

As the pace of the group increased, they rode in a blur of dust and howls into the village—their need for concealment now unnecessary.

The village had a population of forty souls—most of them still in their simple dwellings preparing for another day in the fields. Some of the smaller children were already outside at play, but now they stood frozen and transfixed as the brutal Saxon torrent swept towards them. They were the first to perish; some trampled and left bleeding and broken in the dust; others callously impaled upon spears or cleaved by the cold iron of the war axes.

Soon, the dusty square of the village began to fill with the confused as they emerged to investigate the riot of sound outside their huts. Awful, keening shrieks filled the air as mothers ran to attend the critically injured. None of the older women survived the attack. Only the younger women and children considered sale worthy survived, and these confined to an empty hut at the edge of the village where a raider took up guard.

The attack, as was usual against an undefended village, was over quickly and savagely; the men of the village having little time in the confusion to put up anything other than token resistance. Most of these died bravely, brandishing makeshift but ineffective weapons. Then the village was set to the torch, and bodies left to lie where they had fallen. A smouldering scene of slaughter remained.

The fat leader, Egbert, walked amongst the bodies with his men, delighting in the scene as he searched for the maimed and dying. These he killed with hacking blows from his ax. After a while he paused and wiped his hands, greasy with blood, upon his tunic. He shouted to a nearby subordinate.  ‘Find some ale you slacker! We’ll have a feast then rut with the mares.’ Raucous laughter now mingled with the moans of the dying as some of the raiders ran to an intact store which contained ale.

‘Tomas!’ shouted Egbert. ‘Where are you, you slug?’ He glanced around until he spotted the boy. He beckoned impatiently to him and pointed around the clearing. ‘Search the bodies … usual things, weapons and gold.’

The boy, who was slight in stature and aged no more than fourteen, knew better than to delay for even a moment when set a task by Egbert. He scurried amongst the bodies, deftly searching for rings, armlets, bracelets, brooches and weapons. What little he could find, he placed in a pile at the centre of the clearing. He was glad to see that Withred, a man who had always treated him fairly, was standing by the pile of low-grade treasure.  

Withred belonged to the Anglii tribe, and his early life had been lived in Angulus on the shores of the Baltic. The Romans had ignored his land, considering it economically bereft, having no desire to campaign through its difficult country of marsh and forest. After his parents had died in a tribal dispute, his Aunt had taken him into her protection. Their people had worshipped the Goddess Nerthus, and his aunt had taught him to respect the world around him and all that lived in it, in keeping with their religious beliefs. 

Eventually, the tribes had united and prospered, but good arable land had become scarce as the sea encroached inland. Withred decided to join one of the war bands that was due to sail to Southeast Britannia under the leadership of Hengist and Horsa. Years before, Rome had abandoned Britannia, leaving it unprotected, and soon the northern Scot and Pict tribes had begun to threaten the British settlements further south. It was in response to this threat that the British king Vortigern had invited Saxon mercenaries to help him.

Withred had soon proved himself a fierce warrior and shrewd tactician, and had quickly risen in the ranks to become a respected member of the mercenaries. Furthermore, a linguistic talent had ensured he was soon fluent in the British tongue.

Eventually, the Saxon, Angle and Jute group had turned against Vortigern and a larger scale conquest of the island had begun. Withred had travelled to the eastern fringe of the island to aid the Saxon warlord, Osric, and it was from this time that he had struggled with his role. Before his relocation to the east, he had always fought brutal battles against well-armed men. Now he was accompanying war bands tasked to destroy and strike terror into undefended British villages. His aunt’s earlier teachings still had a bearing on his actions, though, and although he realised that his present life meant he had to kill, he still felt disgust at the excesses he witnessed on the raids. Always, he had always refused to kill either the unarmed or weak.

‘That’s it, lad.’ said Withred as Tomas approached, ‘Do as he says and maybe he’ll give you the night off.’

Tomas glanced at Withred and attempted a smile through a swollen mouth that evidenced a recent slap from Egbert, but Withred had become distracted by the bloodletting that surrounded him, and Tomas’ smile was lost upon him.

Tomas had heard whispers around the camp—that Withred had been sent by Osric to keep an eye on an increasingly wayward Egbert, who had been trusted to lead some of the independent sorties into the countryside. Tomas now saw his tormentor approaching, so quickly left and busied himself in another part of the clearing.

Tomas was a native of the island and had been travelling with Egbert’s troop for two years. His, was one of the first villages taken by the raiders. They had spared his life so he could serve them but he dearly wished they had slaughtered him, as they had done to everyone he knew in his world, such was his life with Egbert and his men.

They had treated him harshly at first, before he had learned what tasks they expected of him. He had lost count of the kicks he had received and the objects he had dodged. Then he had grown accustomed to camp routine, and from that time life had become bearable for him.

Eventually the men had warmed to him, in the same way a man might grow fond of an obedient dog, and indeed sometimes they would reward him with choice cuts of meat and words of encouragement, but they would be just as ready to slap or rebuke him. Although he would play up to them, clowning around when he thought it might amuse them, he nevertheless hated most of them. Yes, camp life was hard for the boy, but he would have accepted a lifetime of kicks and abuse, and considered it a small price to pay for the exemption of witnessing the men on their hateful raids.

These were the worst times— the days when they raided the defenceless and did things that sickened him. He had seen them commit many awful deeds, the first being the sacking of his own village where they had forced him to watch as they had brutally killed his mother, father and infant sister before him. Although he had witnessed many raids since, he still felt deep revulsion at what the men did to their captives. He was thankful that his job on the raids was only to round up and tether the ponies. This diverted his attention from the killing, although he hated the subsequent search of the bodies for treasure which Egbert always insisted he undertook. Sometimes, however, he could not avoid seeing the slaughter, and these images were indelible and reoccurring to him.

It was during one of the raids that he had attempted his one and only escape. As was usual after rounding up the ponies, he had walked to the edge of the village with the intention of taking up his customary position: sitting huddled with his back to the savagery until the men called for him. This day, he had been unable to listen to the screams any longer, and had run weeping into a nearby thicket where he had hidden for the rest of the day. Here, he had crouched until nightfall, unsure of whether to remain or run.

He had heard the dreaded sound of alarm as darkness fell. Nevertheless, he had managed to remain hidden throughout the night, and in the morning he had bolted and run across the abandoned fields of the village, having no plan apart from putting as much distance between himself and his tormentors. His efforts had been to no avail and he had been spotted just as he was about to enter the forest. They had quickly captured him and returned him to the furious Egbert.

Withred had stopped Egbert from killing Tomas that day, reasoning that they still needed a slave, as they had spared no one after running completely amok in the village. For days after this, Tomas had felt the pain from Egbert’s beating, and from that day had slept hobbled beside the ponies.

Withred turned his disdainful stare at Egbert as he neared. ‘Looks like you’ve had your nose in the trough again,’ he said. ‘How come you’ve finished so soon? Couldn’t you find any more children or crones to slaughter?’ Like Egbert, Withred was a high-ranking
Gedriht
so had no fear of him. Indeed, he took an inordinate pleasure in taunting him. He also hated Egbert because he knew he took hideous delight in his grisly work.

‘Beside the treasure again, I see,’ said Egbert, ignorin
g
Withred’s assessment of his character. ‘No stomach for the fight … that’s
your
problem.’

Withred smile was sardonic. ‘Fight … what fight? Women and children and poorly armed men; is that the best you can manage? No … I’ll leave the
fighting
to you and your weasels.’

‘Ah, but not all the women and children lie dead,’ retorted Egbert. ‘Some were spared for the slave markets, so if it’s a challenge you’re after then why not enter the forest. I hear there’s creatures in there that would certainly give you the fight you crave for. Bears, for one—released by their baiters when they grow too big to play.’ He snorted his derision, kicked at the pile of trinkets, then walked towards the secure hut. Unperturbed by Withred’s words, he looked back at him. ‘Why not come and watch a master at work!’ he shouted. ‘You can hold them down for me if you want!’

Simon wept as he lay on the edge of the rise. After witnessing the slaughter, he was now ashamed of his own uselessness and cowardice. He yearned for the courage to walk down to the burning village and offer his old body for slaughter. For now, though, his head whirled as he tried to make sense of what had just gone before him. His entire life now lay in ruins. Everyone he knew was probably lying dead and defiled. There was no use for him now in this world. What was he to do? Where could he go? The nearest village was two days walk away, but who was to say it still stood.

His self-pity abruptly ceased when the raiders started herding females towards the hut. He immediately knew the purpose of their clemency towards them, and this awareness slowly became his spur to act. He picked up his metal delving tool and approached the hut.

Martha cowered by the back wall and pressed her hands over her ears to reduce the sound of brutal rape occurring outside. Minutes earlier, she had recoiled as a fat man had entered the hut and selected the child, Antonia, who he had dragged screaming outside. Twelve other women and children were crammed in with Martha—all of them in shock. A murmuring of grief and fear filled the hut as the women cast looks of dread towards the door. Martha despaired as she considered the hopelessness of her plight. The men were about to do unspeakable things to her. She yearned for a blade to end her life quickly. There was no reason to live now. She would share the fate of Antonia, then like her father and sister who had been butchered before her very eyes she would be slaughtered. Of that she had no doubt.

She jumped as the delving tool severed the mud and rush wall of the hut by her right shoulder. An old bronzed and gnarled hand pushed through the gap and pulled away a section of the wall. She almost shouted with joy as Simon’s familiar and much loved head appeared through the gap, his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. Again he pulled at the wall and a huge section came away. Martha was quickly through.