The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (28 page)

They followed the path inland in silence. They saw no living thing but birds. The track led a winding route through foliage that in summer must have been dense and heavy. Now the trees shook their gnarled bones at them as they passed. The brown bracken quivered and rustled.

Biorach led the way with a purposeful stride. Beobrand followed close behind, his half-hand rested on Hrunting's hilt. His right frequently touched the amulet at his neck. Acennan brought up the rear, keeping an eye on Coenred, who looked as if he might puke again.

The further they travelled from the sea, the calmer the air grew. A stillness fell on the woods as they made their way down into a hollow. The land here looked as if a giant hand had scooped out the earth, leaving a massive bowl-like depression. The sun was hidden by clouds, but Beobrand judged it to be close to midday.

Before them ran a stream. It flowed across the floor of the bowl.

They slipped and slid down the path into the hollow. All sound of the sea vanished.

The brook was loud in the quietude of the glade.

Biorach held up his hand. "I will go no closer. The woman you seek lives in the cave from whence that stream flows. Follow the burn and you will come to the hag's lair." He seemed embarrassed not to accompany them further. "I will wait here for you. But I will not stay until darkness falls. If I am no longer here, make your way back to the beach."

Beobrand nodded. "Coenred," he said, "you should stay here with Biorach. We do not know what we are to face."

Coenred, his face pallid in the gloom of the glade, raised himself up to his full height. Set his jaw. "I will not stay here. I will go with you. After all, you may need rescuing," he said. His attempt to smile merely served to make him look sick.

Beobrand fixed him with a long stare. The boy had been a true friend since the first time they had met. And he was as brave as any warrior. Braver than many. Beobrand nodded.

"Very well," he said.

An explosion of sound made them all start. Coenred let out a cry of alarm.

It was a jackdaw, black and grey feathers a blur as it launched itself from a branch. With a high-pitched call, it flew overhead, following the course of the brook upstream.

Beobrand spat. He forced his fingers to unclench from his Thunor's hammer amulet.

"Come. It is just a bird." He touched Hrunting's pommel for luck. "Let us retrieve what we have come for and be gone from this place."

The jackdaw had flown beyond their line of sight, but they could still hear its squealing call. Tchack, tchack, tchack.

They walked toward the sound. Could it be beckoning to them? Beobrand looked to Acennan, but there was no comfort for him there. Acennan was as pale as Coenred. His eyes were wide and wild.

Cold fingers of dread ran down Beobrand's spine.

They followed the stream out of the glade.

"It is just a bird," repeated Beobrand. But the words rang hollow to his own ears.

That was no forest creature. It was a malignant spirit.

It had been watching them. And now it was calling them to their doom.

The brook led them along the floor of a valley. On either side the trees loomed and leered. Overhanging, moss-covered limbs reached for them as they walked. No breeze reached this place. The only sounds were the echoes of their own movements and the trickling of the water. The quiet was unsettling. Beobrand glanced at his companions. Each had fear etched into his features, but they were close behind him.

"Biorach said it was not far," Beobrand whispered. It seemed wrong to disturb the silence. "We should be there soon."

They continued on. Their feet slipped on the slick stones of the path that followed the stream. Everywhere was moss and lichen. The very air seemed to be green. Its earthy redolence was cloying. Behind Beobrand, Coenred gagged.

They rounded a bend, passing a huge alder that extended over the path and brook, forming a branch archway. They ducked their heads and stepped beneath it.

The jackdaw, which had been sitting on a branch of the tree, let out its cry again. With a flurry of wings it blasted from its perch. Startled, Beobrand gasped and stepped back abruptly, knocking into Coenred, who in turn lost his footing on the moss-clad rocks and tumbled over into the stream. Acennan reached out and hauled the monk from the water.

"Are you hurt?" Beobrand asked.

Coenred shook his head, but did not speak. He was looking beyond Beobrand's shoulder. Turning, Beobrand peered into the gloom of the overgrown stream bed. The stream ran from a cleft in the hillside before them. The cave entrance was a gash in the rock. It was around the height of a man, though Beobrand could see he would need to stoop to enter. From the cave there issued a thin trail of smoke. It was as if a mighty wyrm lay within the darkness, exhaling its sulfurous breath.

Before the cave mouth there stood a stout pole, upon which rested the massive skull of a horse. The skull was stained brown. On twigs and branches all around the totem were small ribbons. Strips of cloth of all colours dangled from the trees. Some of the branches sported other items, which had been tied with twine. Beobrand saw small figures carved in wood or bone. Offerings. Gifts for the gods. Presents for the inhabitant of the cave.

The jackdaw sat on the brow of the skull. It eyed them with an uncanny intelligence. Its eyes were almost white in the gloaming of the vale. It cocked its head, twitching erratically.

Beobrand could not break its gaze. It held him in its thrall. This evil spirit would devour them all. His stomach churned. They should leave now, while they yet lived. This place would be their undoing.

A sudden movement behind him broke the spell. Acennan stepped forward and threw a pebble at the bird. It missed, but the jackdaw leapt from the skull, circled in the air and flapped into the black mouth of the cave.

Could it be that the bird was in fact the witch in animal form? He had heard of such things.

Coenred mumbled words of the Christ tongue under his breath.

Acennan shrugged. "It is only a bird," he said.

Beobrand nodded his thanks to Acennan. Despite the chill he felt a trickle of sweat down his back.

The cave mouth, all angles of cracked and mould-green rock, loomed before them. Beobrand looked at the others. They were on edge, but their faces were set now. Determined. There was no other way but forward. They must face their wyrd. He suddenly felt foolish for not bringing any means of making light. They would need to enter the tomb-like darkness with no torch light to guide them.

"If we journey too far into the cavern to see, we will return here to make a torch." His voice cracked. His throat was dry. He sounded fearful to his own ears. Acennan and Coenred did not seem to notice. They merely nodded. They were ready to follow him.

Taking a deep breath of the stagnant air, Beobrand stepped into the rocky maw.

He crouched slightly, so as not to dent his helm. The smoke that wafted over his head carried the scent of cooking meat. He sensed the others crowding in behind him. Their bodies smothered much of the weak, watery light that came in through the cave's entrance.

The way was narrow. A damp stone path led alongside the stream. The water gurgled words in the darkness that only the rocks could comprehend.

Beobrand drew Hrunting from its scabbard, the weight of it a comfort. He shuffled forward. One foot before the other. His shoes slid on the stone. His breath was loud in the confined space.

He moved further into the blackness. Acennan and Coenred's steps echoed in the dark. He could see nothing ahead. It was madness to go onward. Death could be lurking ready to strike and he would not see its coming. He remembered when his eyes had been bandaged after the battle of Elmet. The fear he had of being blind for the rest of his life. As good as blind now, his head began to ache, perhaps with the memory of the blow to his eye all those months ago.

He was on the verge of halting to return to the light outside when he noticed something ahead of them. A small glimmer, as of moon light reflecting on a pool at night. He peered into the darkness. Yes, there was light ahead. He moved slowly forward. One step. Two. The light grew stronger, as did the smell of food.

Beobrand's eyes now made sense of what they saw. The cramped pathway into the hillside turned to the right. There was light coming from that turning. It shone on the wall before them, which was slick with running water.

"Well, do you plan to stand there all day?" spoke a female voice. "Or are you going to join me and Muninn for something to eat?"

The sudden sound of the voice, loud and echoing in the stillness and gloom, made Beobrand start. He stood upright, banging his helmeted head into the rock roof of the tunnel. He heard Acennan curse.

There was nothing for it now. Their wyrd had led them to this place. Now they must face this witch, and pray to all the gods that she would not weave her foul magics upon them.

Raising Hrunting before him, he touched Thunor's hammer with his left hand. He stepped over the stream and walked around the bend in the tunnel.

The sudden brightness of rush lights and flame-glow made him blink. He was in a large cavern, many times the height of a man. It was dry and as warm as any hall. A fire burnt. A pot hung over it. The roof of the cavern was jagged. Huge teeth of rock hung down like the giant fangs of a dragon. The shadows from the fire made the teeth rove and shift. As if the great dragon was breathing.

All around the edges of the cavern, in the darkened recesses, where the light barely reached, hung clumps of twigs and leaves. Wyrts for spells. Pots and jars were stacked in every nook. From the far side of the cave, the sightless dark eye sockets of a human skull stared. This was the domain of a witch, of that there was no doubt. The very air reeked of magic. And power.

Beobrand took a step into the cavern, to allow the others to enter. He might need their assistance against the crone.

But the woman who sat beside the fire was no crone. She was no hag such as people said rode horses into a fever at night, or caused a mother's milk to dry up. On a stool in the middle of the cavern, sat a comely woman. She was older than Beobrand, but slim of waist and shapely. She was looking straight at him and he felt his face flush. Her eyes flashed. She was as beautiful as a thunderstorm. All darkness, with flickers of brilliance. If Sunniva, with her golden locks and radiance was day, this woman was night. Her hair was black, yet streaked with the grey of moonlight filtered through clouds. Her colouring was just like that of a jackdaw. For an instant Beobrand's heart thundered. The bird had been the witch!

Then he noticed the movement beside her face. The jackdaw, all black and grey like its mistress, sat upon her shoulder. It cocked its head and twitched. Its white eyes glared at Beobrand.

She reached up and stroked the head of the creature. It nuzzled her ear.

"Muninn told me you were coming, Beobrand Half-hand," she said. "Though why the mighty murderer of Hengist would seek me out, I cannot say."

Beobrand's skin grew cold. Damp with sudden sweat. The witch knew his name. What evil could she do with such knowledge. Everyone knew that names have power to those with the ear of the elder gods. How did she know him? And she knew of Hengist also. And his part in his death.

His knuckles whitened on Hrunting's hilt. Hengist's killing was as clear to him as the moment it had happened.

"I killed Hengist, it is true." He was pleased that his voice sounded strong and assured. "But it was no murder. He was a coward. He deserved death. I took the weregild for many with his killing. Nobody grieves for him."

She leapt up. Her stool clattered over. The jackdaw flapped into the air, its call ringing around the cave. Her rage was as sudden as lightning strikes from a cloud-dark sky.

"You speak with the voice of a man but the words of a boy! What do you know of grief?" Her anger filled the cavern.

Beobrand felt his own ire rise to meet hers. "I have lost many loved ones. You may know my name, witch, but you do not know me!"

The fire of her rage dissipated as quickly as a summer storm. She smoothed her skirts. Her hands white as doves against the dark cloth.

"I hear that you cursed Hengist before he died. Denied him his chance to be chosen for the hall of Woden." Beobrand realised with a start that she spoke the tongue of the Angelfolc with no accent. No lilt of the Waelisc. Where was she from, this dark woman of anger and magic?

"He deserved no less. He killed my kin. I saw him murder innocents. He was an animal."

Her face clouded. "And you are so different, are you, Beobrand?"

He shuddered again at the sound of his name on her lips.

"I did not come here to talk of Hengist. Or of me."

She glared at him for a moment, before righting the stool and sitting again.

"Indeed," she said. "And what is it, you came for, Beobrand?"

"We have come for the silver platter you stole from the Christ followers of Hii."

"Stole? Stole?" Her tone was incredulous. "Is that what they have told you?"

"They say you took the plate from them. It belongs to the sons of Æthelfrith. Oswald is now king in Bernicia. It must be returned to him."