Warriors of Ethandun (14 page)

‘Do you have no spies working for you?' he asked in surprise.

‘We fled Cippenham in some disarray. We have been living off the land and pillaging where necessary. I fear we are seen by some as outlaws. We have yet to organise ourselves – which is why it is important that we go back there to find out what we're up against. I have one spy sounding out the thegns nearest Cippenham. We will catch up with him on the road,' Aelfred said confidently.

Dan could not help thinking that it would make more sense to gain some local knowledge first; discovering whether their nearest neighbour was still loyal to this King struck him as an important place to start. It was on the tip of his tongue to say so, but he refrained.

‘What now then?' Dan asked.

‘Two of us should fetch the horses,' Aelfred said, getting ready to move.

‘No, Sire. You should stay here. If there are Danes there, waiting for us, at least I speak the language,' Dan said a little wearily. Aelfred's enthusiasm for putting himself in danger to no purpose was likely to prove troublesome. There was a kind of desperation in him which worried Dan: desperate men were foolish more often than they were heroic.

One of the guard, a young man a little older than Dan with the easy balance of a fighter, caught Dan's eye and the two of them set off together across the open field. They kept low to the ground and made their way in a half-crouching run. Dan's neck and back prickled with an awareness of vulnerability. There was no cover and the farmer would have had plenty of time to ready himself if he wanted to take them on. Dan felt that churning in his stomach that was as much excitement as fear. There was a fight coming – he felt it in his bones. It was almost as if he could smell the threat of violence in the air. Something about his companion's stance suggested that he shared the same expectation. Part of Dan longed to fight, the part he always suppressed: his Bear Sark madness was only a heartbeat away.

‘I am Aethelnoth, ealdorman of Somerset,' his comrade said in a low voice. ‘I hear you are a fighter.'

Dan nodded. ‘I am. My name is Dan, and if it comes to a fight, stay out of my way,' he replied in a tone that he hoped conveyed his seriousness. Dan sensed that Aethelnoth was about to make some light-hearted rejoinder, but he stopped when he glanced at Dan's face. Dan did not know what he saw there but his expression grew wary.

‘You have the battle madness,' Aethelnoth said, and it was not a question. Dan gave him a terse nod. There wasn't time for more. Dan checked his sword and started to run in what was fast becoming a kind of a charge. There was no point in stealth. They had been seen, he was sure of it. There was no sign of movement at the farm
and Dan was sure that there ought to be people about, working, doing whatever farmers did at this bleak time of year. The silence was ominous. Some enemy was waiting for them. Aethelnoth was sweating and it was not warm in the chill wind. Dan thought he caught the scent of death in the air, the taint of corruption.

He saw the bloodstains then and the twisted shape of a corpse.

He had time to shout out a warning to Aethelnoth and then suddenly the enemy was before him and the world slowed. Dan slipped the gear in his mind that set him free.

Four men stepped out from the protection of the farm walls. They were big men, all of them – tall and muscular with the hard eyes and confident stance of men well used to violence. There was little in their dress to distinguish them from Aelfred's men – perhaps a different style of tunic – something too subtle for Dan to be able to isolate. Two were bare-headed and almost as tall as Dan, the other two wore helms – one of boiled leather and one of silver metal polished to a high shine. They were each armed with a spear and shield, while one also bore a war axe. The man with the metal helm looked a little older than the others. His dark blond beard was flecked with grey and he carried a heavy sword. Dan guessed that he was their leader. He alone wore a mail shirt. They were all warriors, veteran fighters, of that Dan had no doubt: they knew what they were doing.

So did Dan. At least he allowed that part of himself that was best equipped to deal with such a threat to take over, the Dan that waited in the calm core of his being, the Dan who had no conscience but was all swift action and
focused concentration. It happened in the space of a breath, between one heartbeat and the next. Suddenly Bright Killer was in his hand – no, was part of his hand – not so much a tool as a manifestation of his will. Dan himself was nothing more than an instrument of death, his whole self focused only on killing, on fighting and winning. Nothing else mattered.

Braveheart was by his side, panting. His great shaggy body was taut with excitement, tense with the thrill of imminent battle. He was as alert as his master. He gave a low growl. They understood each other. Dan was aware of a moment of fierce joy as he charged towards his enemy, Braveheart beside him, his four powerful legs keeping pace with Dan's attack. It was Dan and his dog against the world. Then he was not aware of his own feelings at all; he became one with his task – a killer, killing.

He yelled an insult in Danish – who knew where it came from. He did not think about what it meant – it did not matter. What mattered was that hearing Dan shriek in their own language might be sufficient to confuse the enemy and gain him a slight advantage. Of such tiny, slight advantages, battles are won. In fact it gave him an unmeasurable extra moment to dodge the first of the spears, and that first spear was not wielded with its usual firmness or ferocity. The Dane feared they were attacking one of their own, that there was some mess-up and they were fighting a brother. He quickly changed his mind. While Dan's first adversary was focusing on sticking his spear in Dan's guts, Braveheart launched himself at the man's chest, under his spear arm. The war dog's weight
and powerful forward impetus knocked the man off his feet. He overbalanced, fell backwards on to the packed mud of the farm's yard, and Braveheart tore out his throat.

Meanwhile Dan had moved on, each movement swift and precise. He trusted Braveheart to get on with his job and turned his own attention to the axeman, who had abandoned his shield to come to the aid of his comrade. He was breathing hard and Dan could see the fury in his eyes as he raised his axe to strike Dan dead. He was not quick enough. As he hefted his axe Dan's sword slashed across his exposed chest, severing muscle and veins, slicing through tunic, padding and flesh. Blood welled, staining the light green cloth. The man was a warrior and he did not drop his axe with the pain of his wound. He merely gave a blood-curdling yell and brought his axe crashing down on to Dan's head. Except that Dan was no longer there. Dan had gone and the injured axeman faced Braveheart's bared teeth, his throaty growl and the war dog's vicious jaws. By this time, Aethelnoth had his seax out and was engaging with the third enemy while the leader in the silver helm attempted to corner Dan. The presence of the dog and the speed of Dan's attack had unnerved him, that was clear, but he unsheathed his sword and abandoned his spear in favour of his heavy shield which, properly handled, became a weapon in itself. Dan had never bothered much with shields – in his berserker rage he had no fear and no need of a defence. He whistled to Braveheart, who was slavering over the body of the fallen axeman, and the pair of them ran at the swordsman.

He was not as tall a man as Dan, though considerably
broader. Braveheart leaped for the shield, fearless of the sword thrust in Dan's direction. The dog's attack meant that the Dane mistimed his lunge and Dan danced easily out of his reach and behind him. The man was unbalanced by his attempt to fend off the dog and in a moment Dan had the man's head in an armlock, forcing it backwards until a sliver of flesh was exposed between his mail shirt and the protection of his helmet – then Dan slit his throat. The man sagged against Dan's heaving chest. Dan let him fall. His tunic was stained with a broad stripe of the man's blood.

He looked around for someone else to kill. The first man he had fought was not quite dead and moaned a little – a horrible, pitiful sound. Dan finished him with a quick stab to his heart. There was only one other man left standing. He was bloodstained and staring at Dan with horror. Dan wiped his bloody sword on the tunic of his now dead enemy and strolled towards this last man. There was no need to hurry and it was only one against one. His opponent did not look ready to fight and was clearly unmanned by his fear. Dan found this surprising as he was well built and well armed. Dan moistened his lips and whistled for Braveheart to come to heel.

‘Stop! Stop!' the man called, panic evident in his voice. ‘It is me, Aethelnoth. We are allies!'

It took several seconds for the message to make sense to Dan, longer still for it to make him lower his sword arm. Braveheart turned to look at Dan, his muzzle stained with blood and gore, and Dan patted his head. ‘Good boy,' he said.

‘I've never seen anything like that before,' Aethelnoth said shakily. ‘You are so fast – so ruthless.'

Dan shook his head. He did not want to think about what he'd just done.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I should have hung on a bit longer … I lost myself so quickly I …'

‘Don't apologise. It was them or us. We were outnumbered and they were all veterans, I know.' He paused. ‘I thought you were going to kill me too.'

Dan nodded. ‘So did I for a moment.' He clapped Aethelnoth on the arm with a bloodied hand. ‘But I didn't. You are unhurt?'

Aethelnoth nodded.

‘Good. It is over then. We should go and find the horses.'

Dan's muscles still quivered with the aftermath of his exertion. He never noticed such things while he fought. He carefully avoided the bodies in the yard, which was a ridiculous kind of squeamishness given that he had killed them. He didn't like the smell or the ugly mess that all that ruined flesh made. It was shocking seeing men ripped open like that. He did not want to see it. He was as confused as he had ever been. Life through the Veil was so different it made him question everything. Who was he? Dan, a boy who wanted to do what was right, or Dan the psychopath, killing without fear or mercy?

He leaned for a moment against the wattle and daub of an outbuilding. His heart rate was high, but then fighting took a lot of energy. The quivering in his limbs had stopped. He was fit and he needed little recovery time.
His hands were steady and his breathing even – how could he be so little affected by what had happened? He watched Aethelnoth's hesitant progress – he seemed visibly shaken by his encounter with the Danes, his own brush with death. But Dan had not been afraid, not even for a moment.

It was not a good time for philosophical reflection: they did not know for sure that there were not more Danes in the farmhouse or in the outbuildings. Dan loosened his sword again – he needed to clean it properly as it was still sticky with body fluids – and followed Aethelnoth into the stable. He made Braveheart wait outside on guard. The horses were fine – in good condition, if upset by the unfamiliar sounds. They were skittish and nervy, but Dan could hear something else beside the sound of their hooves and anxious whinnying – a low moaning.

‘Over here,' Aethelnoth said, and Dan found him crouched over the body of a small boy no more than six or seven, younger even than Bryn, Dan's former squire, had been when they'd first met. The boy had been sliced across the legs and chest, but although he was obviously in pain, Dan judged that he had not lost too much blood.

‘It is all right now,' Dan said gently. ‘We are not going to hurt you. Where does it hurt?'

The boy moved feebly to point to his injuries.

‘What happened here? Can you tell us?'

‘Vikings came yesterday. I hid here but one of them found me just now. I thought they were going to kill me.' He sobbed and Dan patted his thin shoulder.

‘Hush – we'll take you somewhere safe. How many men
were there?' The boy held up his hand to show five fingers. ‘And who was in the house? Do you know what happened to them?'

The boy shook his head and began to cry. ‘You take him back to Aelfred,' Dan said, assuming control without thinking about it. ‘We have only killed four.'

What would he do if he were the fifth man holding the farmhouse? Dan knew that he would have joined his comrades in the fight, which made him deeply suspicious of the missing fifth man. He left the stable cautiously, indicating to Braveheart that he should stay. The war dog gave him a reproachful look and sank his great head down on to his front paws. Dan did not worry about danger coming from anywhere near the stable; Braveheart would take care of it.

He crossed the corpse-strewn yard. There were two bodies there for which he was not responsible – a middle-aged man and a woman. He presumed that they were the original owners of the farm. It looked from the position of the sprawled bodies as if the man had died trying to protect the woman. Dan averted his eyes, repelled by what he saw. He did not want another fight, but he drew his sword in readiness. He knew that he would have to kill again. He was afraid now not so much of what he might find in the house, but of what he might do if he unleashed his berserker self a second time. He wished Ursula were with
him. She had always been able to help him.

The inside of the house was dark, so he waited a moment with his back against the light, listening and hoping that his eyes would get used to the gloom. There was a smell of decay that made his stomach tighten.

Dan stepped forward into the darkness, clutching Bright Killer as if it were a beacon. In truth the house was a simple one: a single room with two high sleeping platforms and few places to hide. The boots he had been lent were hobnailed – ideal for the mud and mush of Aelfred's camp, but far from silent on the wood board floor of the house. He winced at the noise he made. He almost skidded on their worn metal. He feared another ambush, but hung on to his self-control. He moved carefully, aware that he could too easily lose his footing. It helped to concentrate hard. He was Dan, a twenty-first century teenager. He was not a killer. He was kind and conscientious, a good person. He tried to think of his old life. He tried to think of Ursula – anything so that he would not turn into the berserker as a way of dealing with fear. What if some other child had survived the Viking attack?