Read Online The Circle of Stone (Darkest Age) by A. J. Lake - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A. J. Lake
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Edmund with shining eyes, putting a protective arm round the little boy.
‘That was good of you,’ she said.
They agreed to spend the night by the river, and head back to the road at daybreak and travel south again, towards Varde, where the other forest fire had been reported. It wasn’t much of a lead but it was all they had and they desperately neededto pick up Loki’s trail again. ‘The goatherd on the road spoke of unrest and fighting in the south, too,’ Cluaran said, ‘and I’ll wager that’s a sign of Loki. It was always his way to set men against one another.’
The air was clear, and the low sun dazzled Edmund. The budding branches, and the blue sky above, put all of them in good spirits: even Eolande spoke a little.
Just before they reached the road, a change in the wind brought them a familiar, choking smell, and all conversation died.
Some freak gust had brought the forest fire to the very edge of the road. Suddenly they were walking through bare, blackened trunks again, and when they emerged on to the trodden dirt of the track, a gust of ash came out with them.
At the road’s edge, someone had set up a marker, carved out of wood so blackened that at first sight Edmund mistook it for a burned stump. It was large, almost Wulf’s height, and following the child as he ran to inspect it, Edmund saw that a design had been crudely carved into it and rubbed with something white – ash maybe – to make it stand out.
‘It’s a shrine, I think,’ Elspeth said. ‘Can you tell who it shows?’
‘Can’t you?’ Edmund asked, surprised. ‘It’s Christians who set up roadside shrines, isn’t it?’ His mother’s people marked sacred sites: springs, or ancient trees. He could not imagine any place less holy than the desolation they had just left.
‘We wouldn’t use burned wood!’ Elspeth’s tone was shocked. ‘And this is no saint’s picture.’
Edmund peered closer. ‘It must be a local god,’ he said. It was horribly appropriate here, he thought. The crude image showed a man’s head, narrow-eyed and grinning. Lines shot out all around the head, like a stylised image of the sun’s rays. And the hair and beard were shown as rows of sharp points, like teeth, or horns.
Or like flames.
Chapter Six
Aagard shifted uncomfortably in his seat, watching the woman’s face across the carved wooden table.
‘They’re pursuing an enemy they cannot see, and with no certainty that they can fight him,’ he finished. ‘I’m sorry to bring such ill news.’
Branwen, Queen of Sussex, shook her head.
‘Not so ill,’ she said. ‘You tell me my son is alive and unhurt, when I’d feared he was dead.’ She gave him a wan smile. ‘I know my debt to you, Master Aagard. Beotrich told me it was you who saved Edmund when his ship was wrecked. Now you’ve restored him to me again.’
Aagard marvelled at the queen’s composure. He had written to her before, to give her the terrible news that her son had been taken by the dragon, but this was the first time he had seen her. With her brown hair and eyes she looked very little like her pale son; only in her quiet manner, and a certain cast of her head, was there a resemblance.
‘But you’ve not come here just to give me news of Edmund, have you?’ she said. ‘Welcome though it is.’
‘No,’ Aagard admitted. ‘King Beotrich is sending emissaries to all the kingdoms on this island.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘To warn you to prepare for war.’
Branwen listened as he told her the news they had received several days ago: tales of armed men rampaging through Daneland and Saxony, burning all in their path.
‘Beotrich sent scouts to Saxony to check the truth of the rumours. They met a stream of vagrants, many of them women and children, all driven from their homes. These people told the same story: bands of men had fallen on their villages without warning, destroying all that they found. They would arrive in a troop, the villagers said, and
‘That was good of you,’ she said.
They agreed to spend the night by the river, and head back to the road at daybreak and travel south again, towards Varde, where the other forest fire had been reported. It wasn’t much of a lead but it was all they had and they desperately neededto pick up Loki’s trail again. ‘The goatherd on the road spoke of unrest and fighting in the south, too,’ Cluaran said, ‘and I’ll wager that’s a sign of Loki. It was always his way to set men against one another.’
The air was clear, and the low sun dazzled Edmund. The budding branches, and the blue sky above, put all of them in good spirits: even Eolande spoke a little.
Just before they reached the road, a change in the wind brought them a familiar, choking smell, and all conversation died.
Some freak gust had brought the forest fire to the very edge of the road. Suddenly they were walking through bare, blackened trunks again, and when they emerged on to the trodden dirt of the track, a gust of ash came out with them.
At the road’s edge, someone had set up a marker, carved out of wood so blackened that at first sight Edmund mistook it for a burned stump. It was large, almost Wulf’s height, and following the child as he ran to inspect it, Edmund saw that a design had been crudely carved into it and rubbed with something white – ash maybe – to make it stand out.
‘It’s a shrine, I think,’ Elspeth said. ‘Can you tell who it shows?’
‘Can’t you?’ Edmund asked, surprised. ‘It’s Christians who set up roadside shrines, isn’t it?’ His mother’s people marked sacred sites: springs, or ancient trees. He could not imagine any place less holy than the desolation they had just left.
‘We wouldn’t use burned wood!’ Elspeth’s tone was shocked. ‘And this is no saint’s picture.’
Edmund peered closer. ‘It must be a local god,’ he said. It was horribly appropriate here, he thought. The crude image showed a man’s head, narrow-eyed and grinning. Lines shot out all around the head, like a stylised image of the sun’s rays. And the hair and beard were shown as rows of sharp points, like teeth, or horns.
Or like flames.
Chapter Six
Aagard shifted uncomfortably in his seat, watching the woman’s face across the carved wooden table.
‘They’re pursuing an enemy they cannot see, and with no certainty that they can fight him,’ he finished. ‘I’m sorry to bring such ill news.’
Branwen, Queen of Sussex, shook her head.
‘Not so ill,’ she said. ‘You tell me my son is alive and unhurt, when I’d feared he was dead.’ She gave him a wan smile. ‘I know my debt to you, Master Aagard. Beotrich told me it was you who saved Edmund when his ship was wrecked. Now you’ve restored him to me again.’
Aagard marvelled at the queen’s composure. He had written to her before, to give her the terrible news that her son had been taken by the dragon, but this was the first time he had seen her. With her brown hair and eyes she looked very little like her pale son; only in her quiet manner, and a certain cast of her head, was there a resemblance.
‘But you’ve not come here just to give me news of Edmund, have you?’ she said. ‘Welcome though it is.’
‘No,’ Aagard admitted. ‘King Beotrich is sending emissaries to all the kingdoms on this island.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘To warn you to prepare for war.’
Branwen listened as he told her the news they had received several days ago: tales of armed men rampaging through Daneland and Saxony, burning all in their path.
‘Beotrich sent scouts to Saxony to check the truth of the rumours. They met a stream of vagrants, many of them women and children, all driven from their homes. These people told the same story: bands of men had fallen on their villages without warning, destroying all that they found. They would arrive in a troop, the villagers said, and
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