Read Online The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) by Matthew Harffy - Free Book Online
Authors: Matthew Harffy
Tags: Bernicia Chronicles #2
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hearts had been gladdened. They'd grinned at each other, flashing teeth in the gloom, pleased to be marching without the added discomfort of being drenched.
Now though, Beobrand wondered if rain would not be a good thing. It would keep any watchers sheltering. Wet guards were not the most observant. Rainfall would also cover much of the noise they were making.
Beobrand looked up at the sky. He could not make out the moon, just a slight silvering in the thick clouds. Little light reached the rain-slick ground.
They had been walking for what seemed a long time.
Some time before, they had crossed the wide river using the huge bridge that had been left by the same people who built the Wall. Even with the anxiety of impending battle, Beobrand could not stop himself from marvelling at the construction. It was made of massive blocks of stone that, using some cunning or magic, were placed together to form giant arches carrying the road high over the dark water. One of the arches had collapsed at some time in the past, and was now bridged by stout wooden planks. The men had crossed this slowly, unsure it would take their weight after the solidity of the stone. But it had held, the sound of the men's passing loud over the quiet flow of the river.
Beobrand hoped he could return in daylight to see the bridge. He smiled grimly in the darkness. For that, he would need to survive the night.
Surely they would be upon the Waelisc soon. They must have fires that they would see long before reaching the enemy encampment. Peering into the night Beobrand only saw shadows and darkness. He could barely make out the shapes of the men in the rank in front of him. Could it be that the Waelisc had moved their camp? Or perhaps they had decided against lighting fires. Were they expecting a night attack?
Beobrand's stomach clenched. He had been unable to eat much that evening. His bowels were in turmoil. He recognised the feeling of dread that always settled on him before battle. His mouth was dry. His throat rasped. He wished he could stop to drink, but that was out of the question. Oswald's host continued south along the Deira Stræt. Now that the decision had been taken to march at night, nobody else seemed especially concerned.
A needle of doubt pricked at Beobrand. Could his idea be flawed? Had he misread the signs that the gods had placed before him? He was not even sure they were signs. The events that led up to this moment could have been nothing more than coincidence. Or perhaps the gods were once again laughing.
Was that a flash of light in the sky? He could not be sure. A deep, slow rumble roiled over the warriors, like mead benches overturned in a brawl in a distant hall.
Thunder.
Thunor. Beobrand pulled on the leather thong at his neck to free the whale tooth hammer amulet that hung there. He gripped it tightly.
The gods were there in the dark. He had sworn his oath to Thunor and now Woden's son was talking.
Another flicker of lightning lit all of the men for an instant. For several heartbeats the image was burnt into his vision. Helms, shields, a forest of spears, frozen in the eye-blink quickening light of Thunor's fire.
The road sloped down before them. In the distance, the red glow of campfires became visible.
As if driven on by the thunder, or perhaps by the sight of their enemies' camp, the warhost surged forward. Beobrand stumbled, his footing unsure on the cracked, slippery stones of the road. He trotted forward, pushed on by the pace of those around him.
If they rushed down like this, they were sure to be heard by sentries who would alert the camp. Another flash of lightning could show any watchers the approaching mass of warriors.
The afterimage from the lightning faded. Sunniva's face came to his mind. Her lustrous hair. The curve of her neck. Her scent. He had sworn he would return to her. He prayed to Thunor not to have him go to his death as an oath breaker.
Then the skies opened.
Torrents of water fell from
Now though, Beobrand wondered if rain would not be a good thing. It would keep any watchers sheltering. Wet guards were not the most observant. Rainfall would also cover much of the noise they were making.
Beobrand looked up at the sky. He could not make out the moon, just a slight silvering in the thick clouds. Little light reached the rain-slick ground.
They had been walking for what seemed a long time.
Some time before, they had crossed the wide river using the huge bridge that had been left by the same people who built the Wall. Even with the anxiety of impending battle, Beobrand could not stop himself from marvelling at the construction. It was made of massive blocks of stone that, using some cunning or magic, were placed together to form giant arches carrying the road high over the dark water. One of the arches had collapsed at some time in the past, and was now bridged by stout wooden planks. The men had crossed this slowly, unsure it would take their weight after the solidity of the stone. But it had held, the sound of the men's passing loud over the quiet flow of the river.
Beobrand hoped he could return in daylight to see the bridge. He smiled grimly in the darkness. For that, he would need to survive the night.
Surely they would be upon the Waelisc soon. They must have fires that they would see long before reaching the enemy encampment. Peering into the night Beobrand only saw shadows and darkness. He could barely make out the shapes of the men in the rank in front of him. Could it be that the Waelisc had moved their camp? Or perhaps they had decided against lighting fires. Were they expecting a night attack?
Beobrand's stomach clenched. He had been unable to eat much that evening. His bowels were in turmoil. He recognised the feeling of dread that always settled on him before battle. His mouth was dry. His throat rasped. He wished he could stop to drink, but that was out of the question. Oswald's host continued south along the Deira Stræt. Now that the decision had been taken to march at night, nobody else seemed especially concerned.
A needle of doubt pricked at Beobrand. Could his idea be flawed? Had he misread the signs that the gods had placed before him? He was not even sure they were signs. The events that led up to this moment could have been nothing more than coincidence. Or perhaps the gods were once again laughing.
Was that a flash of light in the sky? He could not be sure. A deep, slow rumble roiled over the warriors, like mead benches overturned in a brawl in a distant hall.
Thunder.
Thunor. Beobrand pulled on the leather thong at his neck to free the whale tooth hammer amulet that hung there. He gripped it tightly.
The gods were there in the dark. He had sworn his oath to Thunor and now Woden's son was talking.
Another flicker of lightning lit all of the men for an instant. For several heartbeats the image was burnt into his vision. Helms, shields, a forest of spears, frozen in the eye-blink quickening light of Thunor's fire.
The road sloped down before them. In the distance, the red glow of campfires became visible.
As if driven on by the thunder, or perhaps by the sight of their enemies' camp, the warhost surged forward. Beobrand stumbled, his footing unsure on the cracked, slippery stones of the road. He trotted forward, pushed on by the pace of those around him.
If they rushed down like this, they were sure to be heard by sentries who would alert the camp. Another flash of lightning could show any watchers the approaching mass of warriors.
The afterimage from the lightning faded. Sunniva's face came to his mind. Her lustrous hair. The curve of her neck. Her scent. He had sworn he would return to her. He prayed to Thunor not to have him go to his death as an oath breaker.
Then the skies opened.
Torrents of water fell from
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