Read Online The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) by Matthew Harffy - Free Book Online
Authors: Matthew Harffy
Tags: Bernicia Chronicles
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just make out the shadows of men, silhouetted in front of a large fire. Next to the fire stood the wolf standard of Penda and the grisly skull totem of Cadwallon. So, Edwin had lost the battle.
And Beobrand had survived. He should have given his life with honour. It was the duty of a warrior to die with his lord. But now the thought of death in battle seemed less noble than it had that morning. He had seen it first-hand. He had killed two men. Seen the life fade in their eyes. Heard the wails of the wounded. Smelt the blood and shit of spilt innards. And now here he lay, covered in cloying blood, both his own and that of others. Gone were the dreams engendered by Selwyn’s tales on the mead benches. The truth of the shieldwall would make poor songs. He was lucky to be alive, he knew, and he would have to be careful if he wanted to live through the night. If Penda and Cadwallon’s men should discover him, all would be lost.
From the way he was feeling Beobrand was certain that he wouldn’t be able to move very quickly, let alone fight. He decided to wait till nightfall before attempting to get up. With luck, the men would be too busy celebrating their victory to search for survivors amongst the enemy fallen.
In preparation for making his escape he began to move his arms and legs slowly, flexing his muscles, working the long period of inactivity from them. The rain was falling harder now and within moments he was soaked.
By the time it was dark enough to stand without being seen from the camp, Beobrand was shivering uncontrollably. He carefully slid out from under the corpse that had partially shielded him from view. The pain in his ribs was much worse now and he bit his lip to avoid crying out. He lay there, beside the body, on the muddy ground, and willed himself to get up. He reached up to gingerly touch his left eye, thinking that it may have been stuck closed with dried blood. The side of his head throbbed and the eye was swollen and tender to the touch. It would not open. No wonder he had been left for dead. His face must look awful.
He sat up carefully. He felt dizzy at once and the jolt of pain in his chest made his vision blur. His breathing came in ragged gasps and he began to believe he wouldn’t be able to stand.
If I don’t get up, I’ll be as good as dead.
He felt the hard wet shaft of a spear under his hand and grasped it. With its help he managed to finally haul himself upright, but the effort caused him a wave of nausea and dizziness. He stood for a few moments, panting in the dark, the rain driving down. He trembled and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering. He had no idea where he could go on foot in his condition, but it was clear to him that the best way to begin would be away from his enemies’ camp.
He was preparing to make a start when he heard voices raised in anger. They were very close by, only the dark and the rain had prevented him from being discovered. He stood still and tried not to breathe. The voices had been lowered and he could not make out where they had come from. Suddenly, seemingly right next to him, Beobrand heard the voices talking in loud whispers.
“I tell you I saw it first! And it was my idea to take it.” The voice was gruff, yet whining.
“But you got that cloak clasp too. It’s not right and you know it. If we didn’t have to be quiet about it, I’d break your jaw, you whoreson!” The second voice was deeper and more melodious, but the owner was obviously furious.
Beobrand remained motionless. He could hear the two men whispering as they moved past him, but he could make out no more of what they said. When he could no longer hear them, he waited a few heartbeats more and then made off away from the camp and also in a different direction to the two men. He remembered that the fen rose into heath land a few hundred paces in the direction he guessed he was going. He also recalled the forest crowning the heather-covered hill. He decided to
And Beobrand had survived. He should have given his life with honour. It was the duty of a warrior to die with his lord. But now the thought of death in battle seemed less noble than it had that morning. He had seen it first-hand. He had killed two men. Seen the life fade in their eyes. Heard the wails of the wounded. Smelt the blood and shit of spilt innards. And now here he lay, covered in cloying blood, both his own and that of others. Gone were the dreams engendered by Selwyn’s tales on the mead benches. The truth of the shieldwall would make poor songs. He was lucky to be alive, he knew, and he would have to be careful if he wanted to live through the night. If Penda and Cadwallon’s men should discover him, all would be lost.
From the way he was feeling Beobrand was certain that he wouldn’t be able to move very quickly, let alone fight. He decided to wait till nightfall before attempting to get up. With luck, the men would be too busy celebrating their victory to search for survivors amongst the enemy fallen.
In preparation for making his escape he began to move his arms and legs slowly, flexing his muscles, working the long period of inactivity from them. The rain was falling harder now and within moments he was soaked.
By the time it was dark enough to stand without being seen from the camp, Beobrand was shivering uncontrollably. He carefully slid out from under the corpse that had partially shielded him from view. The pain in his ribs was much worse now and he bit his lip to avoid crying out. He lay there, beside the body, on the muddy ground, and willed himself to get up. He reached up to gingerly touch his left eye, thinking that it may have been stuck closed with dried blood. The side of his head throbbed and the eye was swollen and tender to the touch. It would not open. No wonder he had been left for dead. His face must look awful.
He sat up carefully. He felt dizzy at once and the jolt of pain in his chest made his vision blur. His breathing came in ragged gasps and he began to believe he wouldn’t be able to stand.
If I don’t get up, I’ll be as good as dead.
He felt the hard wet shaft of a spear under his hand and grasped it. With its help he managed to finally haul himself upright, but the effort caused him a wave of nausea and dizziness. He stood for a few moments, panting in the dark, the rain driving down. He trembled and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering. He had no idea where he could go on foot in his condition, but it was clear to him that the best way to begin would be away from his enemies’ camp.
He was preparing to make a start when he heard voices raised in anger. They were very close by, only the dark and the rain had prevented him from being discovered. He stood still and tried not to breathe. The voices had been lowered and he could not make out where they had come from. Suddenly, seemingly right next to him, Beobrand heard the voices talking in loud whispers.
“I tell you I saw it first! And it was my idea to take it.” The voice was gruff, yet whining.
“But you got that cloak clasp too. It’s not right and you know it. If we didn’t have to be quiet about it, I’d break your jaw, you whoreson!” The second voice was deeper and more melodious, but the owner was obviously furious.
Beobrand remained motionless. He could hear the two men whispering as they moved past him, but he could make out no more of what they said. When he could no longer hear them, he waited a few heartbeats more and then made off away from the camp and also in a different direction to the two men. He remembered that the fen rose into heath land a few hundred paces in the direction he guessed he was going. He also recalled the forest crowning the heather-covered hill. He decided to
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