Read Online The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) by Matthew Harffy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matthew Harffy
Tags: Bernicia Chronicles
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and the ground was a quagmire. Soon, both Coenred and the donkey pulling the small cart were plastered with mud and panting at the climb up into the forest that overshadowed Engelmynster.
By the time they reached the edge of the wood the sky in the east was turning a watery grey. The rain had stopped, but heavy clouds filled the sky. It looked like it would rain again before he was finished cutting the firewood. He was glad that dawn had arrived though. He was loth to enter the dark forest during the night. Even now, very little light filtered through the rain-laden clouds, and still less penetrated the gloomy interior of the wood.
Coenred hesitated. People told tales of goblins and elves being seen in the woods. Abbot Fearghas had told him not to fear evil spirits, as God would watch over him and protect him. That was easy for Abbot Fearghas to say – he never ventured into the forest alone in the rain to cut firewood.
Coenred tried not to be frightened. But he could not stop imagining malicious creatures of the forest lurking just out of sight. The boles of the trees were grey in the dim light, the colour of dead flesh. Rainwater dripped from the limbs, echoing eerily. He began to recite the Pater Noster in a hushed whisper. He couldn’t go back empty-handed just because he was scared. He would be beaten, not only for not bringing back the wood, but also for lack of faith.
He began to move slowly into the gloom, towards the small glade where the monks cut their firewood. After he had walked a short distance the donkey pulled up to a halt. He tugged the harness but the animal refused to move. Its ears were flat against its head, its nostrils flared. Coenred gently patted the donkey’s neck, trying to soothe it. The animal’s obvious fear did nothing to reassure Coenred and he looked around nervously, trying to spot what had frightened the beast. He thought he caught a glimpse of something shining through the trees. He moved closer, not breathing. The donkey stood where he left it, quivering silently.
As Coenred edged a little closer to whatever he had seen through the trees, he became aware of a sound. He stopped moving and listened. He could barely make out a low moaning. It was possible that words were being spoken in a hushed voice, but Coenred could not be sure. He realised he was shaking uncontrollably. Surely this was the sound of an elf placing a curse on him or some evil spirit chanting to the elder gods of the forest. He was on the verge of turning to flee when the part of him that led him to imagine phantoms and elves in every shadow lost the battle with the part that couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing what was lying just out of sight. His vivid imagination lost to his insatiable curiosity.
Still trembling, ready to run if his worst fears proved correct, Coenred looked out from behind the tree that was shielding him from whatever was moaning in the darkness.
At first he wasn’t sure what it was that was making the sound. In the poor light he could only see a dark lump at the bottom of a tree. As he peered at it, he became aware of details. The glimmer he had seen was the leaf-shaped point of a war spear, propped against the tree trunk. The lump was the huddled form of a man, partially covered by a round shield, the boss of which was dull in the darkness. He began to make out words now in the sounds that the man was making. He didn’t seem to be making any sense and Coenred thought that he must be talking in his sleep. Suddenly, the warrior screamed out, slumped to one side and lay still.
Coenred spat involuntarily in an effort to ward off evil spirits and then quickly crossed himself. He found it hard to abandon the old traditions, despite the number of times Abbot Fearghas had punished him for his pagan ways.
He waited. The man was silent, so he decided to move closer to the prostrate form. He took a few steps, half expecting the stranger to suddenly leap up and confront him. The closer he
By the time they reached the edge of the wood the sky in the east was turning a watery grey. The rain had stopped, but heavy clouds filled the sky. It looked like it would rain again before he was finished cutting the firewood. He was glad that dawn had arrived though. He was loth to enter the dark forest during the night. Even now, very little light filtered through the rain-laden clouds, and still less penetrated the gloomy interior of the wood.
Coenred hesitated. People told tales of goblins and elves being seen in the woods. Abbot Fearghas had told him not to fear evil spirits, as God would watch over him and protect him. That was easy for Abbot Fearghas to say – he never ventured into the forest alone in the rain to cut firewood.
Coenred tried not to be frightened. But he could not stop imagining malicious creatures of the forest lurking just out of sight. The boles of the trees were grey in the dim light, the colour of dead flesh. Rainwater dripped from the limbs, echoing eerily. He began to recite the Pater Noster in a hushed whisper. He couldn’t go back empty-handed just because he was scared. He would be beaten, not only for not bringing back the wood, but also for lack of faith.
He began to move slowly into the gloom, towards the small glade where the monks cut their firewood. After he had walked a short distance the donkey pulled up to a halt. He tugged the harness but the animal refused to move. Its ears were flat against its head, its nostrils flared. Coenred gently patted the donkey’s neck, trying to soothe it. The animal’s obvious fear did nothing to reassure Coenred and he looked around nervously, trying to spot what had frightened the beast. He thought he caught a glimpse of something shining through the trees. He moved closer, not breathing. The donkey stood where he left it, quivering silently.
As Coenred edged a little closer to whatever he had seen through the trees, he became aware of a sound. He stopped moving and listened. He could barely make out a low moaning. It was possible that words were being spoken in a hushed voice, but Coenred could not be sure. He realised he was shaking uncontrollably. Surely this was the sound of an elf placing a curse on him or some evil spirit chanting to the elder gods of the forest. He was on the verge of turning to flee when the part of him that led him to imagine phantoms and elves in every shadow lost the battle with the part that couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing what was lying just out of sight. His vivid imagination lost to his insatiable curiosity.
Still trembling, ready to run if his worst fears proved correct, Coenred looked out from behind the tree that was shielding him from whatever was moaning in the darkness.
At first he wasn’t sure what it was that was making the sound. In the poor light he could only see a dark lump at the bottom of a tree. As he peered at it, he became aware of details. The glimmer he had seen was the leaf-shaped point of a war spear, propped against the tree trunk. The lump was the huddled form of a man, partially covered by a round shield, the boss of which was dull in the darkness. He began to make out words now in the sounds that the man was making. He didn’t seem to be making any sense and Coenred thought that he must be talking in his sleep. Suddenly, the warrior screamed out, slumped to one side and lay still.
Coenred spat involuntarily in an effort to ward off evil spirits and then quickly crossed himself. He found it hard to abandon the old traditions, despite the number of times Abbot Fearghas had punished him for his pagan ways.
He waited. The man was silent, so he decided to move closer to the prostrate form. He took a few steps, half expecting the stranger to suddenly leap up and confront him. The closer he
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