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  FIRE

  &

  STEEL

  KING'S BANE

  BOOK ONE

  C.R.MAY

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on real figures, are purely the work of the author’s imagination.

  It is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the writer’s prior consent, electronically or in any form of binding or cover other than the form in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Replication or distribution of any part is strictly prohibited without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  Copyright © 2016 C. R. May

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  

  

  For Hannah

  GLOSSARY

  Duguth – Doughty men, veteran fighters.

  Ealdorman – A provincial governor.

  Eorle – A hero.

  Fiend – The enemy.

  Folctoga – A leader in war, the ancient English equivalent to a General or Field Marshal.

  Gesithas – The king's closest companions, a bodyguard.

  Guda – A male priest/holy man.

  Scegth – A light warship.

  Scop – A poet/word smith, usually itinerant.

  Snaca – Snake, a larger warship, forerunner of the later Viking period dragon ship, the 'Drakkar'.

  Thegn – A nobleman with military obligations.

  Wælcyrge – Valkyrie.

  Hroþwulf ond Hroðgar heoldon lengest

  sibbe ætsomne suhtorfædran,

  siþþan hy forwræcon wicinga cynn

  ond Ingeldes ord forbigdan,

  forheowan æt Heorote Heaðobeardna þrym.

  Hrothwulf and Hrothgar held the longest

  peace together, uncle and nephew,

  since they repulsed the viking kin

  hewn at Heorot Heathobeards army and Ingeld

  to the spear-point made bow.

  Widsith

  PROLOGUE

  The island of Harrow, Engeln.

  Five miles north of Godmey,

  Hærfestmonth AD523

  “Death haunts us,” the rider murmured as he gained the boundary ditch. The horse blew out after the mad dash down from the hills, the wet slap of its lips loud in the desolation.

  His eyes scanned the settlement as the others moved into a skirmish line. In the muted light of the early dawn the hamlet looked like the others. Doors hung crazily from twisted hinges, the stout door posts among the only timbers to survive the hunger of the flames which had followed. The remains of the buildings themselves were little more than a latticework of charred beams nestling in a pale grey mush, ash soup made by the steady drizzle which gusted across from the Belt in ribbons.

  Wulf clicked his tongue and his mount walked on.

  Godwin spoke. “They deserve a warrior's burial.”

  The eorle saw the pair for the first time and nodded. The corpses of a boy and his dog lay where they had fallen, hacked into meat, but the boy still gripped his spear and the dog's lips were drawn into a snarl of defiance. There was a place for the boy in Valhall he agreed. The dog? He doubted that the Allfather had as much need. “We will cover him with a boat near the shore and enclose it in clay when we return from avenging him. He had the body of a child, but the heart of a man.”

  His duguth gave a mirthless laugh and the pair exchanged a look. They had seen the flames in the night, the killers must be near. This dawn, iron grey and grim, was very likely to be their last.

  Wulf twisted in his saddle and ran his eye across the twenty warriors who made up his hearth troop. Few would wilfully spend the night on the wastes of Troll Heath, a place inhabited by spirits and the dæmons of Hel, but the heights were centrally placed, the view commanding, and something drastic needed to be done to halt the attacks. They had been rewarded near the dawn as the first petals of flame flickered into life and they had sent a fire arrow arcing in the direction for the other war-bands to follow. The need for concealment thankfully over, they had lit their brands and tumbled down from the hills only to find that their fiend had eluded then once again.

  Wulf looked at the grim faced warriors with pride. They were a tough bunch, but they would need to be if they did overtake the raiders. They would be outnumbered at least two or three to one if help failed to arrive in time.

  Eanmer called, his voice monotone. “They are over here, lord. It looks like all of them.”

  With a heavy heart, Wulf dismounted and led his mount across.

  Eanmer hurdled a low wattle fence and yelled as he swung his spear in great circles. A murder of crows cawed into the air and the eorle's heart sank a little further.

  The men and boys lay in a bloody pile. Their hands bound, each had been hewn, once, twice, at the rear of the skull. Wulf picked at his beard as his eyes took in the scene. At least it had been quick. The younger women and older girls were laid out singly. Most were naked, at least from the waist down, the bloody smears marking their thighs telling the tale of their final humiliation.

  Godric was there again. “It doesn't make sense, lord. These are young and healthy. They would fetch good money in the markets at Nyen or down in Frankland.”

  The eorle pursed his lips and glared. “No, it doesn't. Let's find the men who did this and ask them why.”

  The trail was easy to follow. Although the fiend were on foot the rains had left the grass slick, and the passage of so many heavily armed men had cut a swathe which ran, spear straight, towards the nearby coastline. A small brook cut the track and Wulf led the riders down into its rubble strewn course and up the opposite bank. The land rose gently as it approached the coast and Wulf spurred his mount on. There was no guard posted on the ridge line ahead, they may already be too late. Cresting the rise he reined in as his men fanned out to either side.

  A dragon ship lay with its wide belly on the stony strand, its prow snarling defiance at the spirits of Harrow, the holy island. Banners bearing the white hart of Daneland and what looked like a monster's claw snapped at its masthead. The wind carried the rhythmic chanting of the crew as they shouldered the hull and began to heave it into the surf.

  At his shoulder Godwin spoke again. “Still no sign of captives.”

  Wulf nodded that he understood the importance of the words without shifting his gaze from the men below them. This was no opportunist raid, out to plunder what they could and be away. The Danes were making a point and that was far more dangerous. He tightened the strap of his helm. “I will ride down there and issue the challenge. Get the men into a shield wall and wait until I return.”

  Wulf unstrapped his shield, slipping a hand into its grip as the first cries of recognition carried up to them from the beach. Rolling his shoulders, he hefted his spear and urged the horse on. The sun had risen now and the drizzle fell away as the clouds parted to paint the waves with its pale light.

  Wulf looked across as the horse picked its way down the stony path, tallying the numbers which they were to face. The fiend were rushing to form their own shield hedge at his approach, and the eorle gave an ironic chuckle as he left the path and began to cross the narrow beach.

  A full keel and more, upwards of eighty warriors. It's to be four to one then. It must be my lucky day!

  The Danes brought their shields together with a crash as their jarl strode proud of the line. Wulf put spurs to his mount and accelerated as a cry of defiance rolled across the strand towards him. The horse broke into a canter and Wulf pulled at its reins as he guided it directly at the enemy leader. A watercourse snak
ed across the sand there, its edge forming a small lip before the Danish position, and Wulf tightened his grip as he waited for the perfect moment to halt the steed's mad dash. The horse clattered into the channel in an explosion of spray, and Wulf waited until it was through before sawing at the reins, bringing it to a halt only feet from the immobile Dane. As his horse reared and stamped the sand to dust, he pointed accusingly with his spear and called out his challenge.

  “I am Wulf Wonreding, a thegn of the English.

  All men who seek knowledge as men should, know of my deeds and those of my clan.

  Tell me, raider, your own name, unless shame forbids it.

  Who creeps into my lord's country like a fox in the night, staining Harrow with the blood of the folk of Eomær, cyning?”

  The leader of the Danes raised his chin proudly and Wulf was surprised to hear the higher tones of a youth reply from behind the silvered faceplate.

  “My name is Hrothmund Hrothgarson, an ætheling in your tongue.

  I have heard men speak of your clan and your challenge was bold and well made.

  For that reason I will allow you to leave our land with your life.

  Go to King Eomær. Tell him that this island of Fyn belongs to King Hrothgar.

  Withdraw his interlopers to the mainland, or there will be war between us.”

  Wulf let out an involuntary gasp at the revelation that the Danes were claiming the island as their own and he shook his spear as he replied angrily.

  “Even a skull of ash wood knows whose land this is; your ship still bears its beast head. I have no need to travel anywhere. I carry my king's reply to your over-proud boast in my scabbard.”

  The line of foemen broke into grins at his impotence, and mocking laughter followed as a Dane hawked and spat into the sand.

  Seething with rage at his humiliation, Wulf wheeled his horse and cantered back towards the men lining the horizon as jeers hung in the crisp air.

  As the horse regained the crest he leapt down and drove it to the rear with an angry slap of its rump. Godwin caught his eye and indicated to the West with a jerk of his head. Wulf chewed his lip as he scanned the horizon, desperately seeking a sign that help would reach them soon. Four to one was just too great a number, even with men of this quality. The duguth came to his aid. “There, just emerging from the tree line,” he swept his finger through to the North and pointed again, “and alongside the stand of alder, following the course of the brook.”

  He concentrated his gaze on the dark line which marked the edge of the wood and he had them. Points of light danced in the gloom and suddenly a knot of horsemen burst forth, the weak morning sunlight flickering from mail and helm. In the clear, Wulf grinned as he watched the warriors toss their brands aside and come on at a gallop.

  Switching his gaze, he could see that the other group were further away. All depended on delaying the Danes for long enough to enable his countrymen to come up. Within a heartbeat his hopes were dashed again as his duguth spat a curse.

  Wulf looked and saw that Godwin was staring sullenly at the beach. Following his gaze he saw that Hrothmund had drawn his men back into a defensive arc about the prow of their ship as others manhandled the vessel into the swell. A glance back down the reverse slope told the eorle that the nearest riders were approaching the brook. They were a mile distant, almost within hailing distance, but he could not wait. He turned back to his men and the smiles of deliverance faded from their faces as their leader launched into a battle speech.

  “They flee from us, we few, but we will not let them slink away while our dead lie unavenged, our king insulted.” Wulf raised his weapon and stalked the line, striking each man's spear with his own as he passed. “They think that we grow weak, they covet that which the gods gave us long ago.” He grinned as he hefted his shield and rolled his shoulders once again, warming blood and muscles for the work to come. “We will show them that they are mistaken.” He flicked a look beyond the nearest man's shoulder and saw that the first riders were through the watercourse and climbing the nearside bank. “We must hold them here. We go down fast and hit them hard. By the time they have recovered our friends will be up with us, and we will crush their proud necks.”

  Pacing before them, Wulf held each man with a stare as he barked out a question. “Who is your king?”

  The shield wall raised their spears and cried out in reply. “Eomær!”

  Wulf beat his chest with his fist and called again. “Who are your folk?”

  The reply thundered out. “Englecyn!”

  His entire body quickening with the power of the moment, Wulf turned and planted his feet on the sod of his ancestors. Below him the Danish drakkar was beginning to lift as the waters of the Belt flowed back beneath its keel. There was no time for the full barritus, the war cry of the northern folk which would draw the Allfather and his battle maidens to the clash; he would miss his prey. One last shout would have to do.

  Wulf Wonreding beat his spear against the rim of his shield and began to chant the age-old battle cry of the English.

  “Out! Out!”

  The men of his war-band raised their shields before them and the cry rolled down from the ridge as a full-throated roar.

  “Out! Out! Out!...”

  As the Danes in the surf stole nervous glances their way, English steel hissed from scabbards and spears hedged as Wulf moved forward and broke into a run.

  ONE

  Gwened,

  Bro Gwereg,

  Summer AD523

  Eofer crossed his legs before him and wriggled his shoulders further into the coils of rope, sighing with pleasure at the warmth of the sun on his face. Closing his eyes against the glare, he felt the corners of his mouth curling into a smile as Osbeorn paced the deck like an expectant father.

  “Where is he? How long can it take?”

  Eofer chuckled to himself as he pictured the dockside in his mind. Squat buildings of dark grey stone backed a landing made of the same grim material, the whole liberally scattered with nets and woven pots, the everyday tools of the fishermen who had made the port their home. In the middle distance the walls and massive towers of the fortress which the Romans had called Benetis jutted above the tree line, and Eofer imagined the dark stones glowering over the town which had grown up in its shadow. At the far end of the quay a large trader rode the flood tide, the portly lines and workaday air at odds with the sleek warships which had journeyed down from the North.

  They had wend their way through the maze of islands and shoals the previous day to reach this place, following the withies which marked the channel to the anchorage where a small river emptied into the bay. The port reeve had immediately despatched a rider to hurry the few miles to this town of Gwened to report their arrival, unbelievers being unwelcome in the Christian settlement. Within the hour he had returned with the news that the British lord and his men would sail with them on the morning tide and the English war-band had settled in for a night of freshly cooked food and dark Welsh ale.

  The land which bordered the bay was already a swatch of green despite the earliness of the year, lush with beech, oak and birch. Overhead the skies echoed to the trill of swallows, the red throated birds darting and slashing as they fed on the wing. Their pearl-like bellies would not be seen in the skies above the northern homelands for another month and the English wondered at their appearance. It was the first time that any of them had driven their ships so far south. The Romans had called the land Armorica but, as in the north, people were on the move. Britons in their thousands had left the shores of Britannia to settle here, transplanting the names of their homeland, Cornouaille, Domnonia, until men began to call the whole peninsula Bro Gwereg, the land of Gwereg. Now one wished to return and he was willing to pay good silver to do so.

  Osbeorn cupped his hands as the boy reappeared, and his voice boomed across the anchorage. “Come on Oswin, they will be here soon!”

  Eofer abandoned his reverie and reluctantly opened his eyes. Glancing acr
oss to the dockside he watched as the boy struggled along with the wicker basket. Almost as large as the youth himself, the wickerwork completely obscured the boy's view ahead, and the thegn called across to Porta to go to the aid of his fellow as a vision of their breakfast ending up back in the water came to his mind.

  The lad scurried off and soon they were tucking into a meal of hot sardines and fresh white bread. They had arrived back not a moment too soon, as the sound of hoofbeats carried across from the roadway which led inland. Warriors were arriving there and, dismounting, they formed in twin ranks as a knot of riders in gleaming mail emerged from the shadows.

  Hemming rolled a ball of phlegm around the roof of his mouth with his tongue and sent it spinning over the side. “Here's our man.”

  Eofer gripped the gunwale and hauled himself to his feet, brushing the dust from the seat of his trews as heads turned towards the dockside and the troops there stabbed the sky with their spears, roaring their acclaim. “Good, let's get going,” he murmured. “I don't like sailing in another man's ship, even if that man is my father.”

  Above the spear points, the golden draco battle flag of the house of Uther shone as it broke free of the enclosing buildings and the sea breeze teased it out. The men of the flotilla exchanged smiles as they compared it to their own standards. The white dragon war flag of the English curled from each masthead in the little group; the men were happy at the coincidence, it was a good omen.

  A quick glance up at the weather vane, high up in the mast top, confirmed that the wind still blew steadily from the South. Sæward began to organise the crew as the British warriors funnelled down to the mole and began to follow their lord onto the nearest ship.

  Hemming turned back to Eofer and spoke again as the big ship master ordered the spar run up the mast and oars were fitted to tholepins. “What do you know about these Britons, lord?”