Monsters Read online

  MONSTERS

  BEOWULF - SWORD OF WODEN

  C. R. MAY

  Copyright

  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 © 2013 C.R.May

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1495364089

  ISBN-13: 978-1495364082

  Contents

  The North

  Frontispiece

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Afterword

  Characters

  Places/Locations

  About the Author

  Also by C.R.May

  Dayraven

  Fire & Steel

  Gods of War

  The Scathing

  Bloodaxe

  The Raven and the Cross

  Terror Gallicus

  Nemesis

  Sorrow Hill

  Wræcca

  She remembers the onslaught of the world’s first battle,

  when gold-potion was pierced with spears.

  And in one-eye’s hall they burned her.

  Three times they burned her.

  Three times she was reborn.

  Over and over, yet she still lives.

  Voluspa

  The Poetic Edda.

  1

  “Feel free, Kol, she’s all yours if you want her.” Kol turned his head to the side and opened one eye.

  “What’s wrong with her then? She’s lovely!”

  Mord arched his back and dug out a pebble which had been annoying him for ages. Settling himself back he took another sip from his ale skin and sighed.

  “Aye she is, but what about her mother?”

  Kol grimaced at the thought. No, ploughing Unn’s mother was not his idea of a good time. The fact that Hilda described herself as ‘cuddly’ said it all. Try as he might he could not keep the image of her lying before him, ready and waiting, from flashing into his mind.

  “What has Hilda got to do with it?”

  Both men lay, relaxing in the warmth of the early spring sun. They had left Marstrand several hours earlier and rowed out into the waters of the Kattegat where they had sown their pots on the seabed. Soon it would be time to draw them up and discover whether the day's catch would be good or bad. It was always a tense moment when the pots broke the surface. The size of the day's haul would determine how much ale they would be able to consume that evening back in port. Mord allowed himself a small smile of triumph. He had his best friend cold and he went for the kill.

  “It’s obvious, Kol. Unn may look like Freya on heat at the moment, but give her a few years of marriage and she will turn into her mother.”

  “No, not my Unn,” Kol replied with a look of disbelief, “she’s…” his hand went instinctively to his groin as his mind struggled for the right words. “She’s curvy and soft.” He finally decided.

  Mord had already prepared his next attack and he quickly countered.

  “Listen, you look like your father with more hair, right? If you want to know what a girl is going to look like in ten years time you look at her mother. It’s a well-known fact!”

  Kol sighed and took another bite of the smoked mackerel he had brought along. It was his favourite, much nicer than the herrings he usually had.

  “I suppose that you could be right,” Kol replied reluctantly, “most people take after their parents. You probably look like your father, whoever he was. Thanks Mord,” he sighed sadly.

  Hidden from his friend’s view between his hip and the side of the boat, Mord clenched his fist in victory.

  “There is no need to thank me, that’s what friends are for. I’ll tell you what, I’ll go around tonight and let her know that you are seeing Editha now. You know that she likes you and you could do a lot worse.”

  Kol raised himself onto his elbow and looked across gratefully at his friend.

  “I’d appreciate that. She will be upset and I am not very good with emotional women.”

  Mord took a long pull from his ale skin and settled back. Yes, he would go straight round and see her as soon as they got in and break the bad news. He may even stay to console her himself. Unlike his friend he liked big women.

  A shadow crept across them, extinguishing the warmth of the sun, and the boat rocked as another vessel nudged itself gently alongside. Mord sighed and, without opening his eyes, cried out above the piercing cries of the gulls which bobbed in their lee.

  “Witta, if that’s you coming to drink our ale again you can piss off!”

  The big man placed his foot against the wale of the dracca and leaned forward, peering down into the fishing boat from behind a line of brightly coloured shields. Shaking his head at the sight which lay before him he nevertheless found it difficult to suppress a smile. Of all the people he had wished to see first on his return, Kol and Mord were about as far down the list as you could get. He might just as well ask the fish or the gulls for information.

  “The last man who spoke to me in that manner I disembowelled!” he growled.

  Kol and Mord scrambled to their feet, blinking in surprise as they found themselves surrounded by a forest of masts. Craning their necks, both men gazed upward to the top of the wooden wall which towered above them. Squinting painfully into the glare of the morning sun, they tried to recognise the shadowy figure which stood silhouetted behind the line of tough looking warriors. The warriors laughed as Kol’s mouth gaped in surprise, releasing a piece of half chewed mackerel which rolled lazily down his chin, before dropping to the deck.

  “Lord, we were told that you were dead,” he stammered.

  “Clearly you were misinformed. How many warriors are in Marstrand?”

  “None in Marstrand, lord,” he answered, quickly recovering from his surprise, “the nearest ones are at your hall at Skara.”

  The man nodded and called to the steersman.

  “Drop us at Marstrand and bring the rest of the fleet into the bay at Skara this evening. We will have seen to our ‘guests’ by then.”

  As the dracca drew away from the smaller boat the lord called back across the rapidly widening gap.

  “Kol, don’t trust him. He wants Unn for himself!”

  Hygelac ætheling had returned to Geatland and he had brought friends.

  Many friends.

  Hygelac rode at the head of the army as it moved steadily north, along the valley of the Geat River. Fresh green shoots were already quickly covering the last traces of the dark scars which had slashed the length of the roadway during the heavy rains of soil monath, the season of mud. The trees which marched away from the valley sides were covered in a haze of green and the children listened constantly, desperate to bring good fortune to their family by being the first to hear the spring call of the cuckoo.

  The sense of hope and renewal was
reflected among the Geat people this spring. Everywhere Hygelac rode the population came forward and welcomed him joyfully. Children pressed the first of the season’s flowers to the warriors as they rode past and most of them now had a score or more of the tiny blooms threaded through their harnesses or mail.

  As they passed through the settlement of Little Edet the warriors had laughed at the antics of three red haired children. They had climbed to the very tops of the trees at the rear of their home, waving excitedly to them as the branches swayed alarmingly in the breeze.

  The Winter King was being replaced by the Summer Ætheling.

  “You promised me a war and all I get is a celebration!”

  Hygelac glanced across to Wonred. It was true that he had expected to have to fight almost as soon as they arrived but he had to admit to himself that he was relieved, and more than a little surprised, at the welcome he had received. Hythcyn’s rule must have been even more unpopular than he had imaged.

  “We have yet to meet up with my brother and his forces. We are both Hrethlingas. You will see enough fighting before you take your leave old friend,” he replied grimly.

  Convinced that his life was in danger from his brother the king, Hygelac had taken the opportunity to lead his thegns and their warriors west, over the sail-road to Engeln the previous summer under the cover provided by the planned invasion of the Jutish lands. He had sought out the hall of his friend, Ealdorman Wonred, and asked for protection for himself and his followers. Wonred had accompanied Hygelac to the hall of the English king, Eomær, and supported his request to raise a ship army from amongst his people, both in Engeln and overseas in their new lands in Britannia.

  On his return from the old Roman province Hygelac had then spent Yule at the hall of Wonred’s son, Eofer. Eofer and Hygelac’s daughter Astrid had been married for over a year now and the sight of his daughter’s heavily swollen belly had both delighted him and confirmed the wisdom of the match. Wonred had been foster father to Hygelac’s son Heardred and now this bairn would be the blood-proof of the kinship between the families.

  Hygelac had waited impatiently as the winter slowly released its grip on the land. The spring would bring with it the arrival of the promised English forces like a cloud of returning swallows. Then he would strike.

  After all the effort which had gone into preparing the army the actual invasion had been almost a non-event. The best of the warriors which remained in the kingdom had already left with Hythcyn for Swede Land when they had arrived, and they had been met with at most only weak and desultory resistance wherever they had travelled.

  The guards which had been placed at Hygelac’s hall had readily joined his force as had those which had kept vigil over the halls of his thegns. Wulfgar, the ealdorman of Edet had been left by Hythcyn to protect the capital at Miklaborg but he too had thrown open the gates of the fortress and offered his sword to Hygelac at his approach. Although Hythcyn did not as yet know it, he had no kingdom to return to.

  Passing through the town of Edet the allied army tracked northwards and passed through the gorge which ran through the hill known as the ‘Troll’s Hat’. It was here that a small force of Geats under Wulfgar and Beowulf had held a strong Swedish force the previous summer and saved the vital town from sack. The fighting had been hard and the heavily outnumbered Geats had sustained such losses that the hill had since become known to them as ‘Sorrow Hill’. A few of the warriors who accompanied Hygelac had fought in the battle and their companions listened intently as they pointed out the location where the armies had clashed and described the desperate fighting.

  Moving on they had encamped at the Geat border before they crossed into Bronding territory the following day. The Brondings had supplied the warriors which had enabled Hythcyn to seize the kingdom and they had to treat their territory as hostile. Most of the men had taken the opportunity to stroll over to view the remains of the Geat defences which had been hastily erected at the spot by Beowulf and his men in order to delay the Swedes. In truth there was little to see but the blackened remains of the primitive wooden barrier which the Geats had fired to cover their escape at the end of the fight.

  The few Geatish bodies had been recovered and cremated once the enemy had withdrawn and the Swedes had taken care of the bodies of their fallen before they had departed. Only the bleached bones of a horse which still lay impaled on a stake at the river bank, and the half submerged skeletal remains of several boats just offshore told of the desperate struggle which had taken place that day.

  The following day was a good day. As the allied army traversed a ridge, Geat scouts loyal to Hygelac crested the brow of the hill opposite and galloped down the road in a cloud of dust. Hygelac and Wonred halted the column as the men drew near. They clearly carried news of great importance. The urgency displayed by the riders suggested that they had discovered the whereabouts of the Bronding main army which they knew to be in the area.

  The scouts reined in before the allied leaders in a welter of stones. Hygelac tossed the grateful man a skin of ale and waited patiently for his throat to recover from the effects of road dust. With a nod of thanks the scout hawked, spat, and made his report.

  “The army of King Hrothulf is drawn up in battle order two valleys to the east, blocking the road to Skovde, lord.”

  Skovde was the Bronding capital. It lay close to the lands of the Swedes, so close in fact that it had suffered occupation the previous summer by the marauding Swedish force which had then gone on to fight at Sorrow Hill.

  “This is more like it!” Wonred declared delightedly. “I knew that they would have to defend Skovde!”

  Hygelac nodded sternly. He had hoped that he would be able to slip past Hrothulf’s army and fall on Hythcyn’s force before his brother was even aware that he was back in the country. It would seem that he was to be disappointed. There were few roads in this part of the world but the deep forests of birch, pine and aspen which covered the land restricted rapid movements to them nonetheless. It was inconceivable that Hrothulf had not sent a fast rider further east to warn his brother. He turned back to the scout.

  “Strength? Disposition?”

  The rider wiped ale from his beard and replied.

  “Four thousand warriors arranged in four equal divisions, lord. Each division is two hundred and fifty men in length and four ranks deep. There are also a further five hundred men of the king’s personal comitatus grouped around the standard and person of king Hrothulf at the centre of the line.”

  Hygelac glanced across to Wonred.

  “Well, we have the advantage of numbers, but not overwhelmingly so. What do you say old friend?” He grinned mischievously. “Shall we go and reduce their numbers a bit more?”

  Wonred laughed and, twisting in his saddle, called back to one of his thegns.

  “Coelwulf!”

  The man hastened his mount to his lord’s side and looked at him expectantly. Wonred shot his thegn a look of pure pleasure at the prospect of action.

  “Coelwulf, lead the army into the valley ahead of us and prepare them for battle. Organise some ale for them if you can, laager the horses and bring the men forward on foot. I am going to ride forward and view these Brondings before they find out we are Engles and run away!” he laughed.

  Hygelac and Wonred rode forward with two hundred picked men as escort as the allied army moved down into the valley to arm.

  Gaining the final ridge the allied leaders looked out across a wide valley at the army of King Hrothulf arrayed before them. On the near horizon, beyond the packed shield burg of its defenders stood Skovde, a dark smudge on a field of green. Even at that distance Hygelac could see that the town had taken a beating from the occupying Swedish force of the previous summer. It was obvious that Bronding power was a shadow of its former self. The last year had seen them spread thinly over much of Geatland supporting King Hythcyn only to leave their own lands open for invasion. Naturally their neighbours the Swedes had obliged and ridden over the country at w
ill. King Hrothulf’s reputation lay in tatters and the army which he had now assembled to meet the latest threat was a fraction of those which should have been available to the king. Clearly, Hygelac decided, the Brondingas had lost faith in their king and seemed reluctant to fight for him. Hygelac hoped that one push would be all that it would take to bring about their collapse.

  Hygelac studied the land before them. Hrothulf had deployed his forces well. As the scout had reported, they had effectively blocked the way forward by choosing to concentrate their numbers in the narrow pass. A wide grassy valley, awash with spring flowers, stood before them. That was good, he mused, the Geats and Engles could fully deploy once they emerged from the tree line. Hygelac shielded his eyes against the morning sun as he sought to get a better look at the tree lined ridges which marched away to either side of the Bronding force. Although the beech wood appeared solid at a glance, on closer inspection it was anything but. A plan of attack was beginning to form in Hygelac’s mind.

  If the watching Brondings had been under the impression that the few hundred warriors lining the hill before them had been the sum of their opposition they were soon cruelly disappointed. The unmistakable sounds made by thousands of fully armed warriors on the move carried to those on the crest of the hill. Distantly at first but slowly growing in intensity, the rhythmic metallic chinking sound mixed with the pounding of thousands of booted feet began as a murmur and rose steadily until it seemed to fill the valley before them. Suddenly, from its midst, the wail of battle horns pierced the air like the approaching rumble of summer thunder.