Fortress of Fury (The Bernicia Chronicles #07) by Harffy Matthew

Author:Harffy, Matthew [Harffy, Matthew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781786696342
Amazon: 1786696347
Publisher: Aria
Published: 2020-12-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

Beobrand rubbed his callused fingers against his eyelids. His eyes felt gritty, as if he had stood staring on a windswept beach. His body ached with tiredness and he knew he should sleep. But whenever he closed his eyes and slumber began to embrace him, visions of death swelled up in his mind like so much scum on a bubbling broth. Faces of men he had killed swam in the darkness. He could not remember when he had killed most of them. These were nameless men – Mercians, Waelisc, Picts, Franks. He would never learn of their names, hear tales of their lives, of their loved ones. But their final moments on middle earth were forever seared into his memory. Their wails of anguish echoed in the dark on nights such as this. He longed for sleep but was terrified of the dreams, and so he sipped sparingly at the cup of ale he had brought with him for his vigil and thought again of what the dawn might bring.

Come the sunrise, he would see more death. Of that he was certain. There would be flames and fear and the foul stink of blood and spilt guts. Who would he lose tomorrow? Dour Dreogan? Beircheart with his swagger and finely combed beard? Attor and his twin flickering seaxes? Would the brothers, Eadgard and Grindan, fall in the shieldwall? What of Halinard? All were dear to him, oath-sworn and loyal and he would do his best to keep them alive. But to die in battle was a warrior’s lot. They would welcome it more than a straw-death, old and wizened, or infirm like Fraomar, drifting into the afterlife with not so much as a murmur.

He gazed down at the frail features of the young gesith and again felt the desperate pang of regret and guilt. Fraomar’s skin was taut over his sharp cheekbones, his eyes sunken and dark in the dim flicker of the rush light.

The old crone snored quietly from the pallet at the rear of the hut. She had barely acknowledged Beobrand when he had stepped into the hut. Grindan had been sitting with Fraomar and Beobrand had ordered him to get some rest.

“You’ll need your strength tomorrow,” he told him. “I have a feeling Penda won’t allow us to dawdle in our blankets in the morn, so drink sparingly.”

Grindan rose.

“You need sleep too, lord,” he said.

“There will be time for sleep when all this is done. Tonight I will watch over Fraomar.”

Beobrand sat on the stool beside Fraomar’s bed. The smell of sweat, piss and sickness was heavy in the air.

Grindan paused in the doorway and Beobrand looked up at him. Grindan’s face was a jumble of shadows, the clear purple expanse of the sky rolled away forever behind him.

“It is not your fault, lord,” he said, his voice not much more than a whisper, as if he was uncertain whether he wanted to be heard or not.

For the briefest of moments, Beobrand felt the stirrings of his infamous rage within him.

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