The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) by Matthew Harffy
Authors: Matthew Harffy
Tags: Bernicia Chronicles #2
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horses showing no signs of slowing their fear-fuelled stampede.
Waelisc warriors were all around him. They had scattered when the horses charged and they were still dispersed. Beobrand rode past small clumps of warriors. There was fear in the eyes of some. Anger in the faces of others. One must have realised what was happening and who he was, for a spear streaked out of the gloom and thudded into the sodden earth a few paces to his left. The stallion tossed its head, but did not break its stride. It was a warhorse and it was not so easily frightened.
Despite his precarious position, Beobrand began to revel in the power of the beast. He could feel the thrum of each hoof's impact. The horse's breath steamed and tattered in the wind. The speed was intoxicating. Never had Beobrand ridden such a horse. It would be easy to allow the sensation of potency to wash over him. To lull him into a state of calm.
The night had sapped him of all his strength. Now, he felt the familiar lethargy that followed combat threaten to settle on him. He shook his head. Not yet. He had survived the night, but it was not over. Rest would have to wait.
As if to emphasise this, a group of Waelisc warriors formed a small shieldwall before him. Beyond them Cadwallon's horse leaped a small brook easily and galloped on into the scrubby, gorse-spattered heathland. The king's red cloak flapped in his wake like a banner, or a parting wave. He was getting away.
The shieldwall numbered but five, but Beobrand could not risk charging. Should his steed be injured he would lose all hope of running Cadwallon down.
He scanned his surroundings.
The ground to the left was marshy. Rushes tufted between pools that reflected the first rays of the morning sun. To the right was a slope, crested by a tangled stand of birch and hawthorn.
Beobrand cursed. There was no alternative. He turned the horse to the right and kicked its ribs savagely.
"Come on!" he screamed.
The horse pounded up the slope towards the shade of the wood. The Waelisc on the road shouted and another spear arced towards Beobrand, but fell well short.
The small wood was a thick jumble low-hanging branches. He drove the horse forward, but how they would get through the copse, he did not know. He would be lucky not to be blinded by the twigs and sharp thorns. But there was nothing for it. Sense would have him dismount and lead the horse through the foliage, but the men below were too close. As he came near to the trees Beobrand dug his heels in once more and lay down along the length of the stallion's neck. He wrapped his arms around the neck and closed his eyes.
Branches scratched and scraped his face and hands. The horse whinnied. Something crashed against Beobrand's helm with a deafening knell. Snagging fingers pulled his cloak.
Were there elves here in this wood? Were those voices, whispering of his death in the leaf mould? He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to protect them from the undergrowth and kicked the horse once more.
"Fly! Fly!" he cried.
The air was dank. Sinister and dire. The taste of bile rose in his throat. There was an evil presence here. Some forest spirit clinging to the night, not yet banished by the sun. The horse was slowing. Its breathing was ragged. Was that the breath of another being, hot and rancid? The horse too seemed frightened. Its neck trembled beneath Beobrand's arms.
Beobrand thought of the rush light blown out. Sunniva's tears. His oath. Was he to fall here? His bones rotting into the roots of a spirit tree?
No. He had sworn a vow to return. And first he must capture Cadwallon. So many had died. Their faces swam before his mind's eye. Leofwine, Alric, Eanfrith, so many others. Cadwallon must be stopped and no eldritch phantom could hold Beobrand back.
"Easy now, boy," he whispered, his face near the ear of the stallion. "Take us out of this dark place."
The horse shuddered and snorted. Then moved forward. Beobrand could still not bring himself to open his
Waelisc warriors were all around him. They had scattered when the horses charged and they were still dispersed. Beobrand rode past small clumps of warriors. There was fear in the eyes of some. Anger in the faces of others. One must have realised what was happening and who he was, for a spear streaked out of the gloom and thudded into the sodden earth a few paces to his left. The stallion tossed its head, but did not break its stride. It was a warhorse and it was not so easily frightened.
Despite his precarious position, Beobrand began to revel in the power of the beast. He could feel the thrum of each hoof's impact. The horse's breath steamed and tattered in the wind. The speed was intoxicating. Never had Beobrand ridden such a horse. It would be easy to allow the sensation of potency to wash over him. To lull him into a state of calm.
The night had sapped him of all his strength. Now, he felt the familiar lethargy that followed combat threaten to settle on him. He shook his head. Not yet. He had survived the night, but it was not over. Rest would have to wait.
As if to emphasise this, a group of Waelisc warriors formed a small shieldwall before him. Beyond them Cadwallon's horse leaped a small brook easily and galloped on into the scrubby, gorse-spattered heathland. The king's red cloak flapped in his wake like a banner, or a parting wave. He was getting away.
The shieldwall numbered but five, but Beobrand could not risk charging. Should his steed be injured he would lose all hope of running Cadwallon down.
He scanned his surroundings.
The ground to the left was marshy. Rushes tufted between pools that reflected the first rays of the morning sun. To the right was a slope, crested by a tangled stand of birch and hawthorn.
Beobrand cursed. There was no alternative. He turned the horse to the right and kicked its ribs savagely.
"Come on!" he screamed.
The horse pounded up the slope towards the shade of the wood. The Waelisc on the road shouted and another spear arced towards Beobrand, but fell well short.
The small wood was a thick jumble low-hanging branches. He drove the horse forward, but how they would get through the copse, he did not know. He would be lucky not to be blinded by the twigs and sharp thorns. But there was nothing for it. Sense would have him dismount and lead the horse through the foliage, but the men below were too close. As he came near to the trees Beobrand dug his heels in once more and lay down along the length of the stallion's neck. He wrapped his arms around the neck and closed his eyes.
Branches scratched and scraped his face and hands. The horse whinnied. Something crashed against Beobrand's helm with a deafening knell. Snagging fingers pulled his cloak.
Were there elves here in this wood? Were those voices, whispering of his death in the leaf mould? He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to protect them from the undergrowth and kicked the horse once more.
"Fly! Fly!" he cried.
The air was dank. Sinister and dire. The taste of bile rose in his throat. There was an evil presence here. Some forest spirit clinging to the night, not yet banished by the sun. The horse was slowing. Its breathing was ragged. Was that the breath of another being, hot and rancid? The horse too seemed frightened. Its neck trembled beneath Beobrand's arms.
Beobrand thought of the rush light blown out. Sunniva's tears. His oath. Was he to fall here? His bones rotting into the roots of a spirit tree?
No. He had sworn a vow to return. And first he must capture Cadwallon. So many had died. Their faces swam before his mind's eye. Leofwine, Alric, Eanfrith, so many others. Cadwallon must be stopped and no eldritch phantom could hold Beobrand back.
"Easy now, boy," he whispered, his face near the ear of the stallion. "Take us out of this dark place."
The horse shuddered and snorted. Then moved forward. Beobrand could still not bring himself to open his
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