The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) by Matthew Harffy Page B
Authors: Matthew Harffy
Tags: Bernicia Chronicles #2
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pitifully and could not right itself. Its violent thrashing placed Cadwallon in danger of being crushed or kicked.
He waded dazedly out of the brook. He was not kingly now. Loam-smeared and bedraggled, his cloak a sopping rag, he dragged himself out of the mire.
Beobrand pulled his stallion to a halt and in one smooth motion leapt from its back. For a fleeting moment he worried that his horse would run off, leaving him stranded here. But it was on the edge of collapse. It drooped its head, snorting hard and trembling.
Cadwallon dragged his sword from a mud-drenched scabbard and faced Beobrand. His teeth flashed from the dirt-dripping face.
"Well, boy," said Cadwallon, in the tongue of the Angelfolc, "it seems you have finally caught up with me. Just as well for you that my horse was clumsy and had no heart for the jump. You ride like a sack of turnips!"
Pulling Hrunting free from its scabbard, Beobrand stepped forward. The blade was blood-encrusted and dim. He had not stopped to clean it after the battle.
"So, do you mean to kill me, boy?" said Cadwallon. "Do you think the likes of you could best me?"
Beobrand thought of all those who had died as a result of this man's ambition. So much blood. So much death. It would all end today.
"I have killed many men this night, and more before. I have stood before you three times now, though you have not seen me. I stood at Elmet. We broke you at Gefrin, but never have we met on equal terms. As men."
Despite Cadwallon's bluster, Beobrand could see the fear in his eyes. His hand darted up to touch the scar on his cheek where the shard of Scand's blade had scored a deep furrow.
"You are alone now, Cadwallon. You have no retinue. No hearth warriors to cower behind."
"Very well, Seaxon. We will end this here. I will kill you, take your horse and as you die know this: Cadwallon ap Cadfan will kill every last one of your goat-swiving race."
Cadwallon leapt forward. He was skilled with a blade, and the suddenness of the attack took Beobrand off guard. He took a step back, leaning away from the swing that would have taken his head from his shoulders.
Neither man carried a shield and Beobrand was mindful of Hrunting's fine blade. It was already nicked and chipped from the battle, and he would save it more damage if possible. Taking another couple of quick steps backwards, Beobrand drew Cadwallon in. He watched Cadwallon's feet. He was nimble and skilled. His footwork good. His sword point darted at Beobrand's face. Beobrand was forced to parry and sparks flew from the collision.
Beobrand feinted at Cadwallon's neck, then sent a blow arcing down towards his adversary's leading foot. Cadwallon read the move easily and stepped back lithely.
The king grinned. "You will not beat me. You are a clumsier swordsman than you are a horseman."
It was true that Cadwallon was skillful and strong. It was his hubris that was his greatest weakness.
Beobrand kept his face impassive. A mask of concentration.
Cadwallon sent a flurry of attacks at him. He parried them all, but allowed himself to be forced back, on the defensive.
Another thrust swatted away as Beobrand took a further pace backwards.
Then, seeing his opportunity to strike the killing blow, Cadwallon sprang forward, sure that his sword would find the Seaxon's throat.
But Beobrand was no longer there. He deflected the probing blade and stepped inside Cadwallon's reach. With all his weight and height behind the blow, Beobrand hammered Hrunting's pommel into the Waelisc king's face.
Teeth shattered. Lips ripped and blood burst forth in a crimson bloom. Cadwallon's knees buckled. He staggered, and fell to the earth.
Beobrand kicked the sword from Cadwallon's limp fingers.
"I am Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, and you would do well to fear me and my race."
"Go on then, kill me, you Seaxon scum," spat Cadwallon. Blood dribbled down his chin.
"No."
Confusion in Cadwallon's eyes. A glimmer of hope?
"Never fear. You will die. But your
He waded dazedly out of the brook. He was not kingly now. Loam-smeared and bedraggled, his cloak a sopping rag, he dragged himself out of the mire.
Beobrand pulled his stallion to a halt and in one smooth motion leapt from its back. For a fleeting moment he worried that his horse would run off, leaving him stranded here. But it was on the edge of collapse. It drooped its head, snorting hard and trembling.
Cadwallon dragged his sword from a mud-drenched scabbard and faced Beobrand. His teeth flashed from the dirt-dripping face.
"Well, boy," said Cadwallon, in the tongue of the Angelfolc, "it seems you have finally caught up with me. Just as well for you that my horse was clumsy and had no heart for the jump. You ride like a sack of turnips!"
Pulling Hrunting free from its scabbard, Beobrand stepped forward. The blade was blood-encrusted and dim. He had not stopped to clean it after the battle.
"So, do you mean to kill me, boy?" said Cadwallon. "Do you think the likes of you could best me?"
Beobrand thought of all those who had died as a result of this man's ambition. So much blood. So much death. It would all end today.
"I have killed many men this night, and more before. I have stood before you three times now, though you have not seen me. I stood at Elmet. We broke you at Gefrin, but never have we met on equal terms. As men."
Despite Cadwallon's bluster, Beobrand could see the fear in his eyes. His hand darted up to touch the scar on his cheek where the shard of Scand's blade had scored a deep furrow.
"You are alone now, Cadwallon. You have no retinue. No hearth warriors to cower behind."
"Very well, Seaxon. We will end this here. I will kill you, take your horse and as you die know this: Cadwallon ap Cadfan will kill every last one of your goat-swiving race."
Cadwallon leapt forward. He was skilled with a blade, and the suddenness of the attack took Beobrand off guard. He took a step back, leaning away from the swing that would have taken his head from his shoulders.
Neither man carried a shield and Beobrand was mindful of Hrunting's fine blade. It was already nicked and chipped from the battle, and he would save it more damage if possible. Taking another couple of quick steps backwards, Beobrand drew Cadwallon in. He watched Cadwallon's feet. He was nimble and skilled. His footwork good. His sword point darted at Beobrand's face. Beobrand was forced to parry and sparks flew from the collision.
Beobrand feinted at Cadwallon's neck, then sent a blow arcing down towards his adversary's leading foot. Cadwallon read the move easily and stepped back lithely.
The king grinned. "You will not beat me. You are a clumsier swordsman than you are a horseman."
It was true that Cadwallon was skillful and strong. It was his hubris that was his greatest weakness.
Beobrand kept his face impassive. A mask of concentration.
Cadwallon sent a flurry of attacks at him. He parried them all, but allowed himself to be forced back, on the defensive.
Another thrust swatted away as Beobrand took a further pace backwards.
Then, seeing his opportunity to strike the killing blow, Cadwallon sprang forward, sure that his sword would find the Seaxon's throat.
But Beobrand was no longer there. He deflected the probing blade and stepped inside Cadwallon's reach. With all his weight and height behind the blow, Beobrand hammered Hrunting's pommel into the Waelisc king's face.
Teeth shattered. Lips ripped and blood burst forth in a crimson bloom. Cadwallon's knees buckled. He staggered, and fell to the earth.
Beobrand kicked the sword from Cadwallon's limp fingers.
"I am Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, and you would do well to fear me and my race."
"Go on then, kill me, you Seaxon scum," spat Cadwallon. Blood dribbled down his chin.
"No."
Confusion in Cadwallon's eyes. A glimmer of hope?
"Never fear. You will die. But your
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