The Red And Savage Tongue (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) by F J Atkinson Page A

wishing to feel the pain of further arrows.
         Dominic ran to the spot where it had left the clearing. Satisfied they would not be troubled for a while, he walked back to Dominic who was beckoning for Tomas and Ceola to join them on the ground.
         The children climbed down to them and Murdoc picked up Ceola and hugged her in relief. ‘Thank God I heard you scream. It made sure we got here on time.’
         Dominic ruffled Tomas’ hair. ‘Good lad,’ he said, ‘I see that you stuck an arrow into our shaggy friend. It’s not my first meeting with it, and I fear it won’t be my last.’
         Tomas swelled with pride at Dominic’s endorsement, as Ceola said, ‘Yes Dom, he was very brave; he would have killed the bear if you hadn’t got here in time.’
         Tomas blushed at the attention. ‘I don’t think so Ceola. It was all I could do to hit it, I was shaking so badly.’
         Murdoc, suddenly hugged Tomas, ‘But hit it you did,’ he said, ‘and so saved yourself and Ceola.’ He turned to Dominic with his arm round the boy’s shoulder. ‘What chance have the savages now, eh Dom? They must dodge the arrows of shaking Tomas!’

     The trill of Ceola’s laughter filled the woods with its innocent beauty and lifted the hearts of the others, bringing forth memories of simpler, happier times.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
     
     
    Egbert and his men made good progress along the ancient track. The abundant herds of deer grazed on any new shoots that tried to re-colonise the open ground, and had kept the passageway largely clear of obstructive vegetation. Stone sets broke occasionally through the surface of accumulated mulch, and upon this firm road, the pack ponies hauled their loads of provisions.
         It was late afternoon on the fourth day of their trek when finally they saw signs that the forest was thinning. The area through which they rode was overgrown hazel coppice. Festooned with strips of ragged, coloured cloth, the misshapen trees stood like eerie, ceremonial, sentinels amongst the low vegetation.
         Wlensing rode beside Egbert. He was a well-built man with a close-cropped ginger beard. He wore a simple leather jerkin that had four lines of studs down the front, cut off at the shoulders. His bare arms displayed his only ostentation: a golden arm ring given to him by Osric for his courage in battle. His woollen breeches tucked into knee-length, fur trimmed boots, and a close fitting iron helmet completed his austere appearance.
         Usually a man of few words, he growled tersely to Egbert. ‘It appears the land here has been shaped by human hands; see how they tie offerings onto the trees. It’s said they worship the Christ God, but maybe they still fear the spirits of their dead.’
         ‘They would do well to fear the spirit of this ax,’ said Egbert patting the weapon. ‘We near our quest grim one. My ax will feed soon, I think.’
         Cissa rode to join them. He pointed at the track ahead. ‘See how the pathway is trampled and worn. It would be wise to go with caution from here on, for an army of angry Britons may await us. We number too few to repel an attack from a large force.’
         It was normal for Cissa to council heedfulness. His prudence had often served to counterbalance Egbert’s recklessness, and this was the reason Osric had included him in the war band.
         Egbert listened impassively to Cissa’s advice, and then sniggered to Wlensing. ‘It seems our friend is getting scared again, as is usual before a raid. Have you seen how he picks amongst the spoils when it’s all done with? He even waits ‘til the women have lost their fight.’
         Wlensing frowned as he surveyed the woods around him. ‘There’ll be no pickings for him here. I just hope we can get this spying done quickly and then return to the comforts of the coast.’
         They were optimistic that the coppiced woodland would lead them from