The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) by Matthew Harffy Page B

asked.
    Beobrand had been lost in his thoughts, almost dozing in the warm glow of the hearth. He stirred, turning his head towards Leofwine so he could see him with his uncovered eye.
    “He is angry with me,” he said.
    “Why?”
    “He thinks I am a killer.”
    “Aren’t you?” Leofwine cracked his knuckles, loosening his fingers from the strains of playing the lyre.
    Beobrand was silent for a while, staring into the flames.
    “Yes, I am,” he said at last. “And I will kill again to defend my loved ones. Or to avenge them.”
    “That is as it should be,” said Leofwine. “You are a warrior, even if it has not always been so. Yours is the arm that defends the people. Every person has his place. I help feed the animals, cut wood, plough the fields and harvest the crops, but those things are not what my wyrd has woven for me. My wyrd is to tell tales, play the lyre and sing. I am a scop in here.” He tapped his chest. “And here.” He touched his forehead. “And you are a warrior. That much is plain.”
    Beobrand remembered Edwin’s words back in Bebbanburg and nodded.
    “But your song is yet to be written, Beobrand. A warrior’s tale tells of his deeds. What he does with spear and shield, whether he serves his lord loyally. Where will your wyrd take you? What songs will be sung about you?”
    “I do not know.” Beobrand’s eye glittered. “My deeds have been far from song-worthy. I feel lost. Alone.”
    “You are not alone or lost. You have friends here. Coenred is a good boy and will be a true friend, if you let him. And he is not angry with you.”
    “No?”
    “He is worried for you. And for himself. He likes you and doesn’t want to lose you.”
    Beobrand frowned. Leofwine’s words rang true.
    From the shadowy recess of the hut where Leofwine’s parents slept, Alric said, “Can you two stop wittering like good-wives and go to sleep? Some of us need to be up with the dawn for the milking. And that means you, Leofwine. Perhaps you can think up a song about the kine while you are at it.” Leofwine’s brother, Wybert, chortled from his cot.
    “You see, Beobrand. We are both misunderstood. Normal people do not understand our brilliance.” His teeth shone bright in the firelight. “But we’ll show them, won’t we? What deeds you’ll perform and what tales I’ll sing!”
    He stood and slapped Beobrand on the shoulder. “But first it seems, I must sleep if I am to have the strength to deal with cantankerous beasts in the early morning darkness.”
     
    A few days later Alric walked up to Beobrand where he was sitting on a log outside the house. It was an unseasonably warm day and Beobrand was sweating, his hair plastered to his forehead. He was helping Wybert prepare firewood. Wybert used a large axe to split logs and then tossed the smaller pieces of wood to Beobrand who chopped them into kindling with a hand axe. Beobrand had tried wielding the two-handed axe himself, but quickly regretted the decision as the pain in his left side flared up. Wybert had laughed at him and Beobrand had felt his temper rising. He didn't much like Wybert, who was the antithesis of his brother. Where Leofwine was sensitive, artistic and charismatic, Wybert was surly and crude.
    Alric stopped by the two young men. “Good to see you are feeling so much better, Beobrand,” he said. “Come inside with me.”
    Beobrand wondered what Alric could want, but followed him inside, leaving Wybert looking sullenly after them. The relative darkness of the interior left Beobrand blind for a few heartbeats before his eye grew accustomed to the gloom.
    “I thought it would be better not to have your injured eye looking straight at the bright sun.” Alric said as he sat by the fire, bidding Beobrand to join him.
    “You mean to remove the bandage now?” Beobrand felt a sudden ripple of anxiety down his spine. “Will my eye be all right?”
    “I don't know. I thought you were going to lose sight in both eyes, but you can