Free Hereward 03 - End of Days by James Wilde Page A

forward, seeing stars. Through the throb of his blood, he heard Edoma cry out. Her voice was muffled, as if it came from the depths of a well. Redwald clawed at the hard-packed mud floor and rolled on to his back.
    Through the smoke, a figure loomed. Tears of pain blurred his eyes, but Redwald still felt his chest tighten in terror. He blinked. The glow from the forge painted his attacker’s face. Shadows pooled in the eyes and the hollows of the cheeks. The Devil had come to drag him to hell for his sins.
    ‘Now there will be a reckoning.’ The familiar voice was a low growl of rage.
    Aye, the Devil. For here was Hereward, his brother, filled with an insatiable hunger for slaughter in revenge for the murder of his wife.

C HAPTER E IGHT
    HEREWARD RAISED HIS sword. ‘Your days are done,’ he snarled, peering down the blade to where Redwald quivered. His fair hair had been dyed by berries and dirt, and the plain brown tunic of a merchant hid the tattooed spirals of the warrior that covered his arms. But now he could forget his disguise.
    The forge blazed like the sun, but he did not feel the heat. The stinging smoke swirled around him, unseen. Nor could he taste the brimstone on his tongue. The only fire that mattered in that place was the one in his heart, and that had burned bitter cold for too long.
    He watched Redwald choke back his fear, but the traitor’s dry mouth could not even form a plea for his miserable life. Eyes wide, his brother scrabbled away from the sword. For his revenge, Hereward could have used an axe, or a spear. But this was no faceless, meaningless battle death. It was judgement and for that it demanded ceremony and a killing tool that carried a greater import than war weapons. It demanded his wolf of wounds. He turned Brainbiter so that the sword seemed to glow in the light of the forge. The hilt was edged with gold to befit his former high standing. It had majesty, and power,and it felt so comfortable in his grip that it seemed almost a part of him. With this, he would take his brother’s life.
    Redwald held out his hands. ‘The smith will come …’
    ‘The smith is in the tavern, spending the coin I gave him on mead and mutton.’
    Hereward glanced towards Edoma who cowered at the back of the workshop. She was too scared to help. And what could she do? By the time she raised the alarm, he would have his brother’s head. His trap had been well set.
    He looked down on the man he despised more than any other and the rush of emotion almost made him stagger. Choking on the smoke, Redwald seized the opportunity to scramble to his feet. His gaze darted to the door. Hereward grinned. His brother could not reach it before he was cut down. The younger man swallowed, his eyes moistening. Sweat trickled down his brow.
    ‘How you must have hated me.’ Hereward’s voice was almost lost beneath the crackle and hiss of the forge.
    Redwald looked startled. ‘Hated you? I only ever had love for you, Hereward. No one else has shown me such kindness.’
    The warrior snorted with derision, until he saw that his brother truly believed what he was saying. ‘You killed my wife … cut off her head … to buy your way into the trust of the Norman bastards.’ All he could see was the open grave beside the abbey when Turfrida’s shroud-wrapped body was lowered into it. He felt a pang of loss worse than any flesh wound.
    ‘She was a woman,’ his brother stuttered, uncomprehending.
    ‘My wife!’
    Rage flared once more, and he swung his blade back. Yet even then, slaying Redwald was harder than he thought. All he could see was the boy who had sat beside him at the lake in Barholme, fishing. The lad who had hidden him in the hayrick when his father had threatened to use his fists on him again. His lifelong guide, and friend. The wound of this betrayal was almost as agonizing as his grief at Turfrida’s murder. ‘We were brothers,’ he said. His sword wavered.
    ‘We still are.’ Redwald drew his shoulders